Uncontrolled Ramblings of David K Wright
My interest in writing this blog lies in my endless worshiping of life. I'd like to think my approach is much like my old hound dog's behavior when he used to gleefully drive his shoulder into a warm cow pie. He performed this gesture with gusto, with fascination and with a profound delight at having found the purpose in life. Jump in to this scree, rant or whatever the hell it is and offer up a few words. Click the pictures and they will blow up---figuratively speaking.
Wednesday, January 22, 2020
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
Intelligence
Intelligence?
Some days things
don’t go where I would like them to go. Meaning it is probably not a good idea
to go fishing for a compliment only to realize the wrong question has been
asked. My wife of all these years was reading a book called How to think
like Leonardo Da Vinci. In the publication,
it states there are seven types of intelligence that range from Mathematical to
Intrapersonal (self-knowledge). Examples of these two were Da Vinci and the
latter, Mother Teresa. There was another five categories in between including Bodily
Kinesthetic, which listed Muhammad Ali.
I was engulfed in
self-absorption trying to write some profound piece when she started carrying
on about intelligence. The category most interesting to her, possibly as a way
finding her place in the world, was Spatial-Mechanical intelligence which was
defined as having acute artistic skills and vision. Georgia O’Keefe was one example of this.
Having always thought O’Keefe was a marginal artist, I’m sure she was finding
herself growing in stature if not inflating her ego. “Hey, you aughta read this
because I think it might be important. This writer has really put it on the
line and is partially explaining why I am the way I am”, she said.
I personally did not
think that was possible as not even a Freud treatise could cover that. I’m
thinking, “Good luck on that one. Your acute right brain thinking, has no logical
definition.” Lifting my now confused brow in an inquisitive but subtle gesture,
maybe a doubting grimace, I thought it only reasonable to ask (remembering she
was clearly being personally delusional), “Hey, where do I fall on that list?”
Without even a slight
hesitation she said, “Way down.” Initially, I didn’t really know what she meant
but after reflecting on her earlier listing of the four, I realized Mother
Teresa was the noted individual on the last category so I felt some consolation,
but she repeated “way down” after I marveled on the Good Mother.
At that point, I
regrouped as a way of getting a better definition as to where I “really” stood.
I needed some confirmation of my place in this whirling sea of humanity. After
all, I was somebody. I don’t mean “coulda been somebody” I was somebody, so why
should I tolerate this belittlement.
First on the list
was Logical- Mathematical but after some friendly conversation I was reminded that
the professor in entry-level calculus said something to the effect of “Mr.
Wright have you ever considered taking up finger painting?” Real funny. Just because I couldn’t
differentiate a differential equation doesn’t mean I could paint with my
fingers---Oh, maybe that was the point.
Next was Verbal-Linguistics
with a guy named Shakespeare listed as some kind of genius. OK. Now we are
getting somewhere because after all I am a man of letters as this column well
illustrates. Then I hear, “Linguistics! Hell all you can speak is broken
English and profanity---and that Spanish is nothing but foulmouthed obscenities
you learned in the strawberry fields of Montello.” Like a beaten puppy, I
shuffled to the sofa but realized in a moment of glee, at least I could speak
in complete sentences, of say ten words and could even pronounce words more
than three syllables making me more articulate than at least one of our
politicians.
Off to the Spatial-Mechanical
grouping, which admittedly held Michelangelo and Buckminster Fuller. Surely, I
can rebuild an engine (as long as it was made before 1962) and I love to take
things apart. I am also, by my definition, an artist of some note---no one is
sure what note but still. If I had a hat to hang this might be my best shot. I
received no confirmation other than a lifted eye and a distorted grin of
derision.
Number four was
Musical Intelligence and that did give me pause because of my prowess with the violin
but when I saw Mozart’s name on the list it became obvious I should maybe look
elsewhere, however, I once perfectly played that one note the same as Itzhak Perlman.
The next listing of Bodily-Kinesthetic featured
a few famous athletes like Ali. “Hey Ann, I think this may be the one for me.
Come on, you know I played basketball until I was forty-eight and I had moves.
You know, like I almost dunked the ball without getting hurt. I had finesse. A
rugby star maybe?”
