Studio–London, 2014 by DS Maolalai

after he gave me the key

and had shaken my hand

he had run through the way

the electricity worked, the few

kitchen fittings. apparently he’d had

another offer from a young

polish couple. this was really,

he told me, a room for a man on his own.

I closed the door, locked it

and pushed the bed into the corner.

the place it had been

was distinct on the carpet

as a barrier and an open

manhole hatch. the table was plywood

and wood-effect plastic

and smelled strongly of antiseptic dusters.

the kitchenette was more

or less clean with some frost

in the fridge. I took time

to gather filters, flaking

like pills of asbestos,

from the previous tenant’s cigarettes

which the landlord had missed.

they had crawled between the carpet

and the tile of the bathroom.

into the divots where the castors

of the bed took his weight.

DS Maolalai

(Image provided by Dale Williams Barrigar)

Learning About Birds by Patricia Russo

In the new textbook, it read:

The males sing more loudly,

but the songs of the females are more complex

which made the girls in the class giggle

Infuriated, the teacher

slammed his hand on the desk

silencing everyone

and embarrassing the boys

then one boy in the back

began to laugh

deliberately, mockingly

and though the teacher bellowed so loud

his eyes nearly popped out of his face

more boys started laughing

and all the girls were grinning

and maybe

that is how

things change

Patricia Russo

(Image of a Box Pigeon flock in the Charleston district of Bremerton, WA. This “team” has been intact for over fifty generations; which is a whole lot of Box Pigeons)

In That One Dream by Bruce Gunther

In That One Dream

Even pigeons could read my mind

as I walked without destination along

the sidewalk of the big city; the hot dog

vendor looked like Jack Nicholson.

The mystical canyon of skyscrapers

loomed, and Plato passed out copies

of his writings, anxious to share

his life’s work with anyone interested.

No one in their right mind wants what you’re selling,

someone said as he passed, so convinced

of man’s fallibility that nearby faith healers

and positive thinkers grew silent and anxious.

And the dark clouds hung full and heavy,

threatening to rain for the next 40 days.

A cleansing would do us all good, someone

else said as we formed a line behind Noah’s animals.

Bruce Gunther

(Image provided by Christopher J Ananias)

The Rime of the Globalised Mariner. In Six Parts (with bonus tracks from a chorus of Greek shippers) by Michael Bloor

(Today we officially open the site, which has been open for ages, with something quite different and particularly well done by Michael Bloor)

First Published in Sociology, 47(1): 30-50, 2013 doi: 10.1177/00380385112448568

PART I

It is a global Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

‘The centre’s doors are opened wide,

And Bourdieu got it right:

Consumption lends distinction.

So get you out my sight.’

He holds him with his glittering eye –

No Big Issue1 sale is sought,

But fifty yards from B&Q

The would-be Consumer’s caught.

So spake the doleful mariner,

Transfixing with his e’e,

In fluent, graphic English –

The language of the sea.

‘I had no wish to work on ships –

Filipinos know it’s hard –

Mouths were many, jobs were scarce,

From birth my life was marr’d.

‘From green island homes we travel,

As mariner, nurse, or maid,

And remit3 to our loved ones

The pittance we get paid.

‘Father scraped up money

For training college fees –

A scam of the local senator,

Whose throat I’d gladly seize.

‘The college had no equipment,

Just endless, pointless drill,

No qualifications either –

The news made my father ill.

‘Course passes gained no certificates,

Without some time at sea.

There was no ship to serve on,

But the senator had his fee.

‘Father paid a crewing agent:

Yet another fee required,

But at least I’d get a berth,

And that’s what we desired.

‘The agent sent me to train then

At a dismal-looking place

More fees and little learned,

Sad repetition of my case.

‘A lifeboat stood on davits,

By a creek filled-up with mud.

“For audit purposes only”,

That pristine lifeboat stood.

‘There’s so many schools for training –

Why’d the agent send me there?

The training was quite useless –

Why didn’t that agent care?

‘It seemed he got a “rebate”

(kickback to you and me)

For every trainee sent there,

A percentage of their fee.

‘They issued my certificates,

But their paper had a price:

My father’s hard-earned money,

Stolen once, then twice.

‘Ever since it’s been the same:

When I come home from sea,

The agent wants another course,

And I must pay the fee’.

