Um, that's all, folks!

No one reads this, let's be honest. The only viewers of the blog are those that accidentally stumble upon it,or maybe those surfers that may be related to me. So, I've also started to post stories, poems, etc. on a site called Fanstory.com. I've got a link listed below, if you ever want to check out my writing. Hope to see you there! --Curt

Put up or shut up

It occurs to me that, um, no one is reading this. And, to be honest, thinking about/writing a blog does nothing to ignite or even encourage my creativity as far as writing is concerned. To be honest, it is little more that self-gratification. With that in mind, my blogging, if continued at all, will possibly include other things I've written (on the off chance that anyone even looks in), but will primarily exist as a personal log to provide accountability as to what else I'm working on. You know, here is my blog, the tree falling in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, so I guess, what's the point? If you are reading this, and you ever want to see new stuff (poems, photos, travel pieces about Wisconsin, whatever) please drop me a note so I'll know to do so. Otherwise, this will likely become simply a personal journal to document other things on which I'm working. Have a great day.

Geese flying south and other big events

The geese are flying south.
I remember growing up, standing in the field behind our house, the browning grass around my knees, head back, watching the slightly imperfect V as the geese honked their way toward warmer climes. It wouldn't be too much longer that it'd be winter--just past trick-or-treat, and then get ready for sledding on snow days and snowball fights on the glorious mountain of snow where the plows piled it up in the neighborhood cul-de-sac just in front of McFadden's house and that of grouchy Mr. Rice. When the geese flew south, once or twice, as I remember, dad even took us out to Horicon Marsh--just over an hour from where I grew up in a blue-collar Milwaukee suburb--to see flocks, no, swarms of geese, blackening the sky, their raucous greetings or alarms or songs or laughter or whatever their honks are, creating such a giddy, overwhelming cacophony that I, too, couldn't help but giggle.
Now, forty years later, it's not the same.
I mean, the geese still go south, but it doesn't portend the same things, no trick-or-treating, and the snow means trouble for my rear-wheel-drive car. Even as a teacher, the snow days are filled with the minutiae of correcting papers or fixing something around the house. And, without getting too maudlin, in the big scheme of things, I, too, am closer to the fall than I am to the spring.
To be honest, though, it's been a hell of a summer. And fall really is a beautiful time. And the promise of the warmer climes is just around the corner. So maybe it's not so bad after all...
The geese are flying south.

Why Blog?

E.B. White, renowned essayist and author of such children's classics as Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little, said this about essayists, essentially the bloggers of his time: The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest.
Well, as far as me starting a blog, the "childish" part is certainly accurate.
Somedays I'll attempt to write something a little deeper, other days will be like wading in a dry creek bed. With some regularity, I'll basically reprint some things I've written over the years, whether it's a Christmas story about a narcissistic cat saving Christmas, or a trip I made to one of Wisconsin's fine tourist sites--perhaps a stop on the Underground Railroad or the mustard museum. Or maybe some non-sequitur of a poem such as:

Weekend at the Impressionists' Exhibit

Monet

today.

Tomorrow?

Pissarro.

I mentioned the dry creek bed, right?

Now to hearken back to E. B. White's definition, I don't necessarily believe that everything I think about is of general interest, but to be honest, I think my wife is a bit tired of hearing me tell it to her as she tries to read or do work on her laptop. And, too, alas, the cat couldn't care less. So, in essence, I guess these writings will act as the technological equivalent of me singing in the shower.

And with that, I start my blog.

My apologies to Mr. White.