Opps, not such a
good thought, “Is that why they called you Dave the Butcher?” Ann responded. “Is
it finesse that got you those concussions? Did you garner a cheap plastic
trophy for that one? Michael Jordan you ain’t.”
So the next
category was approached and there was Interpersonal-Social, a listing that may
have some promise because I like, Gandhi and Mandela have had some political
experience and have accomplished some greater social good. “Hey, what was it
they used to say about you? Something like, “’When they try to run you out of
town again, just get out in front and pretend it is a parade, then wave victoriously
to the crowd of angry citizens.”” “Didn’t you threaten to kill Carl because
he stole your wood pile?” “Gandhi?”
Well, the last
one was Intrapersonal Intelligence meaning knowing one’s self and your place in
the greater world. Seeing this last one was very disturbing because having just
gone through the first six and being soundly reminded I had just a teeny-weeny few
weaknesses and really didn’t appear to qualify for any of those this was the
last straw. Maybe I had none of this one because I thought I did have some of
the others and maybe my DNA had given me too much of the delusional gene.
“Oh,
your alright, I guess. Just don’t get too full of yourself. Go get a beer and
remember you can’t be a Da Vinci no matter what the book says.”
Some questions go
better unasked.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Winter's Stove
Winter’s
Stove
Winter’s Stove
Almost fifty years ago, the
stove came to us from Adam and Eve, not directly but through Nellie over in
Kiowa, the once frontier town where cowboys gathered and Indians raised deadly
hell protecting their homeground. It
seems the stove had been around this short-grass prairie hangout for many years
for on the cast iron side stood the year 1885. No doubt, it rode the rails on
the now long-gone tracks and then headed overland on a horse drawn wagon as it
wound its way to some far ranging ranch. Who knows what families sat
comfortable around the stove as it glowed from the fragrant Ponderosa, and the more
subtle but exotic Cottonwood.
The stories we were told
back then, back those fifty years ago, would certainly let one’s mind see wandering
Native Americans drop by some isolated, almost desolate ranch house to sit
there in warmth while outside the autumn chill crept in.
When Adam and Eve
purchased the stove remains a mystery, but we first saw it proudly sitting in
the middle of their small home, there on the dusty Main Street in Elizabeth
Colorado those many years ago. The wood smoke lifted from the stack and drifted
over the town casting about the sweet and alluring sent of the local pines, the
fragrance of the Wild West.
In the early fall the wild Sunflowers bloomed
along with the Chamisa and sage, adding another subtle odor to the surrounding grasslands
and community.
One day, as they say, the
stove had moseyed out of town and been replaced by a more convenient, less
aesthetic gas stove. Some said, this was due to the aging couple’s accumulating
years, and to neighborly fears of uncontrolled fire. Still, Adam and Eve lived
their peaceful life as they had which included moving about their modest home
quite naked. The community simply said little other than to give the couple the
moniker we all knew. Not long later the duo, brother and sister it was learned,
moved to the springs, newer, younger, more modest occupants with curtains moved
in and that tick of time disappeared into the prairie night like the last of
the buffalo, which ironically occurred about the time the stove arrived in
Colorado.
It turned out Nellie in
Kiowa got the stove and quickly put it up for sale as a token to the past, an
antique of sorts, but still pristine and useful, one waiting for newly-arrived pilgrims that
might once more heat a home with all the Ponderosa now going to ground. So,
with wild eyes on visions of the old west, and a good nose for a subtle but penetrating
warmth, the stove became ours, and with it stories of our own, and imagined
stories of its wandering life on the short-grass prairie. .
This is the same stove that
to this day is the center of our living room and in a winter way, the center of
or lives as it was for others years ago.
Monday, November 5, 2018
Shameless Self Promotion of My Books
I have not used this site to promote much of anything but what the hell. You see, I have put together two books in the last couple of years and, while we have tried to do the book store thing, they are a fading breed, so we are now full gear into using the interweb, minus Amazon so far, to see if we can reach those interested in reading work from Wisconsin writers. Our website right here explains everything---including an option to purchase at below retail prices. We are talking a great Christmas present. .
