Daily

Episode 0100

Sat, 12 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Community Concept All ethics so far evolved rest upon a single premise: that the individual is a member of a community of interdependent parts. His instincts prompt him to compete for his place in that community, but his ethics prompt him also to co-operate (perhaps in order that there may be a place to compete for).

The land ethic simply enlarges the boundaries of the community to include soils, waters, plants, and animals, or collectively: the land.

This sounds simple: do we not already sing our love for and obligation to the land of the free and the home of the brave? Yes, but just what and whom do we love? Certainly not the soil, which we are sending helter-skelter downriver. Certainly not the waters, which we assume have no function except to turn turbines, float barges, and carry off sewage. Certainly not the plants, of which we exterminate whole communities without batting an eye. Certainly not the animals, of which we have already extirpated many of the largest and most beautiful species. A land ethic of course cannot prevent the alteration, management, and use of these ‘resources’ but it does affirm their right to continued existence, and, at least in spots, their continued existence in a natural state.

In short, a land ethic changes the role of Homo sapiens from conqueror of the land-community to plain member and citizen of it. It implies respect for his fellow-members, and also respect for the community as such.

In human history, we have learned (I hope) that the conqueror role is eventually self-defeating. Why? Because it is implicit in such a role that the conqueror knows, ex cathedra, just what makes the community clock tick, and just what and who is valuable, and what and who is worthless, in community life. It always turns out that he knows neither, and this is why his conquests eventually defeat themselves.

In the biotic community, a parallel situation exists. Abraham knew exactly what the land was for: it was to drip milk and honey into Abraham’s mouth. At the present moment, the assurance with which we regard this assumption is inverse to the degree of our education.

The ordinary citizen today assumes that science knows what makes the community clock tick; the scientist is equally sure that he does not. He knows that the biotic mechanism is so complex that its workings may never be fully understood.

That man is, in fact, only a member of a biotic team is shown by an ecological interpretation of history. Many historical events, hitherto explained solely in terms of human enterprise, were actually biotic interactions between people and land. The characteristics of the land determined the facts quite as potently as the characteristics of the men who lived on it.

Consider, for example, the settlement of the Mississippi valley. In the years following the Revolution, three groups were contending for its control: the native Indian, the French and English traders, and the American settlers. Historians wonder what would have happened if the English at Detroit had thrown a little more weight into the Indian side of those tipsy scales which decided the outcome of the colonial migration into the cane-lands of Kentucky. It is time now to ponder the fact that the cane-lands, when subjected to the particular mixture of forces represented by the cow, plow, fire, and axe of the pioneer, became bluegrass. What if the plant succession inherent in this dark and bloody ground had, under the impact of these forces, given us some worthless sedge, shrub, or weed? Would Boone and Kenton have held out? Would there have been any overflow into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri? Any Louisiana Purchase? Any transcontinental union of new states? Any Civil War?

Kentucky was one sentence in the drama of history. We are commonly told what the human actors in this drama tried to do, but we are seldom told that their success, or the lack of it, hung in large degree on the reaction of particular soils to the impact of the particular forces exerted by their occupancy. In the case of Kentucky, we do not even know where the bluegrass came from—whether it is a native species, or a stowaway from Europe.

Contrast the cane-lands with what hindsight tells us about the Southwest, where the pioneers were equally brave, resourceful, and persevering. The impact of occupancy here brought no bluegrass, or other plant fitted to withstand the bumps and buffetings of hard use. This region, when grazed by livestock, reverted through a series of more and more worthless grasses, shrubs, and weeds to a condition of unstable equilibrium. Each recession of plant types bred erosion; each increment to erosion bred a further recession of plants. The result today is a progressive and mutual deterioration, not only of plants and soils, but of the animal community subsisting thereon. The early settlers did not expect this: on the ciénegas of New Mexico some even cut ditches to hasten it. So subtle has been its progress that few residents of the region are aware of it. It is quite invisible to the tourist who finds this wrecked landscape colorful and charming (as indeed it is, but it bears scant resemblance to what it was in 1848).