[Enter Chorus of Greek Shippers]

‘O woe to us, and to our ships,

But what are we to do?

The wages they are paying now,

Won’t draw a young Greek crew.

‘So we take these global mariners,

Who’re really up for it,

But they can’t begin to work a ship:

Their training’s frankly s**t!

‘Someone, somewhere, should sort it out,

We’ve really had enough:

Inspect and close the colleges,

It’s time for getting tough!’

A globalised Mariner meeteth three gallants outside a shopping centre and detaineth one.

The Consumer protesteth against detention outside the shopping mall.

The Consumer is spell-bound by the mariner and constrained to hear his tale.

Proficiency in English is a requirement of a seafaring career.

The Mariner telleth of early hardships and how he and his parents were cheated by the maritime colleges and the crewing agents.

Filipino maritime training institutions are often controlled by persons with powerful political connections.

The academic training often follows a military model and is of poor quality. And it does not qualify cadets for certificates of seafarer competency without additional practical experience – ‘sea time’. Most colleges fail to arrange ‘sea time’ for their cadets.

Many ship operators out-source crew recruitment and employment to specialist crewing agencies with offices in the major labour supply countries. Cadets graduating from maritime colleges must pass a basic safety training course before they can go to sea. The courses are usually conducted at specialist training institutions with requisite equipment such as lifeboats. State regulatory agencies inspect the training institutions to ensure the requisite equipment is present, but not that it is used.

Corrupt crewing agents distort the seafarer training market

Specialist short courses must be taken to allow employment in particular trades, such as tankers. Usually, the seafarer must pay the course fee.

Ship operators moan that international standards of seafarer training are not being properly enforced.

PART II

Consumer groaned to Mariner:

‘So you each believe the same!

But if all think your training’s s**t

Then, truly, who’s to blame?’

‘Our union said, there is a law –

A real law, no invention –

That lays down training standards,

An international convention.

‘Government should enforce it,

End the bribing and the feigning,

Close-down the useless paper-mills

And give us decent training’.

‘Yes, yes’, the Chorus chorused,

‘Our ships need well-trained crew.’

‘So what went wrong?’ Consumer asked,

But the Mariner hardly knew.

‘There are no simple answers,’

Voice grated, knife on rock,

‘The true path’s no open highway,

Good governance no wind-up clock.’

A gaunt figure stepped among them:

He gave each a piercing look.

His boots were worn, his cloak was stained,

And he bore a calf-bound book.

‘Who art thou?’ they cried in wonder,

‘And what thing’s your burden there?’

‘I’m the Inspector,’ spake the stranger,

‘And the Law’s my burden fair.’

The Chorus shrank and muttered,

The Mariner downed his e’e.

‘I’ve heard tell of you,’ he whispered,

‘As have all who sail the sea.

‘You come aboard, unheralded,

You seek out the rusting hulks:

You cow the cruel masters,

Ships’ agents get the sulks.’

Consumer viewed Inspector,

Eyes lit with wild surmise:

‘It’s up to you to punish,

Right wrongs, and nail their lies?’

‘In truth, that is my duty –

The goal for all my kind –

But the journey is a long one,

And the road’s not paved, nor signed.

‘Those who inspect the colleges

In each poor country of the Earth:

They’re government employees

And are not paid their worth.

‘The owner is a man of power,

The inspector – he is not,

The one dines in his castle,

The other in his cot.

‘The inspector has a check-list,

To work through, line by line.

If a lifeboat’s at the college,

Then it gets a tick – that’s fine.

‘We know it can’t be launched:

It’s to be ticked, naught more.

Poor men must heed the letter,

Not the substance, of the law.’

The mariner had silent stood,

Hands clenched and visage pale,

Eyeing the Inspector,

As he ground out his tale.

‘I thank you’, cried the mariner,

‘Now I know the bitter worst:

No remedy in law books –

My mates and I are cursed.’

The Greeks had been quite nervous

While yet the Inspector spoke,

But confidently dealt with

The Mariner and such-like folk:

‘Don’t blame the law, nor malice,

Nor trade that’s getting slack,

Global economic forces

Strapped these burdens to your back.

‘Colleges could train you better –

With lifeboats working too –

But higher costs would close ‘em down,

Then where’d we find a crew?’