Presently we re looking for writers for the next edition that will be completed this winter. Please pass this on to writers in your circles. The site now has videos and some snippets of our work.
In addition to the written word, the books contains numerous plates of fine art, many by Ann Herzog Wright. Here is but a small snippet of my work after a day on the lake, drifting aimlessly, no I was after trout but this happened on the way home.
Please pass this site on.
Monday, October 29, 2018
Revolution Watch-----Is Donald Trump a Black Swan?
I'm back on the blog after a lapse of some time but the winter is moving in and my mind is adrift with fear and loathing.
Is Donald Trump a Black Swan?
The other day one of Trump’s less than-intelligent-sons
made mention that his father was a Black Swan. That took a few folks back but the
comment only lasted a moment in the news cycle, but it did strike me as odd. The
term Black Swan is taken from a book called The Black Swan by Taleb. Its premise
was that in history, many changes have come about by a radically unanticipated
event, an event that may have very disturbing consequences. Previously, it was
thought the all the swans in the world were white! That black one in Australia was
oddly catastrophic in the ornithology world—and did offer for a nice metaphor.
The one I remember best was the scene
where there was a group of Native Americans standing on the eastern shore of
the US, looking out and seeing a tall ship owned by Columbus. Initially they
may have thought, “Oh look dude, there is a really big canoe maybe build by
those pesky Iroquois.” Not really giving it much thought, they went back to
weed the pumpkins. As it turned out, that was one hell of a Black Swan because in
short order, most of the natives were dead or dying, or fighting, or just
flat-ass running off. Life changed.
There were others mentioned and I suspect
the killing of Archduke Ferdinand was one as it gave us a war and an
accompanied pile of real dead people.
So is Trump the Buffoon, or as my son
calls him Cheeto Mussolini, a Black Swan as his ill-informed Jr. suggested in a
speech?
So I am thinking to myself, self, It is
well known that the way we are living, that is the consuming yahoos we are, say
me driving 200 miles to go fishing, or the guy next door driving 400 miles with
his Tundra Super Conquistador pulling a $30,000 bass boat powered by 2 250 HP
Honda Blasters, (or was it to Merlin aircraft engines?) has to at some point,
go away. This we intuitively know because
fossil fuels, particularly that oil stuff, is a finite resource and to top it
off it is giving off CO2, which is now warming the earth faster than Trump can
rework his silly, wombat imitated comb-over.
These activities simply have to change,
and we, that would be we Amurkins, have to at least get down to European consumption
levels of one half (1/2) of our present gluttony. It is also known Dick Cheney
was right when he said, “We can not do anything about the climate change because
it will hurt the economy.” Well, shit, he was right and the economy as defined
by everyone from Charles Buchannan to Milton Freidman—oh, and even Keynes,
requires never ending exponential growth and that ain’t gonna fly in a finite world.
Because of this truth, it immediately seems
reasonable to think that if we want to rectify the CO2 and other dandy greenhouse
gasses, say methane that comes out of our bungs—particularly Trump, then we
have to get rid of the GDP growth as well as population growth. The graph here
shows that the only decrease in emissions we have had in recent years was in
2008 during the great recession. Jesus, there is a message I can even see.
So, while we are carrying on about
changing light bulbs, making wind generators, and having fewer steaks, in Sconnie
talk, it don’t mean jack because we still have this growth issue. I mean, how
the hell are we going to off-set another million people every 4.5 days? We ain’t.
Here is where we get back to the Black
Swan. One has to see that the only drop-off we’ve had in emissions was during
an economic downturn like the great recession of ’08, and actually the fall of
Russia when they went to consuming ethanol (vodka) and no gasoline.
What this means, from my backwoods point
of view, is we need a freaking recession/depression of some note, and then sure
as hell the emissions will drop off in noticeable fashion.
Now if The Cheeto guy is a true Black
Swan, he may be the trigger to get us where we actually need to go. This would
also make Eric (The Red) Trump correct in his statement and also explain why his
comment dropped of the news most pronto. In other words, do you suppose The Trumpster may actually do some heinous, or
not heinous thing that will trigger a collapse? Does this mean we vote for
Trump to get a correction of climate change---or is there a humane way to get
where we need to go?