This same landscape was ‘developed’ once before, but with quite different results. The Pueblo Indians settled the Southwest in pre-Columbian times, but they happened not to be equipped with range livestock. Their civilization expired, but not because their land expired.

In India, regions devoid of any sod-forming grass have been settled, apparently without wrecking the land, by the simple expedient of carrying the grass to the cow, rather than vice versa. (Was this the result of some deep wisdom, or was it just good luck? I do not know.)

In short, the plant succession steered the course of history; the pioneer simply demonstrated, for good or ill, what successions inhered in the land. Is history taught in this spirit? It will be, once the concept of land as a community really penetrates our intellectual life.

Excerpt from Sand County Almanac - affiliate link

Episode 0099

Sun, 06 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Aldo Leopold

Episode 0098

Sat, 05 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Biocoenosis

Episode 0097

Fri, 04 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Karl Möbius

Episode 0096

Thu, 03 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Friends With Ghosts

Friends With Ghosts

tripp j crouse

Niizh manidoowag
is the Ojibwemowin phrase
from which the term
“Two Spirit” is derived.

I once asked my mom
how to pronounce niizh manidoowag.
She said, “That means ‘friends with ghosts.’
Why would you be friends with ghosts?”

I said that oftentimes
they are more reliable
than people.

This one time I asked my mom
how to say niizh manidoowag.
She said, “That means ‘friends with ghosts.’
Why would you be friends with ghosts?”

Because they have the best jokes, I quip.

A while back, I asked my mom
how to say niizh manidoowag.
She said, “That means ‘friends with ghosts.’
Why would you be friends with ghosts?”

And I tell her
who wouldn’t want
to divorce themselves
from the living, the present
and be lost to time
forever.

But I wonder
when my mom passes on,
would she want
to be friends
with
me.

Friends With Ghosts By tripp j crouse

Episode 0095

Wed, 02 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There Are Birds Here

Jamaal May

For Detroit

There are birds here,
so many birds here
is what I was trying to say
when they said those birds were metaphors
for what is trapped
between buildings
and buildings. No.
The birds are here
to root around for bread
the girl’s hands tear
and toss like confetti. No,
I don’t mean the bread is torn like cotton,
I said confetti, and no
not the confetti
a tank can make of a building.
I mean the confetti
a boy can’t stop smiling about
and no his smile isn’t much
like a skeleton at all. And no
his neighborhood is not like a war zone.
I am trying to say
his neighborhood
is as tattered and feathered
as anything else,
as shadow pierced by sun
and light parted
by shadow-dance as anything else,
but they won’t stop saying
how lovely the ruins,
how ruined the lovely
children must be in that birdless city.

There Are Birds Here By Jamaal May

HOST NOTE: This episode was linked to the wrong mp3 file. My fault.

Episode 0094

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Craftsman

The Craftsman

Marcus B. Christian

I ply with all the cunning of my art
This little thing, and with consummate care
I fashion it—so that when I depart,
Those who come after me shall find it fair
And beautiful. It must be free of flaws—
Pointing no laborings of weary hands;
And there must be no flouting of the laws
Of beauty—as the artist understands.

Through passion, yearnings infinite—yet dumb—
I lift you from the depths of my own mind
And gild you with my soul’s white heat to plumb
The souls of future men. I leave behind
This thing that in return this solace gives:
“He who creates true beauty ever lives.”

