The bare limbs
scratching at
the aching dawn —
It’s not that…
Is it?
art
It’s not the dreams that die…
just the dreamers
#notetoself
#sillysayingsmakemesmile
A Turkey Tale by Mark Twain
#happythanksgivingmyfriends
HUNTING THE DECEITFUL TURKEY
Mark Twain
When I was a boy my uncle and his big boys hunted with the rifle, the youngest boy Fred and I with a shotgun–a small single-barrelled shotgun which was properly suited to our size and strength; it was not much heavier than a broom. We carried it turn about, half an hour at a time. I was not able to hit anything with it, but I liked to try. Fred and I hunted feathered small game, the others hunted deer, squirrels, wild turkeys, and such things. My uncle and the big boys were good shots. They killed hawks and wild geese and such like on the wing; and they didn’t wound or kill squirrels, they stunned them. When the dogs treed a squirrel, the squirrel would scamper aloft and run out on a limb and flatten himself along it, hoping to make himself invisible in that way– and not quite succeeding. You could see his wee little ears sticking up. You couldn’t see his nose, but you knew where it was. Then the hunter, despising a “rest” for his rifle, stood up and took offhand aim at the limb and sent a bullet into it immediately under the squirrel’s nose, and down tumbled the animal, unwounded, but unconscious; the dogs gave him a shake and he was dead. Sometimes when the distance was great and the wind not accurately allowed for, the bullet would hit the squirrel’s head; the dogs could do as they pleased with that one–the hunter’s pride was hurt, and he wouldn’t allow it to go into the gamebag.
In the first faint gray of the dawn the stately wild turkeys would be stalking around in great flocks, and ready to be sociable and answer invitations to come and converse with other excursionists of their kind. The hunter concealed himself and imitated the turkey-call by sucking the air through the leg-bone of a turkey which had previously answered a call like that and lived only just long enough to regret it. There is nothing that furnishes a perfect turkey-call except that bone. Another of Nature’s treacheries, you see. She is full of them; half the time she doesn’t know which she likes best–to betray her chid or protect it. In the case of the turkey she is badly mixed: she gives it a bone to be used in getting it into trouble, and she also furnishes it with a trick for getting itself out of the trouble again. When a mamma-turkey answers an invitation and finds she has made a mistake in accepting it, she does as the mamma-partridge does–remembers a previous engagement–and goes limping and scrambling away, pretending to be very lame; and at the same time she is saying to her not-visible children, “Lie low, keep still, don’t expose yourselves; I shall be back as soon as I have beguiled this shabby swindler out of the country.”
When a person is ignorant and confiding, this immoral device can have tiresome results. I followed an ostensibly lame turkey over a considerable part of the United States one morning, because I believed in her and could not think she would deceive a mere boy, and one who was trusting her and considering her honest. I had the single-barrelled shotgun, but my idea was to catch her alive. I often got within rushing distance of her, and then made my rush; but always, just as I made my final plunge and put my hand down where her back had been, it wasn’t there; it was only two or three inches from there and I brushed the tail- feathers as I landed on my stomach–a very close call, but still not quite close enough; that is, not close enough for success, but just close enough to convince me that I could do it next time. She always waited for me, a little piece away, and let on to be resting and greatly fatigued; which was a lie, but I believed it, for I still thought her honest long after I ought to have begun to doubt her, suspecting that this was no way for a high-minded bird to be acting. I followed, and followed, and followed, making my periodical rushes, and getting up and brushing the dust off, and resuming the voyage with patient confidence; indeed, with a confidence which grew, for I could see by the change of climate and vegetation that we were getting up into the high latitudes, and as she always looked a little tireder and a little more discouraged after each rush, I judged that I was safe to win, in the end, the competition being purely a matter of staying power and the advantage lying with me from the start because she was lame.
Along in the afternoon I began to feel fatigued myself. Neither of us had had any rest since we first started on the excursion, which was upwards of ten hours before, though latterly we had paused awhile after rushes, I letting on to be thinking about something else; but neither of us sincere, and both of us waiting for the other to call game but in no real hurry about it, for indeed those little evanescent snatches of rest were very grateful to the feelings of us both; it would naturally be so, skirmishing along like that ever since dawn and not a bite in the meantime; at least for me, though sometimes as she lay on her side fanning herself with a wing and praying for strength to get out of this difficulty a grasshopper happened along whose time had come, and that was well for her, and fortunate, but I had nothing–nothing the whole day.