Friday, January 5, 2018
Wood Envy and More
Woodpile Envy---Maybe Jealousy.
Is it jealousy, or maybe just green envy that rattles my
cage when I see a well-constructed woodpile? Jealously has a personality
weakness connotation and I don’t really find myself wanting to push someone’s
pile over but rather stop and admire---then maybe twitch with envy, thinking everyone
should have one of these---particularly me. I have always burned wood but don’t
recall ever being serious about stacking, then again I lived in the dry west
and I do not recall an indigenous, wood stacker culture.
Here in industrious Wisconsin the situation is different. If a person casts a wonder eye, it is easy to spot some rather impressive monuments to man’s relationship to wood---and work.
Rick, the Pendleton-clad woodman, boasts a rectangular style, meaning a conventional stack all laid out in parallel rows as if trying to make a statement of organization and convention. He clearly has a solid fixation with one-hundred eighty and ninety degree alignments, and featuring piles to a height of 4.5 feet, but extending lengthwise some 20-30 feet and 10 feet deep. This method would allow one to calculate cubic feet and thus the cordage---thereby pleasing the Chicago School of Economics and mathematicians studying fractals. What is most admirable is the precision of the presentation. Each corner is cross stacked but the interiors are laid on each other horizontally creating a wonderful texture. It is a thing of beauty but rather hidden in the forest and I am sure makes a nice chipmunk condo. Placed by the road it would be a hazard and might create admiration crashes.
Jim, in an act cleaning up his woods of windfall, prefers yurt shaped piles with the pieces being stacked on their ends or on some occasions horizontally. The top has a taper of maybe 25 degrees and makes the entire effort look like a Mongolian yurt---even though he is decidedly Irish. The master works of log lugging range in size from 6’- 12’ feet in diameter with a fluctuating edge similar to me after a couple of fine local brews. One standout pile incorporated an upright, and live, oak as if he needed some natural assistance.
I ran into another dramatic
style north of town sitting ever-so comfortable up on the hillside next to the
road. This endeavor was conical with each piece of hard wood laid against the
side in a flawless manner until the finished work was a perfect teepee. However,
the biggest surprise was hundred yards
up the road and to the south, where there in a field was maybe six pieces of piled,
yet to be pilfered, artworks. One of them so large it could be seen from space---say
from Nelsonville. All were perfect in effort with the final precipice making
the perfect tepee. For the life of me, it didn’t seem possible that a man on
foot could assemble this. A ladder had to be used which did beg some questions,
like how many person-hours had to go into this prize? There had to be 10 cords
in this mound all of it placed in the most deliberate artistic way.
Like I said, I have woodpile envy, maybe some jealousy, so questions had to be asked as to why folks do this. Considering the extra work, there has to be a profound motive. Yes, some people like to be organized, they enjoy having things in place so they are easy to find and use. This may account for some of the efforts. Others are a practical sort who have concluded, maybe by some distant tradition, that by doing it a particular way will encourage drying as the water will run off in a very organized way not promoting fungal growth.
Still, there has to be something else. Each one of these three have an aesthetic touch and that is why I marvel. They are immensely appealing and I am sure every passer-by notes the effort. Still, everyone of these individuals, and this includes me with my scatter schizoid piles loves doing the work, they love being outside, embracing the weather and probably making note that cutting and storing wood warms them multiple times. This includes cutting, loading in the truck, then unloading, splitting, hauling, stacking, toting inside and ultimately cleaning the house from the messes (which very well may be done by someone else.)
The final kiss is the smell of wild wood, drifting smoke,
and of course, that radiant heat.
So, the admission here is envy got the best of me, not in a
big way, but some and I had to prove my worth. After all, most of the above
merits appeal to me. I thought possibly I could take it the next step, a one
small step for mankind, and make a holz hausen I had seen while researching
woodpile aficionados.