The Craftsman By Marcus B. Christian

Episode 0093

Mon, 31 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

local wood

Julian Talamantez Brolaski

after I nudged the fire into being
and adjourned to the shoreline
against the ebb of an august tide
goosenecks bowed or
cowered when
our shadow passed
over them
for their likeness in form
geese were thought
in ancient times
to have developed
from this barnacle
and burst
out of the flotsam fully
fledged into the sky
the swell is—
—holy cow
perfect parabola
by means of they that
doth hate my gutlings
corybantic, penny
dreadful for your
trembling
hands at cards
betray them
a crow rots
from the head down
timber place w/ an
ad for ‘local wood’
my feelings are all—
—disparate
psychopomps in sparrowform
cruising la cumbre peak
a catamount, lion
of the mountain
who it pleased to preen itself
in the starlight
melted honey in tea from the
tang dynasty diffuse
throughout the atmosphere
precipitating heady
spices into flower
all 88 keys of the piano

local wood By Julian Talamantez Brolaski

Episode 0092

Sun, 30 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

MALE, n. A member of the unconsidered, or negligible sex. The male of the human race is commonly known (to the female) as Mere Man. The genus has two varieties: good providers and bad providers.

FEMALE, n. One of the opposing, or unfair, sex.

Female

Ambrose Bierce

The Maker, at Creation's birth,
With living things had stocked the earth.
From elephants to bats and snails,
They all were good, for all were males.
But when the Devil came and saw
He said: "By Thine eternal law
Of growth, maturity, decay,
These all must quickly pass away
And leave untenanted the earth
Unless Thou dost establish birth"—
Then tucked his head beneath his wing
To laugh—he had no sleeve—the thing
With deviltry did so accord,
That he'd suggested to the Lord.
The Master pondered this advice,
Then shook and threw the fateful dice
Wherewith all matters here below
Are ordered, and observed the throw;
Then bent His head in awful state,
Confirming the decree of Fate.
From every part of earth anew
The conscious dust consenting flew,
While rivers from their courses rolled
To make it plastic for the mould.
Enough collected (but no more,
For niggard Nature hoards her store)
He kneaded it to flexible clay,
While Nick unseen threw some away.
And then the various forms He cast,
Gross organs first and finer last;
No one at once evolved, but all
By even touches grew and small
Degrees advanced, till, shade by shade,
To match all living things He'd made
Females, complete in all their parts
Except (His clay gave out) the hearts.
"No matter," Satan cried; "with speed
I'll fetch the very hearts they need"—
So flew away and soon brought back
The number needed, in a sack.
That night earth rang with sounds of strife—
Ten million males each had a wife;
That night sweet Peace her pinions spread
O'er Hell—ten million devils dead!

The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

Episode 0091

Sat, 29 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

An extremely abbreviated discussion of the water cycle. Rain, easing as the moment goes on.

Episode 0090

Fri, 28 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Just a storm, a moment I wanted to share.

Episode 0089

Thu, 27 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Pizza!

Wikipedia Link

I was going to take a picture of discussed pizza, but I ate it instead. Also, TVs seem just as annoying as ICEs (Internal Combustion Engines).

Episode 0088

Wed, 26 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The controversy surrounding a word, but only in the US it seems. Why I don’t use it, and why I don’t have trouble reading it.

niggardly /nĭg′ərd-lē/

adjective

Grudging and petty in giving or spending.
Meanly small; scanty or meager. “left the waiter a niggardly tip.”
Meanly covetous or avaricious in dealing with others; stingy; niggard.
Withholding for the sake of meanness; stingy, miserly.
Petty or reluctant in giving or spending.

adverb

In a parsimonious way; sparingly, stingily.

Episode 0087

Tue, 25 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Parc André-Citroën

Episode 0086

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Some rain, or a gutter, or just some ambient hangout noise.

Episode 0085

Sun, 23 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

3 Aims to Gain Knowledge, finally.

An excerpt from Delight and Power in Speech by Leonard G. Nattkemper and George Wharton James

Episode 0084

Sat, 22 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

GARGOYLE, n. A rain-spout projecting from the eaves of mediaeval buildings, commonly fashioned into a grotesque caricature of some personal enemy of the architect or owner of the building. This was especially the case in churches and ecclesiastical structures generally, in which the gargoyles presented a perfect rogues’ gallery of local heretics and controversialists. Sometimes when a new dean and chapter were installed the old gargoyles were removed and others substituted having a closer relation to the private animosities of the new incumbents.