More than once, after I was very tired, I gave up taking her alive, and was going to shoot her, but I never did it, although it was my right, for I did not believe I could hit her; and besides, she always stopped and posed, when I raised the gun, and this made me suspicious that she knew about me and my marksmanship, and so I did not care to expose myself to remarks.
I did not get her, at all. When she got tired of the game at last, she rose from almost under my hand and flew aloft with the rush and whir of a shell and lit on the highest limb of a great tree and sat down and crossed her legs and smiled down at me, and seemed gratified to see me so astonished.
I was ashamed, and also lost; and it was while wandering the woods hunting for myself that I found a deserted log cabin and had one of the best meals there that in my life-days I have eaten. The weed-grown garden was full of ripe tomatoes, and I ate them ravenously, though I had never liked them before. Not more than two or three times since have I tasted anything that was so delicious as those tomatoes. I surfeited myself with them, and did not taste another one until I was in middle life. I can eat them now, but I do not like the look of them. I suppose we have all experienced a surfeit at one time or another. Once, in stress of circumstances, I ate part of a barrel of sardines, there being nothing else at hand, but since then I have always been able to get along without sardines.
#letsbethankfuleveryday
PASS HERE AND GO ON, YOU’RE ON THE ROAD TO HEAVEN
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars
An Abundance of Irony
Since I have a lot of time on my hands, I spend much of it (hey, I am a capitalist — spending is what I do) reading articles on the web. While I’ll read just about anything I happen upon, most of what I seek to read involves literature, politics, current events, and, as t’is the season of the warmth-seeking rodents, the intricacies involved in the extermination care and feeding of the mus musculus. And, as I’m sure anyone who’s done even the most cursory of web reading can imagine, most of what I read is just pure blather…100° proof; however, as most of you (and by most (what’s with all the mosts?) I mean the one or two of the three regular readers of this site (one of whom is me)) know, blather is my specialty so I pretty much dig it…the higher piled the better.
In addition to the intricacies involved in the extermination care and feeding of the many snow shy mus musculus now snuggled warm and carefree throughout my home, I’ve also been reading lately about irony (see the german links below). Let me tell ya, there are some rather heady, profound philosophical conceptualizers out there coming up with some rather heady, (did I say german? I meant germane not german! see the germane links below) profound philosophical concepts revolving around the term, meaning…I don’t understand most of what I’ve read about it.
Consequently, it’s hard for me to get my less than profound head wrapped around these profound philosophical concepts.
No matter how many times I look up the meaning of irony, I can never remember exactly what it is whenever I’m in a situation when I need to prove my understanding of the concept. If I don’t really know what it means, how can I confidently, and safely, do irony?
And based upon my wary observations of all the many ironic hipsters running around loose and carefree (as my homey mus musculus) lately, it appears I am not the only one who does not quite have a necessary grasp on its meaning.
Okay, but who really cares, right? I mean, when does one ever really need to know the meaning of irony?
Other than teacher’s having to explain it to students (who will forget its meaning mere seconds after being taught), the only real life example I can come up with off the top of my head for when there was a true need to know the meaning of irony is when Lelaina Pierce, Winona Ryder’s character in Reality Bites, is asked to define it as part of a job interview.
Spoiler alert: She fails miserably and does not get the job. Worse yet, when she explains her unfortunate failure to her love interest Troy Dyer (had this movie been set in the Seventies he would have been a Hippie. Had it been set in the Naughts or the Nows he would have been a Hipster. However, it was set in the Nighties which meant he was nothing more than an annoyance (which is synonymous with Hippie and Hipster) who didn’t even have the decency to be full on Grunge), played by the most ironic of actors, Ethan Hawke (I really don’t have any facts to back this ironic claim up with (heck, as I’ve already confessed, I’m not even really sure how to appropriately apply irony) but if there ever were to be an ironic actor it would have to be he…), who, when asked if he could define irony, of course prattles rattles it off like a boss…as ironic as that may sound (That does sound ironic, right? A slacker like Troy being a boss? Situational Irony, perhaps? I’m so confused…).
So yeah, I don’t think one scene from a trite Nineties movies – even one that has come to define my generation (or…is it Breakfast Club that defines my generation? I’m so confused…) – qualifies as a good example of when there is a true need for having to know the meaning of irony.
Ergo, we probably don’t need to know the meaning of irony. I mean, I’m pretty sure most of us could lead near normal lives (however normal may be defined in this undefined day and age) without ever even having to once consider the concept’s existence.
Besides, there’s sarcasm. It more than adequately meets our needs. And better yet, everyone pretty much understands it, if not in its definition then surely in its application.
So who cares about irony?
No one.
