(original post title):  no diss intended, but the thrill is gone … we’ll get to that.

Below: Venus & the Moon.  Not too long ago.


The End of Time?  hey!  I needed a good post title, which I’ll try to bend and tweak and twist to make this latest chapter in the history of the Man Without a History … contiguous with the heading.  (Yeah … right.)

Where did that (the title) come from?

— I used to read.  A lot more than these past few years.  And … not only did I read Brothers Karamazov (and many other ponderous tomes) I also read lots of light-weight tomes.  Almost everything by Kurt Vonnegut.  And, one of the two books by Mr. V’s son, Mark.

In The Eden Express (an autobiographical chronicle of his experiences with schizophrenia) Mark describes an imagined (hallucinated) conversation with Dad.  They banter over the silliness, the un-profoundness of Kurt’s works, and Kurt suggests that Mark open the book he’s reading (Bros K-mazov) to any page, and read just any sentence.  Mark holds the Dostoyevsky by the cover, the book flips open, a sentence part-way down an exposed page stands out.  Hence the title of this essay.  I don’t remember it from Bros K but have always remembered it from The Eden Express.  I used that sentence, and attributed it (erroneously, though I didn’t know it at the time) to Dostoyevsky, as the introduction to a short story I wrote, Respite.

A few years ago, shortly after I penned Respite, I received an email from someone researching Kurt Vonnegut.  The “someone” was, I think, writing a paper which tried to make a connection between KV and Dostoyevsky.  After a few email exchanges, the other party and I concluded that the sentence was not in B K, and somehow materialized (“of it’s own accord”) in Mark V’s book.  My co-correspondent may have been Donald M. Fiene.  But then again, probably not.  He (or whoever (s)he was) approached me initially due to a ‘hit’ from an internet-search for that phrase.


Every year, not only do Betty and I engage in playing music, we go to see other musicians.  This (so far) hasn’t been much of an active year in regards listening to others — friends and acquaintances (and ourselves) at a club in Fruita (Colorado) — the Cavalcade (or Cavalcade Fruita); Big Head Todd & the Monsters; Poke Squid; the Grand Junction Symphony Orchestra; the Indigo Girls; and B B King.

The Girls were the bestest tightest intertwined interesting music we heard (so far) in 2014.  BB King was not.

As a fellow hockey enthusiast also in attendance at the local BB King ‘concert’ summarized:  “the thrill IS gone.”

This is not to say BB King is a (still, barely) living legend, but he should have retired already.  Last year.  Probably before that.  On the one hand, if we had an opportunity for tickets to “meet and greet” Mr. King, with or without the guise or proximity of any music, that’d be one thing.  But for an event to be billed as a musical performance?  That, in my humble opinion, was mostly untrue.

I conducted an internet search of recent reviews and discussions of BB King concerts, and contributed to one:

having seen BBK in Grand Junxion (Aug 18) i agree with all the negative reviews, and stopped to let the positives affect me too. yeah, you’re right: not too many blues legends are “still alive” — but on the other hand it was like a hall full of people there to merely meet&greet. i left early because i did not want to be there when he keeled over and died, which seemed more than remotely possible, particularly when he almost strangled himself trying to get the guitar strap over his head.

There were people present of the same opinion as myself, but also many of which were apparently the hazy-eyed “blues afficionadoes” who shouted WE LUV YEW and applauded everything and maybe this particular evening was the (never-ending) zenith of their existence.  you know, objectivity is probably over-rated. anyhow, a friend of mine had a 4-word summary: the thrill is gone.  my summary: the emperor has no clothes.

he should have retired long before this, and according to prior reviews, maybe 10+ years ago. yes, it was “cute” seeing him bask in attention and beam and be charismatic, but we weren’t there for “cute”, were we? The charisma was un-mistakable  but most of us thought we were going to A CONCERT!  not so.

BB should show up first thing in the show, talk (hopefully less than a 15 minute banter), introduce the band, leave, and let them rip!

and what certainly didn’t help at this occasion was a somewhat surly lout in a baseball cap outside the doors to the venue.  People were not exactly leaving in droves, but the early departures were increasing in frequency.  Betty and I were at the top of the stairs heading down to the parking lot.  This fellow was inquiring loudly to anyone nearby “what did you think?  why are you leaving?  Didn’t you enjoy the show?”