The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

Episode 0083

Fri, 21 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

New city, new recording location. Challenges and educating oneself on the area.

Episode 0082

Thu, 20 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

On the Grass of Exile

Nada Al Khawwam

I’m sipping the cups of time drifting away
on the grass of exile
Picking up the deliberate fallout
of news
There they are talking about my old house
About my half-dead books
And the falling bitter oranges
from our neighborhood trees
They talk about
the low water of the Tigris and Euphrates
I mumble poetry on the lips of the void
Stoning the demons of my exile
Packing the memories of my long travel
And what hung onto my fingers from the grass
Keeping them all in the pockets of wishes
And then I go ...

On the Grass of Exile By Nada Al Khawwam Translated By Otba Jakob

Episode 0081

Wed, 19 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

3 Aims…will be discussed eventually

Episode 0080

Tue, 18 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Back to basics. Just 5 minutes.

I’ll talk more tomorrow, but I finally took the time to implement a fade out, and I’m tickled pink.

Episode 0079

Mon, 17 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Two Pigeons

Mary Jo Salter

They’ve perched for hours
on that window-ledge, scarcely
moving. Beak to beak,

a matched set, they differ
almost imperceptibly—
like salt and pepper shakers.

It’s an event when they tuck
(simultaneously) their pinpoint
heads into lavender vests

of fat. But reminiscent
of clock hands blandly
turning because they must

have turned—somehow, they’ve
taken on the grave,
small-eyed aspect of monks

hooded in conferences
so intimate nothing need
be said. If some are chuckling

in the park, earning
their bread, these are content
to let the dark engulf them—

it’s all the human
imagination can fathom,
how single-mindedly

mindless two silhouettes
stand in a window thick
as milk glass. They appear

never to have fed on
anything else when they stir
all of a sudden to peck

savagely, for love
or hygiene, at the grimy
feathers of the other;

but when they resume
their places, the shift
is one only a painter

or a barber (prodding a chin
back into position)
would be likely to notice.

Two Pigeons By Mary Jo Salter

Thumbnail information: Français : Couple de pigeons, par Thomas Vautrin and licensed under cc-by-sa 4.0

Episode 0078

Sun, 16 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Tombostones Are Greedy

Sarah Mkhonza

I didn’t know
that tombstones are greedy.
I came to talk to you,
and they all looked at me
and waved unseen hands
and said, “This one, too.”

I thought they fought with ants
over their contents, the bodies
of souls, mingled with dirt,
but found they fight for me
to look at them and wonder:
who lies in there so silent?

I thought I was alone
and yet there was a contest,
fighting for my gaze
to turn in their direction.
My eyes wandered,
thinking of my loved one,
whose message was so clear.

Who lies here was beautiful.
Who lies here was never sick.
Who lies here was strong,
princess of lonely spaces.
If you do not say “hello,”
you will miss a message
from beyond the now.

I said a loud “Hello!”
It echoed in the loneliness,
arrested my own thinking,
and walked all the way home with me.

Tombstones Are Greedy By Sarah Mkhonza

Episode 0077

Sat, 15 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Dear listeners, you are in for a treat today! The host messed up, trusted autocomplete, and wound up searching homonyms when they meant to search for homophones. The first poem was wrong, but still recited. And then you get to witness searching for the right poem, finding one, and reading it for the first time out loud.

homonym /hŏm′ə-nĭm″, hō′mə-/

noun

One of two or more words that have the same sound and often the same spelling but differ in meaning, such as bank (embankment) and bank (place where money is kept).

