Archive for the ‘abortion’ Category

I procrastinate. Most of the work I do is done to avoid doing something else. Still procrastination pays dividends.  I used to often find  myself delaying attention to my lawn, often on nice cool days only to finally wheel out the lawnmower on the hottest day of the week . . . . and enjoy cutting the grass, not paying particular attention to the temperature! Same thing with journalism. I had two and a half weeks to produce my story about local food trucks for the September Springfield Business Journal. Absolutely critical (which is like saying “each and every”) to my stories are the photographs; interviews less so.  Just as I know I will cut the grass, I know I will write the assignment. There is never any doubt of this. Still I procrastinate and wallow, for days, in the self-imposed SHAME that I manufacture for myself from the process. By the time I must put words into play, I’m comfortable. The words come easily as apples from the low branches of a tree.

So it is, as well at the airport museum where I’ve been since 5:30 this morning. I’ve been on a “marathon,” on my feet filing away in the Research Room, fully focused for easily 11 of the 12.5 hours I will have been here when I leave at 6p. I had no breakfast, nor lunch, nor snack during this time  because I didn’t have a penny in my pocket, I”m running low on checks, I didn’t want to leave the museum to drive home where I have food, and equally importantly, I knew food would slow my pace, and today, I was pushing myself. I liked the challenge, and I knew I would have all the food I wanted later.  I was grateful for the coffee and water I’ve consumed during short breaks to check e-mail and Facebook — about every hour and a half.

Bombardier CRJ of United Express takes off from Abraham Lincoln Capital Airport, Springfield, Illinois, September 1, 2012.

So I’m going to head upstairs and close a door, turn off some lights and head home.

The day has been good to me, and I have been good to the day.

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.

Once, as I was filing I noticed a United Express Bombardier CRJ airliner taxiing to the end of a runway, realized it would be passing nearby as he rose from the runway, and was where I needed to bne for some decent pictures I posted on Fb within minutes.  That kind of diversion made a lot of the fatique disappear, and the afternoon has whizzed by.
I’m savoring, as I write these words, the contentment that comes from knowing when I have posted this installment of the “Approaching” blog and posted notice of it at Facebook, all I have to do is go upstairs and turn off the fan and lights and close one door to be done with the day.


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What can I tell you besides “then I dids” less than 24 hours after my 22nd posting in this series? The point of this post is a poem/song lyric that I sing when I have a good reason. I will sing it in a little more than a week at a gallery reception where I’ll be picking and grimacing . . . but first, a few “then I dids.”

Had a solid Sunday at the airport.  It was rainy or threatened rain most of the day, and I photographed no airplanes and talked to not a soul until, home-bound, when I picked up a rotisserie chicken and strawberry preserves at County Market where the price of my favorite 2011 “vintage” Burgundy led me to want to thank their management for convincing me I should neer go back there. Not a biggie; there were two inches in a gallon jug at home, and if I didn’t touch it until 9:30, I knew I’d be fine at bed-time. Had a decent evening, though I must say that television  after 60 Minutes (CBS) on any station I can receive  (no cable satellite on my house or matches either — Fire I do not require) is a SCREAMING INVITATION TO GO FOR A WALK. I’m sure it’s fine for those who like it, and I don’t consider it the tool of Lucifer. I consider it “an opiate of the masses” as a smarter man than I once said, but not an opiate. A triple shot of Wild Turkey, neat, some nights, but not an opiate.  Today, Monday, I arrived before 7 a at the a’port and worked on a newsletter I produce for a flying club and have enjoyed a decent day at “Stone Circus.”

I wrote “Reason’s Refrain” on July 2, 1996. Today I dedicate this presentation to my friends who would rather be religious than correct; friends whose doctrines will hasten the ultimate oblivion of hummin’ beans as a feces — I’m sorry, make that human beings as a species but whose acquiescence to Earth Protocols (my term; just invented it) would allow a few more generations to find long-term solutions to what’s wrong with this planet and those who have been punished since Eden with the fate of being responsible for ourselves.

Reason’s Refrain
by Job Conger

Some games are played
For higher stakes
Than passions weighed
Against heart breaks.
The magic shared
With arms entwined
And bodies bared
Can burn the blind.
As smiles from secret pleasures fade,
Sometime come consequences made:
Children of chance romance we buy.
The never born will never cry.

A flirting glance,
A warm embrace,
Time’s classic dance,
A fall from grace.
“Let’s go!” becomes
“Hey, let’s go back!”
Your train’s about
To jump the track.
Your cruise to Destiny’s derailed
As second thoughts leave you impaled
On an aftermath of asking “Why?”
The never born will never cry.

After you score,
You start to think,
“We’re more than for-
Nicating mink,
Delivering babies left and right
Lost to our lust; lost to the night;
Or lemmings in a doom parade
Where good intentions are betrayed.
Yet, there’s a fact we can’t deny:
The never born will never cry.

. . . . . . . . (refrain)
A finite world
Has finite ways,
And someone’s worth
In darkest days
Demands recourse
To measured acts
With tempered force
To match the facts.
Rice balls and crack will not provide
The answer to mass suicide.
Between extremes, the truth may lie:
The never born will never cry.

No accident
Of birth should rot
Consciousness bent
In bitter thought.
No child should quake
In hate and fear
Without a
Loving parent near.
The answer to the pseudo-saints
Who drown out reason with complaints
Must come from those who can tell clouds from the sky.
The never born will never cry.

Live long . . . . . . . . and proper.

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