The Inspector laughed most harshly,

And turned to face the Greeks:

‘He who looks for truth

Must beware of that he seeks.

‘Good training’s too expensive:

The poor can’t pay the fee.

You state the matter clearly,

And I cannot but agree.

‘Yet I can well remember

When companies paid the fees,

Time-Past – they paid for training,

Invested in their employees.

‘You complain of training standards,

Cackling like geese

You want action to be taken,

But you don’t pay a penny piece.

‘It seems to me, hypocrisy,

When the poor turn-out their pockets,

To criticize their training,

While adding up your profits.’

The Mariner relateth that there are international standards on seafarer training.

But these international standards rely on national enforcement.

An Inspector calls.

The Inspector concurreth with the mere lip-service maritime colleges pay to international training regulations, but believeth that the local inspectors are powerless to obtain fuller compliance.

The ship operators see poor-quality training as an economic consequence of the seafarers’ need for cheap training.

The Inspector recalleth that 40 years ago, it was commonplace for ship operators to pay for seafarer training through cadetships and apprenticeships.

Part III

The Chorus blushed and shuffled,

But still they stood their ground.

They’d got their MBAs,

They knew their case was sound:

‘You’re talking of the past,

Dim, distant days of yore,

We don’t train our seafarers –

We don’t employ ‘em any more!’

Consumer quizzed the Chorus:

‘You don’t employ your crew??’ –

‘Our labour’s all outsourced,

‘The late-modern thing to do.

‘If a shipper paid for training,

He’d have an extra cost,

He’d be under-cut by others –

His business would be lost.

‘Pay for training? Better wages??

Remember shipping’s quite anarchic:

We’d love to be more generous

But you cannot buck the market.’

The Inspector gave a mirthless smile:

‘The market’s always cited

As a sovereign power and reason

Why wrongs cannot be righted.

‘But the remedy is simple here:

The flag-State of every nation

Shall charge a levy on each ship,

Paid at each ship’s registration.

‘The levy would pay all training costs,

A burden shared without distortion.

It would pay for good inspections too –

No need for doubts or caution.’

The Mariner did slowly nod:

‘The scheme would work – I see –

My last ship flew Mongolia’s flag,

For a three-thousand-dollar fee.’

‘Mongolia?’ quizzed our Consumer,

‘That’s surely rather queer?’

‘Not really’, saith the Inspector,

‘Some think a proper flag too dear.

‘Each ship is like a piece

Of far-off, sovereign soil –

Its flag denotes allegiance,

Republican or royal.

‘The flag-State has a duty,

Be the country rich or poor,

To check each ship is ship-shape –

As laid down in the law.

‘But flags can be commodities,

And flags can be for rent,

To businessmen and lawyers,

Who’re out on profit bent.

‘When ships are policed badly,

Their seafarers should beware.

Policing ships for profit

Is a mighty strange affair.

‘Some run their business well,

Some run it as a racket,

With only one objective:

To make themselves a packet.

‘Now, compliance is expensive,

So compliance is a sham

When the flag a shipper flies

Really doesn’t give a damn.

‘A shipper heeds his costs,

A shipper looks to save,

But if he flies a cut-price flag,

Consequences can be grave.

‘Ships that fly a proper flag,

And meet their obligations,

Incur much extra cost

To comply with regulations.

‘They’re under-cut, bankrupted, bust,

When complying as they should.

There’s an iron law all must obey:

Bad ships drive out the good.’

The Chorus sighed and scuffed their feet:

‘What the Inspector says is true,

But the fault is not all ours –

Ship charterers are guilty too.

‘If they wanted well-found ships,

And skilled, contented crews,

They should have thought to ask us,

Or given us some clues.

‘Truth is: they don’t want “good,”

Or freight rates getting steep.

We skimp, they save –

Truth is: they’re wanting “cheap.”

The Inspector sighed in turn,

‘Some charterers do care,

Oil majors first and foremost,

Others – rather rare.

‘Inspectors board all tankers –

For days, they sniff around –

Ensuring chartered ships

Are those that pass as sound

‘Oil majors don’t like bad headlines

When tankers hit the rocks

And oil pollutes the beaches

Because the ships are crocks.

‘The public doesn’t like to see

Seabirds black with oil;

Alas, for all the tanker crews,

The public doesn’t care at all.