Homonyms

a line of poetry

Hold out your arm, we are ready to arm ourselves.
Get back, we've got your back
Bullets pierce the trees, spreading pieces of bark as officers bark orders
Watch the Russian Bear, he also bears arms
Watch your belongings, he'll steal your watch made of steel.
Board the boat, by walking on the board from the pier to the stern.
Book a tour today, relax, read a book.
Over there in the cabinet, you will find a list of the cabinet appointees.
duck your head and watch for the duck overhead.
Don't fall for the fall tour, Autumn is always too cold to swim.
Spring into Spring, when it's just right, not too hot.
You won't have to take a shower, Spring showers will rinse you off.

Homonyms By a line of poetry

homophone /hŏm′ə-fōn″, hō′mə-/

noun

One of two or more words, such as night and knight, that are pronounced the same but differ in meaning, origin, and sometimes spelling.

Homophone Dream

Steve Collins

If I travelled, across the landscape of my mind,
And, I chose to take you with me – guess what you might find?

I’d talk you into many things,
I’d make you see the sea.

We would buy some wood
Pay by cheque, which you would check
And build an arc upon an ark.
And you’d, set sail with me!

Whether we had the weather or not
We’d sail a week, and you’d feel so weak
You’ll beg me for dry land!

And so, we’d end the feat on our two feet
And, tow; toe-to toe.
Until ashore, we land.

We’d shout aloud, if that’s allowed?
To see if we’re alone?
We’d find we are and start to panic
But get woken by the phone.

Homophone Dream By Steve Collins

Episode 0076

Fri, 14 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

[Disrespecting private property]

Jay Gao

Bark, archive, splinter

Disrespecting private property

Embargo on couplets

A year without. And to have zero to use against the departed

Lightning throws its hook onto a tree like a digital greeting. A tap and

Dry air turns prismatic. Dissolving acoustic atmosphere from a slack  background

Whenever a forest has a shyness to perceive its own form and period

And this is promised too, the unreachable origin

In the span of another night the ground gets even more parenthetical,  aerated: elastic ease in the loam post-rainfall

Assurance that the siren of tree frogs is for a later disaster

He had once said: Let’s cut this plastic from the mattress-in-a-box now

With your head on his chest, over his heart, like a jeweller’s loupe

Perhaps we are, ourselves, the threshold

Opening interval. Spalted wood. You said

Listen

For example. Did he not warn you once about a story involving a poultice of wolf lichen, the colour of chartreuse, stuffed in a reindeer carcass  alongside powdered glass, fatal to meat-eaters, yes, although never to mice nor rabbits. No, never to mice nor rabbits

Where did that queer powder come from? Perhaps from a vacation ornament you threw onto the floor, or from a medieval delusion of glass which  never ended. It spreads itself along every generation

Tonight, the sky seems so afraid of shattering

And you see how the ecology of this model continues exchanging endlessly

Imagine an intimate talking that takes place across an impossibly prolonged time

–––line

You sent him a link to the work of a photographer, who wrote: For one year, I photographed trees within near my house—the goal to create images from the ordinary and mundane

What makes a tree ordinary

Both beyond and near the threshold of one’s human survival

A short poem or a long poem that writes itself forever, an anatomy of  suffocating wildness. This pestilential monostich is the perfect vector for

Transpiercing middle ground

Erasing the trees in the space between you and

Perforating this fantasy, an endless mote of a thought still flags and flees; besides, don’t forget those imported chestnuts he once poured into your cupped hands, out of a packet he promised had yet to expire. Each globe radically saturated with strands of ether of white wondrous mould of

Bark, Archive, Splinter [“Disrespecting private property”] By Jay Gao

HOST NOTES: While writing the episode notes for this episode, I found out quite a bit about this poet, and this project.

The project is actually a poetry pamphlet, designed to be read in landscape mode, and seems to create a sense of discomfort. Learn more about it, and the poet at his site

Bark, Archive, Splinter is an ecopoetic experiment. Inspired, in part, by the commonplace book, by medieval texts, these fragments aim to bring together intimacies of wood, race, desire, via a sylvestral grammar and syntax, via a poetics of grafting.