No one but the ones that no one else cares much about, that is…
Well, teachers care about irony, job security and all, and we care about teachers; but mostly I was referring to all the ironic Hipsters running around loose and carefree.
Who cares about them?
Not me, that’s who.
— THE END —
Ah, but heck, for argument’s sake, and for the sake of this ironic post (well, ironic in the sense that it’s a post about irony, not in that its a post full of irony…well, unless there’s irony in the fact that I’m attempting to illuminate the concept of irony here and, instead of me being a floodlight of understanding, it appears I forgot to put the batteries in my flashlight of knowledge… Yeah, that was bad. But you know what? That painfully dull metaphor just may in fact be irony… Right? Oh boy… ), let’s say there is, in fact, a need for irony.
Poof! There is a need for irony.
Okay, since we’ve now established the fact that there is a need for irony, does that mean that everyone has a need for irony?
I mean, would a Third World Kid picking through the pile of trash in search of dinner ever have a need for irony? Perhaps at some point in his or her miserable life this kid might realize that life, just about all of it, is mostly ironic in the sense that outcomes rarely match expectations.
But is understanding that ironic concept going to help fill his or her belly?
Nope. Not even with one tiny little morsel of hope.
But knowing that concept and applying it effectively in, let’s say, an “artistic” environment just might fill a belly or two, that’s for certain.
If the act of living is mostly ironic as the poor, unfortunate Third World child one day may or may not come to realize, good god, how many times more ironic can The Arts then be? When I think about all the art created over time by all the artists of whom the world will never know…wow…to me that is irony of the purest kind.
Just as is a painting of a conceptualized aspect of life, one which the “altruistic artist” surely humbly pained over purely and only for Art’s sake in an effort to help us better understand the irony of our ironic lives, selling for millions of dollars.
That would fill an altruistic artist belly or two, no?
No, indeed.
And by “no” I mean hell yes.
Now that there is some Premo Irony…100° proof.
C’mon, the conundrum of irony is purely a First World Conundrum, a conundrum which can only be understood and appropriately applied within the context of abundance.
Yeah, we surely don’t need irony but is sure seems we want it. And as much of it as we can get our needy little hands on.
Irony is our step ladder to our superior place in this world.
Whether you like it or not.
So my advice to you then is, embrace your privilege and the irony it affords you and, whenever you see a striving ironic hipster, instead of succumbing to the urge to punch him in the face, smile kindly, pat him knowingly and condescendingly on the head, and see him safely on his ironic, privileged, loose and carefree way.
For his way is our own.
– THE END (for real) –
Postscript:
But, like I said earlier, no matter how much I read and discuss about all this irony stuff, I am never really sure I understand it.
Let’s just say I’m much more comfortable in a practical, hands on vice heads on environment.
So, in the spirit of practical applicability and to see if I have been able to absorb even a little bit of what I have read/discussed, I am going to attempt to practice applying irony in an understandable (at least to me) and practical way.
From now on, if I read an article and/or post of any sort (wordpress, facebook, twitter, cereal box, etc.) and I don’t comment, “like,” or tweet it, it could be because not that I don’t like it, but because I DO like it.
Inversely, if I read an article and/or post of any sort and I do comment, “like,” or tweet it, it could be because…well, you know…more applied irony.
Now wouldn’t that be ironic?
Or would it?
Germane Links Below
~ New York Times’s How to Live Without Irony
~ Big Think’s In Defense of Irony
– The Oatmeal’s 3 Most Common Uses of Irony
~ Irony, as told by Wikipedia
~ Irony, as told by Dictionary.com
Where You Are We Cannot Go
With you
there we are
at the places we cannot go
with you
we go
you take us there with you
to the places we cannot go
You guide us
drive us
deep into the heart
into the dark
into the places we cannot go
Through the heat
through the snow
the snow
the bitter snow
the insufferable snow
with you through the snow
we lose ourselves
in the places we cannot go
crumbling castles in the sky
looming shadows
rampart mysteries
the eyes
spying eyes
lying eyes
the eyes coaxing us down
the endless trails
the trails without end
that lead us
to the places we cannot go
the hunger
the bitter hunger
we hunger
we are there
with you
and we hunger
insatiable
we live for the hunger
we hunger to be there with you
enduring trials indiscriminate
to be with you
to suffer
with you
the trial
the trials
the accusations of truths
for which we have no defense
FOR MORE LIKE THIS >> CLICK CLICK
PTSD
These moving images were selected from the results of a search I did on the term “PTSD” through foter. Attributes and rights can be found in lower right corner of each image.
Peace be to the sufferers and those who care for them.
- otisarchives4 / Foter / CC BY