‘So the tankers get inspected

With much resource and care,

But the crews of all the rest

Make do with me…and prayer.’

The Chorus confirmeth the Mariner’s tale that crewing agencies, not ship operators, employ seafarers. Agencies then contract with operators to supply crews with the requisite qualifications.

The Inspector proposeth a training levy to be paid when each ship is registered by the flag-State. See Afterword.

Although Mongolia is 850 miles from the sea, the Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party granted a license in 2003, to a Mr Chong Kov Sen, a Singaporean businessman, to operate the Mongolian Ship Registry. Mr Chong previously operated the Cambodia Registry under license until 2002, when the license was withdrawn following international protests at Cambodia’s failure to police its ships. In 2008, 73 ships were flying the Mongolian flag.

An OECD report states that ‘a significant percentage of total vessel operating costs could be saved by sub-standard operations’ (OECD 1996: 27).

Thomas Gresham, a sixteenth-century Chancellor of the Exchequer, found it was impossible to improve the quality of the English coinage, by simply issuing good quality coins. People hoarded the good coinage. So it was necessary to also withdraw the clipped and debased coins from circulation. Hence Gresham’s Law: ‘Bad money drives out good’.

The Oil Companies International Marine Forum (OCIMF) has set up and funded its own private inspectorate, SIRE, to ensure the seaworthiness of tankers under charter. Those tankers deemed satisfactory on inspection can expect more business and better terms from the oil majors, eager to avoid the bad publicity of marine pollution incidents.

PART IV

The Mariner then spoke up:

‘Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Turk,

Many pray who sail the seas,

But their prayers concern their work.

‘We do not fear a foundering –

Hull pierced, stove in, or rent.

Such a thing may happen,

But it’s a very rare event.

‘Pirates may seize the ship,

And hold us on foreign soil,

But what we fear most is different:

It’s the endless, grinding toil.

‘Each and every ship we join,

Seems there’s fewer crew,

An officer gone, a rating gone,

But there’s still their jobs to do.

‘The master now must take a watch,

Though there’s paperwork aplenty.

So many crew have disappeared,

The vessel’s almost empty.

‘The master’s nodding on the bridge,

His tired eyes are red.

He’s still to call Head Office,

Before he gets to bed.

‘The mate then takes a watch,

Though it’s two days since he slept –

Problems with the cargo –

But his watch must still be kept.

‘Turnabout, the two must watch,

There is no other way,

Six hours on, six off,

Twelve hours in every day.

‘In sickness and in health,

Each watch they duly take,

Dog-tired, red-eyed, grey-faced,

Four months, four months, without a break.

‘No gentle couch our cabin:

The ship is pitching in the waves,

There’s engine noise, vibration,

Yet we sleep the sleep of babes.

‘Too soon, too soon we’re wakened,

We scarcely catch our breath.

An ignoble thing, this tiredness –

As if we slowly bleed to death.’

Increasingly, ship operators have been seeking to save crewing costs by reducing the number of watch-keeping officers. Where second officers have been dispensed with, then watches must alternate between the master and the first officer (mate), although each of them has many other duties to perform. An OECD (2001a) report instances a saving of $37,000 pa by under-manning a 20-year-old 30,000 dwt bulk carrier by two crew.

PART V

As ever when the Mariner spoke,

The Greeks did swell with pride:

‘There is no law that’s broken there,

There’s nothing for us to hide.’

‘You surely lie,’ Consumer cried,

‘I know little of the sea,

But to have a master standing watch –

That’s folly, plain to me.’

The grim inspector then did speak:

‘In truth, they break no law.

The law itself is here at fault –

Therein we find the flaw.

‘The law on Minimum Manning

Lays down for every ship

The crew that must be carried

On each and every trip.

‘What is the minimum manning?

This is what we’re taught:

It’s the smallest competent crew

To bring a stricken vessel safe to port.

‘To make that stricken vessel safe,

Huge effort they’ll expend,

Yet must they slave thus daily?

Til their contract’s at an end?’

Consumer scratched his head:

‘If some members of the crew

Exceed twelve hours each day,

Surely that’s illegal too?’

‘We falsify our working hours’,

Replied the old seadog,

‘To keep the owners happy,

Each day, we flog the log.’