Episode 0075

Thu, 13 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Perseids Meteor Shower

Thumbnail information: photo taken by Jim Vajda and licensed under cc-by-2.0

Episode 0074

Wed, 12 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

TORTOISE, n. A creature thoughtfully created to supply occasion for the following lines by the illustrious Ambat Delaso:

TO MY PET TORTOISE

Ambat Delaso

My friend, you are not graceful—not at all;
Your gait's between a stagger and a sprawl.

Nor are you beautiful: your head's a snake's
To look at, and I do not doubt it aches.

As to your feet, they'd make an angel weep.
'Tis true you take them in whene'er you sleep.

No, you're not pretty, but you have, I own,
A certain firmness—mostly you're backbone.

Firmness and strength (you have a giant's thews)
Are virtues that the great know how to use—

I wish that they did not; yet, on the whole,
You lack—excuse my mentioning it—Soul.

So, to be candid, unreserved and true,
I'd rather you were I than I were you.

Perhaps, however, in a time to be,
When Man's extinct, a better world may see

Your progeny in power and control,
Due to the genesis and growth of Soul.

So I salute you as a reptile grand
Predestined to regenerate the land.

Father of Possibilities, O deign
To accept the homage of a dying reign!

In the far region of the unforeknown
I dream a tortoise upon every throne.

I see an Emperor his head withdraw
Into his carapace for fear of Law;

A King who carries something else than fat,
Howe'er acceptably he carries that;

A President not strenuously bent
On punishment of audible dissent—

Who never shot (it were a vain attack)
An armed or unarmed tortoise in the back;

Subject and citizens that feel no need
To make the March of Mind a wild stampede;

All progress slow, contemplative, sedate,
And "Take your time" the word, in Church and State.

O Tortoise, 'tis a happy, happy dream,
My glorious testudinous regime!

I wish in Eden you'd brought this about
By slouching in and chasing Adam out.

The Devil's Dictionary

Episode 0073

Tue, 11 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

How to be a Poet

Wendell Berry

i

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

ii

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

iii

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

How to Be a Poet By Wendell Berry

Episode 0072

Mon, 10 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Passerelle de la Rue de Crimée

Episode 0071

Sun, 09 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

FAIRY, n. A creature, variously fashioned and endowed, that formerly inhabited the meadows and forests. It was nocturnal in its habits, and somewhat addicted to dancing and the theft of children. The fairies are now believed by naturalists to be extinct, though a clergyman of the Church of England saw three near Colchester as lately as 1855, while passing through a park after dining with the lord of the manor. The sight greatly staggered him, and he was so affected that his account of it was incoherent. In the year 1807 a troop of fairies visited a wood near Aix and carried off the daughter of a peasant, who had been seen to enter it with a bundle of clothing. The son of a wealthy bourgeois disappeared about the same time, but afterward returned. He had seen the abduction and been in pursuit of the fairies. Justinian Gaux, a writer of the fourteenth century, avers that so great is the fairies’ power of transformation that he saw one change itself into two opposing armies and fight a battle with great slaughter, and that the next day, after it had resumed its original shape and gone away, there were seven hundred bodies of the slain which the villagers had to bury. He does not say if any of the wounded recovered. In the time of Henry III, of England, a law was made which prescribed the death penalty for “Kyllynge, wowndynge, or mamynge” a fairy, and it was universally respected.

