Tag: sunday whatever

All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever–M an essay by Dale Williams Barrigar

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“One of the most unappreciated people in the world.”

– Joshua Logan on Marilyn Monroe

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be
absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.” – Marilyn Monroe

“Will the wind ever remember / the names it has blown in the past?”

– Jimi Hendrix, “The Wind Cries Mary”

There’s something about Marilyn that can bring tears to the eyes like no other actress can do, and that fact does not arise from any one movie she made, whether good or bad, unless it’s The Misfits, her last, in which she is truly brilliant as a performer; she flowers and blooms into a new “her” in that film, especially in a few scenes.

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The Shakespeareance of a Lifetime (Or Two) by Geraint Jonathan

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There’s a quality peculiarly magnificent to certain enthusiasts, particularly those whose enthusiasm tipped over into outright crankery, or what was perceived to be such. It depends, I suppose, on what it is has gripped the enthusiast’s imagination; a person’s overriding obsession with, say, the history of mirrors may induce a groan or a shake of the head in those utterly uninterested in the history of mirrors;  similarly, an obsession with Shakespeare will send to sleep persons not given to worrying about Shakespeare. And Shakespeare, of all writers, has worried the minds of many. In the words of scholar Ivor Brown, “Shakespeare stands alone in his spawning of cranks and bores as well as of erudite scholars and devotees of genius.”  To which one might add a note of gratitude on considering the former. Certainly the byways of Shakespeare-lore would be marginally the poorer without its tales of the grandiose and/or driven amateur.

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Sunday Whatever – The Killer -An Essay by Dale Willliam Barrigar

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          “Honey don’t walk out – I’m too drunk to follow.” – Tom Petty

Written on October 31, 2022, and later recovered from the files:

Jack Kerouac, from his position as a marginalized, criticized, and rejected American prophet, wrote about the “big American night, redder and darker all the time.” He noted that the night was “closing in,” and concluded that “there is no home.” In his song “The Waiting,” Tom Petty sings, or screams, at least four times, “Don’t let them get to you,” and, “Don’t let it get to you.” The prophetic shout of American rock and roll came to early and lasting perfection in one of Petty’s greatest heroes, Jerry Lee Lewis, “The Killer,” the best of them all.

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Sunday Whatever -Kris – An Essay by Dale Williams Barrigar

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Kris by Dale Williams Barrigar

In 2006 and 2009, at the ages of 70 and 73, Kris Kristofferson released two classic American folk albums that remain virtually invisible to the population at large, the mainstream media, and the general American culture, much like Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, who’s THERE but largely un-talked of, or Herman Melville, who half-invisibly spent the last decades of his life haunting the New York streets as a striking, but “unknown,” individual who looked half like a bearded mystic in a rumpled suit, half wandering minstrel just in from the sea. How strange it is to think that he was also probably passing bearded, informally dressed Walt Whitman on the street many times during those days, as writer Harold Bloom has pointed out. One wonders if they nodded to each other.

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Sunday Whatever – Seven Dogs or A Dog is My Walden – An essay by Dale Williams Barrigar

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                             For Extremely Intelligent Children at Any Age

“Everything is poetic that confesses.” – Jorge Luis Borges

“Delia, oh Delia / I can’t believe / you wanted all them
 rounders / never had time for me. / All the friends
                              I ever had / are gone.” – Dylan, “Delia,” World Gone Wrong                            

“Let us go then, you and I…” – T.S. Eliot

An old Zen saying rightly opines, “Do not seek comfort from others. Light the lantern within yourself.”

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Sunday Whatever: The Poisonous Fog of War by Michael Bloor

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It’s been said that Britain is a country overburdened by history. I’m not very sure what ‘overburdened’ means in that context. But my guess is that, for my generation born seventy-odd years ago, it refers to the enduring damage wreaked by The First World War.

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Sunday Whatever:  Eliot Behind the Mask – An Essay by Dale Williams Barrigar

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 “Whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked.” – The First Letter of John

T.S. Eliot was not who we think of him as.

Far from dying his hair green, instead he sometimes wore green face powder (very faintly) to dinner parties in order to shock, discomfit, and confound his cultured, highfalutin, aristocratic hosts and their hoity-toity guests.

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Sunday Whatever: Eleonora and Poe by Dale Williams Barrigar

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“ERNEST. From the soul?

GILBERT. Yes, from the soul. That is what the highest          criticism really is, the record of one’s own soul.”

Oscar Wilde, “The Critic as Artist”

“Under the preservation of a specific form, my soul is safe.”
Raymond Llull

Edgar Allan Poe was the kind of individual who could fall in love with a woman after seeing her for a mere few moments, or less, on the street. Dante had this feeling when he first saw Beatrice, and her later early demise compelled him to take twelve years out to compose the greatest single literary work of the Western World, a poem that still helps to define what the afterlife is (in our imaginations) eight centuries after he finished it. (And he died almost immediately after finishing it.) 

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Sunday Whatever: Fame; or The Queen of Crucifixion by Dale Williams Barrigar

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Prologue

Hello. The target audience for this humanly-written, essayistic mind, heart and soul exploration is: poets; creative writers; writers; artists and “creatives” of all stripes; spiritual people; people interested in history, and the future; anyone interested in any or all of the above.

If you can’t jive with that, this writing isn’t for you.

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Sunday Whatever – “M” T-shirts No Longer Fit Me to a T by Elliot Wilner

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Two of the drawers in my bedroom dresser are packed full with colorful T-shirts,  about fifty T-shirts in total, and I cherish them all.  Each shirt tells a story: the date and the distance of a particular road race – an 8k, a 10k or a 10 miler – that I had once run, together with the names and logos of the race sponsors.  Of the fifty shirts, about forty have found eternal repose in my dresser drawers, never removed from the drawer, never worn.  Those are the ones labeled with a “M.”  The other ten, those labeled with an “L,” I do wear on occasion.     

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