‘Then change the minimum manning law –

No more idle chatter –

Require crews to be larger,

It seems a simple matter.’

The mariner sighed and shrugged.

The Inspector took-up the tale:

‘Flag-States must vote the change,

Or else the measure fails.

‘Flag-States that exist for profit,

And take the operators’ gold,

They can’t increase the crewing costs –

They’ve reputations to uphold.

‘The flag with the greatest tonnage

Flies o’er the Panama Isthmus,

When Panama votes for change,

Then turkeys’ll vote for Christmas.’

In fact the maximum number of daily hours of work for watch-keepers is specified by the IMO as 14 hours, and the maximum number of weekly hours is 91.

Falsification of working hours is so widespread in the industry that it has entered everyday slang as ‘flogging the log.’

Consumer doth not understand why the flag-States at IMO do not change the international legislation to provide adequate crewing numbers, allowing shorter hours.

Part VI

[All in chorus: …]

‘So come all you kind consumers,

Who the honey’d wine have sipped,

Take pity on the mariner,

Beware how your goods are shipped.

‘The crews are outsourced workers,

A study in dejection –

Casualised, long hours, poor training –

And the law is no protection.

‘If charterers thought the public cared

How seafarers are mistreated,

They’d pass the message down the line:

“Our consumers are quite heated.

“It’s bad for our public image,

Like seabirds and pollution,

So get your act together,

And find a true solution.

“We’ll pay your higher freight rates,

If you’ll deploy more crew.

Or we’ll contract your opposition –

See if they know what to do.”

‘So the shippers get the higher rates,

Increase the crews and cut the hours,

Strike the flag of Panama,

And so, at last, they smell of flowers.

‘One day it really just might happen,

A fairy tale come true,

It’s even very possible,

They’d employ and train the crew!’

It is suggested that public concern for seafarers’ welfare might act in the same way as public concern about marine pollution and be transmitted down the supply chain from charterers to ship operators. Operators who could ‘brand’ their vessels as well crewed could then command premium freight rates.

For an ‘Afterword’ describing in detail the political economy of the global shipping industry, issues of seafarer training, industry regulation and enforcement, please refer to the original publication in the journal ‘Sociology’.

Michael Boor (he of the image)

The Drifter: Love and Murder in the Mountains; or. Eleven Reasons

The details in this essay may shock you.

Don’t read on unless you want to understand why some people commit multiple murders. In order to understand, we will have to go into the grisly details. Steel yourself or turn away and pretend it isn’t true.

Everything in this essay is absolutely true nonfiction, 1,000%.

It was not too long after the Civil War, in the remote mountains of eastern Kentucky, USA.

A woman murdered her husband, by poisoning him.

Then she preserved his body, and kept him sitting in a chair, fully dressed, in a locked room, eyelids closed. (They had a taxidermy business, well-known in the area.)

Then she murdered two other men, both of whom asked too many questions.

She preserved both and also kept them in the locked room, sitting in chairs with their clothes on.

She convinced her 17-year-old son that he was no longer himself, that he had literally become his own father.

And she became pregnant with her own son. She believed that both the new baby and her 17-year-old son really were her dead husband returned to her – even though she was the one who’d murdered him in the first place.

Her other son, a 14-year-old, was also made to believe that he played a special role in all of this.

But he never really bought into any of it, although he was loyal to her and played his role to the hilt, probably in the same manner as the 17-year-old sometimes.

The sheriff discovered these horrors, by sneaking in through the window where the three preserved bodies were kept, pistol in hand.

The woman and her two sons caught him in the act.

The 17-year-old tried to attack him and the sheriff shot him dead on the spot in terrified self-defense.

The mother and the 14-year-old now went peacefully as he handcuffed them and took them away to the nearest town, which was three hours distant down the mountain trails.

Of course, he brought the baby with them as well.

The baby was sent away to another state, for adoption or to the orphanage.

The mother and her 14-year-old son were given their date with the hangman.

The answer of the town was more murder. Four people are dead because of you. Now you die too.

Hundreds came out to see it, just like people always did back then. Hangings were social occasions, among other things.

The boy apologized, wept, begged forgiveness.

The mother remained firm.

She never thought she had done anything wrong at all.

She was a true believer until the end.

The sheriff never got over it.