The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

Episode 0070

Sat, 08 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Delight and Power in Speech

Episode 0069

Fri, 07 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Some thoughts on literacy, and a quote

Excerpt attributed to Henry Van Dyke

Henry van Dyke, according to George Wharton James

The person who wants to grow, turns to books as a means of purifying his tastes, deepening his feelings, broadening his sympathies, and enhancing his joy of life. Literature he loves because it is the most humane of the arts. Its forms and processes interest him as expressions of the human striving towards clearness of thought, purity of emotion, and harmony of action with the ideal. The culture of a finer, fuller manhood is what this reader seeks. He is looking for the books in which the inner meanings of nature and life are translated into language of distinction and charm, touched with the human personality of the author, and embodied in forms of permanent interest and power. This is literature. And the reader who sets his affections on these things enters the world of books as one made free of a city of wonders, a garden of fair delights. He reads not from a sense of duty, not from a constraint of fashion, not from an ambition of learning, but from a thirst of pleasure; because he feels that pleasure of the highest kind,—a real joy in the perception of things lucid, luminous, symmetrical, musical, sincere, passionate, and profound,—such pleasure restores the heart and quickens it, makes it stronger to endure the ills of life and more fertile in all good fruits of cheerfulness, courage and love. This reader for vital pleasure has less need of maps and directories, rules and instructions, than of companionship. A criticism that will go with him in his reading, and open up new meaning in familiar things, and touch the secrets of beauty and power, and reveal the hidden relations of literature to life, and help him to see the reasonableness of every true grace of style, the sincerity of every real force of passion,—a criticism that penetrates, illuminates, and appreciates, making the eyes clearer and the heart more sensitive to perceive the living spirit in good books,—that is the companionship which will be most helpful, and most grateful to the gentle reader.

Delight and power in speech : A universal dramatic reader; a new, complete and…

Episode 0068

Thu, 06 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Walking in the Winds of Boedo

Daniel Durand - Translated By Jordan Landsman

Every day when I get home
from work I spend money
I don’t have on useless books.
Every day I come home from downtown
drunk. History remembers
few men who, in this way, have reached
the age of eighty. I look at the roof’s metallic membranes
sparkling under the moon; I hear
the long meows of cats gathered
on the terraces. I scream beneath the neighborhood wind,
facing the darkness and passing hours,
and I wonder why men
only think about things that torment us.

Walking in the Winds of Boedo by Daniel Durand and translated by Jordan Landsman

Episode 0067

Wed, 05 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Barely made it, but I did.

Episode 0066

Tue, 04 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The almost freshness of a rain shower

Episode 0065

Mon, 03 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Terrace moments

Episode 0064

Sun, 02 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

On eloquence

Daniel Webster

True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from afar. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it,—they cannot reach it. It comes, if it comes at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is in vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-running the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object,—this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence: it is action,—noble, sublime, God-like action.

Delight and Power in Speech: A Universal Dramatic Reader

Episode 0063

Sat, 01 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Heartbeats…pulses

Episode 0062

Fri, 31 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It’s nothing.

Episode 0061

Thu, 30 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Winging it, and how that relates to the moment

Episode 0060

Wed, 29 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Sometimes the moment sucks. It’s still the moment, and we’re still in it. Breathe.

Episode 0059

Tue, 28 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A more public recording, and I foresee more of these in the future, just based on my habits.

The moment happens, no matter what is “ideal” for recording a podcast.

Episode 0058

Mon, 27 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A very fast train history, recorded on a train.

The pipeline does not account for something like this yet, so the ambient noise might be a bit much. Maybe I’ll re-release it later.

Episode 0057

Sun, 26 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A relaxing time

Episode 0056

Sat, 25 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Sunsets and silence

Episode 0055

Fri, 24 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Ramblings about the Tarn

Episode 0054

Thu, 23 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Sunsets, ramblings, and other things I have already forgotten I talked about.

Episode 0053

Wed, 22 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The silence is a bit longer this episode. Either the “upgrade” to Android 17 broke something, I missed the second gong, or it was user error.

Please checkout the NPR linked page. I took the thumbnail, and the poem. They even read the poem at the link. I didn’t realize it until after I recorded this episode, but I did listen to the first half of it. I feel like my approach to it was cooler.

Wrapped in a Blanket

Kwame Alexander & Many Others

If I Could...

