“The greatest of these is love.” – Paul
“Shedding off one more layer of skin.
Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within.” – Bob Dylan
Hello to all, or almost all (not to those who are sleeping).
Today I begin with a brief reflection upon names, in a world where they are trying to turn us all into numbers.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Why the Vampire an essay by Dale Barrigar”
Here we have another wonderful piece that didn’t fit the usual mold but was far too good to pass up.
Solace in a Cigarette Box by Yi Jung Chen
The smell of tobacco was always the first thing that announced his presence.
For thirty years, Zhang Jie had known her husband, Chen Cheng-po—whom friends affectionately called Mù-ki-sian—not by the heavy clatter of wooden sandals on the porch, but by the faint, earthy fragrance that lingered on his coat. He was a man who lived through light and shadow, capturing the blinding Chiayi sunlight on canvas, turning quiet avenues into vibrant, living monuments. But in the damp darkness of March 1947, the sunlight had gone out.
Continue reading ” Sunday Whatever – Solace in a Cigarette Box by Yi Jung Chen”
“My cup runneth over.” – David
Many who love Leonard Cohen and his most famous song, “Hallelujah,” are not aware that the song is a STORY SONG about the biblical character of David.
David is a religious figure for billions of people on the planet; he is, for sure, a historical figure; and he’s considered in this essay as a literary character, mostly.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever: The Faith So Great by Dale Barrigar”
Why and how and what do we write? This question could (and probably should) be reordered and its verb could equally be changed to paint, sculpt, act, dance … Human beings do these strange things to make their mark, a little stand against the indifferent and inexorable passage of time, and have been doing so, it seems, ever since they could, as has been revealed in distant caves: stencilled hands in Argentina and pictures of pig hunting in Sulawesi. This brings to mind for some reason a discreet headline I spotted years ago in a once reputable newspaper: ‘Carvings twice as old as thought.’ Were they being done instinctively, or was the sub-editor mischievous or sloppy? But the original question was about writing. Does graffiti count? Seen by some as an ugly nuisance, by others as valid self-expression, it can be inane – Kilroy woz ere – or emotionally significant to the inscriber – Jack cartoon heart with an arrow through it Jill – and innocent enough as it competes with similar 2,000-year-old declarations on ancient monuments; the lovers are marking a moment in their own story (or stories if the imagined one takes a new direction). Maybe all writing is about story: the shopping list a snapshot of my diet and tastes at one time; the letter a revelation (or concealment) of how I feel about what’s going on in my life and in the wider world; even the essay exposes thoughts or beliefs that may change the next day. Or maybe it’s even more fundamental than that: the power and promise of the word, the uttering of a certain form of words in the incantations of religion and magic, the straining of a word in select company towards the ineffable. In the beginning was the Word.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever. An Essay – No One But a Blockhead Would by Stephen Silvester”
(published posthumously, 1927)
The list of writers nabbed or injured by tuberculosis is staggering. Even Charles Bukowski, at the time living well in Los Angeles, circa 1990 got a dose, and it appears to have opened the door to his death a couple of years down the road.
Continue reading “The Journal of Katherine Mansfield/Auld Author”
The legend about him, or I should say one of the many legends about him, is that he was nine feet tall.
No one now believes that the great Chinese teacher Confucius was really nine feet tall.
Nine is a magic number. That number was chosen for a reason.
Saying that Confucius was nine feet tall meant, and means, that his ideas, and his presence, were nine feet tall.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Confucius Still Speaks an essay by Dale Williams Barrigar”
Every great writer, if they want to be a great writer, needs to be able to break it all down into the simplest thing.
For Shakespeare, it’s “To be, or…” and one, or a few, of the sonnets, as well as Juliet on her balcony.
For Cervantes, it’s Don Quixote, his horse Rocinante, and the windmill they think is a giant.
For Goethe, it’s Faust making a deal with the Devil.
For Jack Kerouac, author of On the Road (1957), it’s SKID ROW WINE.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever:- Skid Row Wine an Essay by Dale Williams Barrigar”
Agatha Christie 1939
Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None was my mother’s all time favorite book. If that isn’t true, well, she can come back from the other side and tell me about it (that statement causes me a bit more anxiety than you might think). She died fifteen years ago and lately I’ve been re-examining the crash and thud of our extremely difficult and often semi-violent relationship. Now, I never swung at Mom except once when I was nine, and she actually pulled a knife on me once when we were both considerably older. I believe “volatile” sums it up if I had only one word to choose from.
Continue reading “Writers Read – And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie an essay by Leila”
My Trainspotting experience was one of the few times that I saw the film before I read the book. And it is also one of the incredibly few times that I consider both items of equal high quality.
Continue reading “Auld Author – Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh by Leila.”
“The dead don’t die.” – Jeff Tweedy
Whoever believes that a 58-year-old man can’t rock out any more hasn’t heard (or has heard and hasn’t understood) Jeff Tweedy’s new song “Lou Reed Was My Babysitter” from his 2025 triple album Twilight Override.
The symbolic title of this song alone is worth volumes as it encapsulates an American way of life, for good and ill, in five words.
Anything with Lou in it has to be great, or near-great, to justify the use of his name and this song is.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever: Tweedy on Reed an essay from Dale Williams Barrigar.”