I don’t want to cast stones at this woman and say how evil she was.

Everyone knows that her behavior was “evil.” (Not everyone, in fact. There are many just as mad as she was among us even now – or especially now.)

I don’t want to cast stones at this woman.

I want to know why she did it.

The Drifter has compiled a list of eleven reasons why she did it.

Only when ALL of these reasons are combined and considered, separately and at once, can any kind of rational, scientific explanation be made for her actions. (The entire essay is just under 1,200 words in length.)

But if you add all eleven of these up, put them together in different combinations, and think about them deeply, her motivations do indeed become exceedingly clear.

She was an artist. Her house was filled with bizarre art which visitors described as looking both overly civilized and demonically primitive at the same time.

Some visitors ignored it.

Others were unnerved by it, and described it as “unnatural,” although they didn’t know why.

Rural isolation. The family lived three hours away from the nearest town, an hour away from the nearest village, and almost as far away from their nearest neighbor, as well. They went days, and sometimes weeks, and sometimes in the winter, months, without seeing other people, except themselves.

Preservation and butchering of animals. The family ran a well-known taxidermy business. And they also ran a farm, where they daily killed most of the animals they used for meat. Such closeness to death inures the subject to death on more than one level.

DEATH ITSELF. We live in a universe of death, and it does weird things to people.

Religious mania. One of this woman’s responses to living in a universe of death was to become fanatically religious, so that she no longer believed in death. After someone was dead, they weren’t dead. At least not in her mind.

(And on the other hand, almost no one didn’t believe in the afterlife back then. Even Darwin himself was only ambivalent, not a hardcore unbeliever. Because believing in evolution doesn’t mean you don’t believe in a Creator God. His timeline is, to say the least, different than ours.)

Childhood trauma. There is a high likelihood that she was the victim of massive trauma during childhood. God knows what was done to her, by whom, or where and when, when she was an innocent child.

Genetics. She was almost surely born with a mind predisposed to go insane.

The patriarchy. She was forced to follow her husband’s orders to a large extent. And if she didn’t follow those orders, and keep her mouth shut about it, too, physical beatings and other punishments (like involuntary confinement) would not have been at all uncommon.

Love AND hatred. She clearly hated the man or she wouldn’t have poisoned him. And she clearly loved him since she couldn’t get rid of him. Her last words on the gallows were, “Now I’m going to where my husband is.”

The will. Her will and her willpower made her want to rule her own world and to elude capture.

America. She lived in a time right after the bloodiest war in human history up to that point, where modern warfare came into its own, where the South had been ravaged and destroyed, and also the American world of outsiders, gun fighters, outlaws, desperadoes. And a world that had seen the Native Americans decimated. But where your own family (if you were white) could also be decimated by angry Native Americans. And a world of slavery (although the area in which she lived didn’t have slavery), a world of the most brutal slavery humankind has ever invented. And also a world where the individual was very much encouraged to do whatever you wanted (if you were white at the time), an idea that was technically made for men by men, but that surely influenced the women, too.

When we add up all these reasons, we might even ask ourselves why it was that everyone didn’t go insane.

Digression Coda: In America THE GUN means “no one can tell me what to do.” It’s one reason why people who’ve been bullied and beaten down turn to the gun. Until we can convince the average populace that their true freedom really lies in other means, we’re gonna have a gun problem.

Final Detail: Her artwork was burned.

Photo Gallery: Oak Park, Illinois Hemingway’s Hometown by Dale Williams Barrigar

                                                                       

Ernest Hemingway’s spirit casts a shadow over Oak Park, Illinois, USA. Along with Frank Lloyd Wright, Hemingway is the town’s most famous citizen. Even those who’ve never read a line of Hemingway’s work, which includes the vast majority of the citizenry (I would guess), are aware of who Hemingway was, what he is famous for, how he lived his life, and how he was from Oak Park. Frank Lloyd Wright is America’s greatest architect, bar none, an architect so great that he fascinates people who don’t care about other architects, like yours truly. Hemingway is an author who can be set on the shelf beside Mark Twain and Edgar Allan Poe. Indeed, if one had to pick the top three most famous American writers of all time worldwide, Hemingway is in the running for third place along with Emily Dickinson, Henry David Thoreau, Herman Melville, and perhaps a few other candidates. And he is famous for all the right reasons (for the most part). Hemingway never returned to Oak Park after his father committed suicide there with a pistol. His spirit, and his shadow, never left it. The village, the fire escape, the train tracks, and the alleyway are all elements which feed into his fiction, which is why they are captured here in a Walker Evans-style of spontaneous photography. 