I knew better than to talk with him, but Betty apparently thought he wanted to engage in reasoned discourse.  We can only presume that he was a “roadie”, someone employed by the band, and not at all capable of objectivity and lacking in P R skills as well.  Trying to talk with such a person does nothing to undo whatever tarnish the evening’s experience already had.  I can only hope that if he is, indeed, affiliated with “the outfit,” they either let him go or give him a good talking to.

I mean and meant no “diss” to a living legend.  Remember him as he was …

hazy garfThe forest-fire haze shroud over Mt. Garfield and the Bookcliffs, as seen from much higher up, Land’s End on the Grand Mesa — about a month ago.

While i/we’re on the subject of politikill un/in-corerectnous, i heard on the ray-dee-oh recently that NYC had more heroin overdose deaths last year than in several prior years.  Which brings me to a solution to a problem ….  We’ve also been subjected to several media accounts and hand-wringing about Executions by Lethal Injection gone awry this year.   Wouldn’t you suppose that many (or most) police evidence and storage rooms have lots of heroin (and other fun stuff) seized from criminals?  More than enough to over-dose a lot of people?  Instead of trying to calculate just how much of whatever it is, and attempting precise combinations and mixtures of the former not-too-reliable killing potion — why not just a big old whallop of heroin?

Below, the view to the west across the northwest rim of The Mesa, with


and without a dog in the foreground.

Mesa View
another potential death march run, this one in the mountain lion’s territory –>

there were two (‘death march runs’):  one in an area which (many years ago) i had the only mtn-lyin-siting i’ve ever had.  i ran a trail on the north side of the Uncompahgre Plateau, adjoining Unaweep Canyon, and with two dogs scoutin’ the trees as we ran/stumbled along, i thought about the big cat(s), and

A few weeks back I ran along north Fravert Rim.  no, no mountain lyin’s, just millions of years of colorawdough river geologic history, peeled away beneath.  Like many (most?) runners — it’s something we do:  do the workout, but frequently go someplace where you can ponder whatcher runnin’ thru’.  Geology, in this case.  I could see across the Colorado River Valley, ten, a dozen miles perhaps, down to the ‘Wivver perhaps 600 or 700 feet below – many millions of years of cutting and swathing and bending and flooding and oxbows and back-and-forth, going ever deeper.  Heck:  a half-billion years or so, THIS will be THE Grand Canyawn.


Betty has a problem with the NO FIREWERX.  “Let’s get lit up and RIDE”, she sez.  We’re near Waterdog Reservoirs, the Grand Mesa.

and, stop reading now while you can, a poem …

when tedium might set up and entrench,

i still find time to be amazed.

Might? it does. the layer of overlying tedium over the AY-MAY’ZD thickens. but …

maybe i’ve seen it all before, but i don’t remember, and if that’s so, it still looks new.

the sun shines through a hole in what seems an impermeable wall of clouds, brightly illuminating just a patch of hillside to the west. there’s a cloud-bank within a cloud-bank of cumulus just over the horizon which has an off-white/grey/creamy color which at first is barely discernible from the rest but on a second look stands out.

gittin’ old

what does that mean?

i do have to remember, that the body is separate from … the mind. the dharma. the continuum. if there really. is. a continuum. “it” (whuddever ‘it’ is) could itself be an illusion. it’s just now. continual now.

and thinkin’ about gittin’ older

oh yeah, that’s cheery, at my age, iddn’t it?

and the dawg pharts, a good solid full-bodied one, in answe(a)r.

we/i/you continue fillin’ in the spaces, between the



& other ruminations. &, if not ‘nations’ then perhaps rumiterritories.



close larvae

Hey! Calling all amateur (professional, anybody?) entomologists. I took the pixure above, and below, recently. These larval or cocoonal struxures were under a wooden deck we were cleaning. DOES ANYBODY KNOW WHAT THE HECK THESE ARE? Is this what the first wave of the invasion of the body snatchers resides in, prior to emerging to take over the world? (Not that Betty and I would know, we’re already snatcht.)