Sunday, October 22, 2017
In Love of Walnuts
In
Love of Walnuts:
I
was once young, an eight-year old, and by any explanation that was some time
ago, in this case embarrassingly close to sixty-five years. This time span is
not child’s play and for reasons, not totally apparent, I can’t account for the
speed which has consumed that span. Fortunately, there is still a certain
lucidity in my mind so that it is possible to recall some things from that
time, not only recall them but, most interestingly, to have sensations and
vivid memories pertaining to smell. The sensation, I suspect, is only part of
it because with the odor of certain items or situations comes images that,
while somewhat ethereal, are still, to this old mind meaningful and rich.
We returned here to our home ground 12 years ago. That
first fall on our return to Wisconsin, and really, every year since, we have
almost without effort, managed to round up at least some walnuts. Initially, I recall
simply finding one in glorious repose under a tree. It was unmolested by the
resident squirrels as it sat their half buried in the duff like a lost golf
ball. Almost instinctually, I lifted the light green orb to my nose. I knew
hidden there was a crisp pungent odor of the earth. I knew there were memories,
maybe ones lost from living in the west all those years. Like every person,
there are childhood experiences associated with distant odors, be it faint hint
of a mother’s perfume, or secret smell associated with Port Orford Cedar, the
wood used to make our own arrows or the smell of fall as the western Chamisa
and sunflowers bloomed on the August prairie of Colorado.
In this case,
it was the Black Walnut. Like flying birds rattling through my brain, I was taken
back in Sauk County there on the Wisconsin River. In the distant haze of magical
memory, I recalled, almost seeing our band of foragers flopping from the car in
disarray, gunny bag in hand, heading for some known Walnut tree where waited
the green nuts ready for grabbing.
In early October, we would get packed in the old ’36 Chevrolet,
in a fashion probably not much different than the family dog, who in glee would
hang from the window, jowls flopping in the breeze with spittle running wild,
and head for the Baraboo Hills. While we
two kids might have been slugging it out in the back just out of the reach of
the old man, I would not be surprised if we two ratty-assed kids were also face
to the wind, head out the window yelling and drooling. It was adventure time.
Duward’s Glenn rings a bell as does Parfrey’s Glenn and
from there our disheveled troupe would scrounge around looking for all sorts of
things including walnuts---but I still recall distant stories of watching for Timber Rattlers—and hearing
the old man excitedly carry on about how he almost put his hand on one---to
that we paid attention.
The trip was a family thing and a chance to touch and
smell all things wild. I didn’t know then my father was born in New York and
raised in Chicago, so in looking back I’m not sure how he managed to become so
engaged in this country life. Maybe it was the quiet presence of my mother who
had been raised in a more rural setting in northern Illinois. What is now very clear
is they had a genuine love for the countryside, the uninhabited, the quiet
settings of the forest and fields.
I know at the age of maybe eight, I was already fascinated
by the newts, frogs, butterflies and wild growing food my parents were showing
us. The smell of the walnut was impossible to miss. Just the slightest scratch
of the hull and from it came this rich, earthy odor only found in that one
species.
I don’t doubt, knowing our families later history,
that it was there we learned to throw things at each other---like fat walnuts.
It wouldn’t even surprise me if the my father started it. Later in life there
were many childish, rowdy fights with acorns, walnut and apples accompanied by
pock-mark wounds, and a few tears all of which that were met with little
sympathy. It was the old man, I’m sure.
So therein lies the memory that still drifts around in
my head. Scratch the newly fallen walnut and there in front of me is a soft
spot, a vision of a family picnic and a sack of walnuts---maybe the burn of
being hit by a 65 mph fast (ball) nut from my lousy brother. It is all just
good.
Of course, this is not the only wafting odor that sets
off the winds of memory, but it is a pleasant one, and one I could wish on any
one.
In the last few years I have taken it farther than
just momentarily dwelling on the gift of smell but also harvesting local
walnuts, hulling them, slowly picking the meats out and then in the great glee
of an easily impressed child, introducing them into pancakes and cookies. When
the first cookies were made, I noticed the taste of the nuts also rang one of
those tiny bells in my brain, not the ones damaged by a few too many
concussions, but silver bells of a warm kitchen and still-steaming cookies.
The walnut holds a dear place in my life and due to their
abundance around here, we are now able to enjoy every aspect of them almost
every year---and that is, without throwing them at aging, still-mouthy
brothers---not that we wouldn’t try.
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