The Shadow
The Village
Fire Escape
Train Tracks

Class Reunion by Christopher J Ananias

(Ed note: Happy New Year to All! And although we have been up every day for several months, it is still a joy to announce our grand opening. Today we start the year with a wonder bit of work by Christopher J Ananias, who is also responsible for the header image–Leila)

from the bug eyes of isolation

put the trailer court into a paper sack

and drink it

thirty years of days, gone

classmates, like pickets

they want, (they say), to see me at the class reunion

an October affair

when the pink glories despair

I can’t recall their faces

no one to dismiss

surely they had the makings of which

hair lips teeth—smiles and such

no successful accolades

What can I give?

they don’t want to catch my limp

one more look over the yearbook

oh, heart jumping!

there’s Lori’s brown braids

and Ken’s grin

he passed the pot pipe—and more

frozen people on wooden bleachers

others marching with golden horns and blue pennants!

cheerleaders throwing stars!

teachers standing around

oh sadness!

what do they want with me?

I cannot face those faces

I’m on a suspended license

riding up in my junker with dog hairs

gray goatee and brown eyes, dodging

with a shuffling hunching

mortal coil nearly shucking

all these days of years, drinking

leaking me on the barroom’s floor

a living hole

should take a big step through yon skyward’s door

no kids’ picture to present

not even a surly seed

or his mother’s needs

just me

drinking foghorns of time

sleeping on cement slabs

bars and paper crosses

glued with mint toothpaste

Who could believe?

we were ever seventeen

bursting threads and heart seams

marching with golden horns and blue pennants!

one more look over the yearbook

Farewell Old Year and Happy New Year From Saragun Springs: Six Limericks by Geraint Johanthan

Ed. Note: Nothing is better to read for entertainment value than the mighty limerick. And today we close out 2025 (a somewhat quiet, dweebish year that appears happy not to have secured a place of infamy) with six limericks, in two sets of three, by Geraint Jonathan.

No rest for the wicked, the wiccan or the wickered. We will return tomorrow…Leila

3 Limericks from Wales, by Geraint Jonathan

(For John Bilsborough R.I.P)

There was a fine man from Caersws

Who went for a bath in his boots

He splashed for a while

But his feet remained dry

And his wardrobe full of moth-eaten suits.

There was a man by the name of Harris

Who dreamed of dying in a garret in Paris

But getting to France

He’d no fucking chance

Being skint and with it embarrassed.

There was an old man of Kidwelly

Who’s spent his life watching the telly

And so it was b’there

His eyes became square

As did, most curiously, his belly.

3 Limericks from the North by Geraint Jonathan

There was a young man new to Morecambe

Who loved the sea air it was awesome

But talk of monsters

Seen out in the waters

While untrue he still swore that he saw some.

There was an old man from Carlisle

Who bore his teeth in the shape of a smile

Among further adventures

He misplaced his dentures

And his gums did the work for a while.

There was a fine fellow of Kendal

Who was thought to be quite sentimental

I don’t know about that

He said but did add

It’s less of the senti, more the mental.

nobody number one, by Geraint Jonathan

(And as promised last week, here’s the third poem this month by brilliant Geraint Jonathan-Leila)

he was supernobody

a provincial jack

big on words

loaded with them

styled himself half-life

spun a tired line in self-deprecation

& all the while no self there

played phantom

(with a nod to phantoms everywhere)

on the offchance

phantoms don’t play themselves

in the popular imagination

being too absent abstracted

altogether too phantomlike

the world seemed

& those in it seemed unaware of it

seemed unaware of it that is

supernobodies can spot these things

the faces in a face

the suffering animal’s laughter

the engendering of toads in a petty dispute

being nobody helps

(makes anyone possible)

& with a wife & three kids 80 miles north

there was nothing for it but robes & wigs

& swords & the art of being somebody else

the word-load heavy but the money good

nobody par excellence

one shakescene of a country

disguised as himself

provincial jack

big on words