I’m serious here (mostly). What the heck are these? They’re under a deck near our house, people. Who knows, there are probably hundreds more even closer.

typical bookcliffs

Betty and I watched the last


movie last night. When Bella awakens in her new life as a vampire, the movie does a good job in conveying her new and intense awareness. Seeing a spider, as if under a microscope, up on a ceiling beam working on its web. A squirrel eating nuts in the forest. Even the scent of blood from a climber’s scraped knee hundreds of yards away and up a cliff.

sky to west

As Betty awoke this a.m. I inquired about her waking into a new and heightened awareness. Why, you could even hear an amoeba fart. It’s very very quiet, but has a quite distinctive sound.

“It seems that there is not a lot of attention being paid to amoebas in the media,” she opined.

“Yes,” I chimed. “One doesn’t hear nor read nor have occasion to think much about them at all.” Perhaps we’ll do our part to change that.

Betty participates in a couple of book clubs. One of these (or both?) decided to read Peter Heller’s Dog Star. Betty is rarely derogatory about what she reads, but this particular book she decided that the public and publishers and all the acclaim, and fame, was a case of THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES. Lousy book, she said. Pithy. Uses “fuck” too much – which we both agree should be relied upon sparingly. And then only for maximum effect.

And so, while out hiking in the forest above “The Monument” recently she came up with some introductory sentences to her new book. She tried to relate them to me. I suggested she do a parody of Heller’s Dog Star. Disconnected sentences, just tossed out, as if the author hoped the effect would be to ensnare a picture, concepts, feelings, which would guide the reader along in the story.

Life is but a series of random events. Suddenly, the Lebanese* fighter jets flew overhead. In the distance, smoke was still rising from an active volcano. I walked down the path. The effect that the problems we encounter in life has on us, personally, is determined by the importance we give to them. At last, some small measure of so-called “free will.”

I think her book is off to a good start. And I KNOW she’ll do better than that Heller feller.

dirty cat

Milli, the dirty cat.

close dirty caat

Milli, closer, the dirty cat.

close cat

When one considers the spaces between the tines-of-the-FORKs not ridden, nor RODE upon.

Y … hicimos nuestro diversion o divertido nuevo y Viejo: chinga-de-chinga entre los sesentas.

Heh. (Heh).

Occasionally, far too rarely, I had been considering not being so judgemental. I penned a brief and cryptic note recently while driving, which, upon later reflexion, made little or no sense.

The whirled-why’d environmental prawbleghm #1. Okay. The ultimate goal, nay, not “goal” but inevitability for (wo)man-kind* is for the hide&seek game to end – only to begin all over again.
*Is there a … “manUnfriendly”? Man-mean? Yeah, THAT’s probably more applicable and descriptive.

Now that I think about it, really, try to minimize writing notes while driving. In addition to no texting …

Speaking of “real” authors, something from T Pynchon’s Against the Day:

She sang of longing so deep that humiliation, pain, and danger ceased to matter. He had left so much emotion behind that it took him all of eight bars to understand that this was his own voice, his life, his slight victory over time, returned to fair limbs and spring sunrises and a heart beating too fiercely for reflection driving him toward what he knew he needed, could not live without. (Without a time) as the song, too many of the songs, went – back in that day … what had happened? Where was desire, and where was he, who had been almost entirely fashioned of nothing but desire? He regarded the dawn outside the street door, the cyclic fate of one more room-size Creation assembled from scratch through the dark hours one mean blow, petty extortion, faithless step at a time, a little world in which a city’s worth of lives witlessly, gleefully, in its entire force, had been invested, as it would be, night after night. It was the absence of all hesitation here that impressed him, setting aside the stimulants whose molecular products, occupying by now every brain-cell, discouraged careful analysis. It was a world entirely possible to withdraw from angelwise and soar high enough to see more, consider exits from, but nobody here in the smoke and breaking waves of desire wanted exit, the little world would certainly do, perhaps in the way that for some, as one of her songs suggested, children, though also small, though comparably doomed, are forever more than enough.

rainbow over house