I would like us to take a break I would like us to contemplate How much better we all are with rest.

I would like to take a restoring nap upon my king size bed. to pile my pillows all around my head A soft warm handmade quilt, my cozy nook to curl up with my favorite book

into a blanket of words

Let's read each other bedtime stories as I drift into unconsciousness Disconnecting from today

I would like to pause just for a few precious moments to calm my mind to slide from my world of lists and piles of laundry, of last night's dishes in the sink

I would like to rest But I have a test. I would like to sleep But my work is too deep.

I would like to give in to the pull of my eyelids Begging to close But the email in front of me Deserves a reply So I sigh deeply and shrug Resisting their tug And attempt once again To compose

I would like to hideaway for a bit of shuteye in the middle of the day to the soft quiet spaces of the old couch before the fire, dogs snoring at my feet, new snow drifting outside my window,

I would like to lay my head, On a pillow, soft as a featherbed, And let my body sink into repose, As my eyelids slowly close.

I would like to, pull the pinpoint stars down from the sky, I'd weave soft moonbeams through them,

to climb the stairs my imagination made I would like to be a bird, unburdened, I would like to be me, unbound.

I just want to nap And wonder And wander

And dream

Of letting go, ego dissolving, like honey in tea.

dreams where we can be everything we've ever wanted to be I would like to be asleep. In my bed. Unable to access the dread in my head.

In my dreams food, money, and life lack relevance

And I would play with magic monkeys.

I would like to live in a world where we dream when we fall asleep And do not face a nightmare when we wake

When I was a little girl, I had dreams of powers that could change the world, In my dreams I could fly, Now I'm seventeen, and I no longer dream that I could be a fairy queen, I have dreams where I'm invisible and no one can see me

I would like answers:

Why do we do what we do? Why do we learn how we do? We are no longer curious We are no longer present.

Exhausted, zombies roaming the streets Toiling with no end in sight We work to eat We eat to live We live to work

Real life beckons with every sheep we try to count, and When my head hits the pillow The whole world falls away.

I would like to rest my shoulders

from their stand at attention, my brain from constantly narrating,

I would like to, but I can't right now. Too much to do, not the right time. I have work to do, Places to be But what if I just flee, And sleep endlessly.

I would like to see you try. A moment of nothing, Ceaseless wonder, Boundless floors. Infinite possibilities, And a thousand more.

I would like to find you in my dream

to hear your voice again Whistling wisdom and wit Stories and songs

scents of freedom, molecules of unconditional love,

I would like to meet you in the space between asleep and awake where we belong to both worlds and yet owe nothing to either place

I would like to feel again the familiar sensation of my hand in yours as we walked in strange and scary places while my heart beats loudly

I would like to listen more closely than the arrogant child that I was who often dismissed your speech as dated and irrelevant I would like to travel in a time machine to before the years passed and you died of old age to apologize to you,

Most of all though, I would like to hear your joyful exhalation — brief and unmistakable — you're the only one I've ever known to laugh even in your sleep.

I would like to awaken in the afternoon sun, Soft fingertips lifting an eyelid Your sweet voice, "Daddy! Daddy! You in there?"

If I could,

I would like to Feel good.

Lay on the clouds and not fall through.

I would like to surrender.

I would like to rest in peace,

I would like to rest my heart From the daily stabs of an unkind world

I would like to forget the faces whose judgements crowd my mind

I would like to be your pillow The firmness to support you, The softness to embrace you,

I would like to awaken and find it's spring, I would like to be remembered as a fearless dreamer

I would like to shut my eyes and Open my heart to nap, wrapped in silence

I would like to Lay down in my bed. Wake up better.

Rise, ready to battle the challenges every day brings. And then I would like to have another cup of coffee, greet

The birdsongs

The willow trees

The warmth of the sun

I would like to meet

The bright new day Embraced in love, refreshed, anew, ready to change the world But first I will dream I will dream of the world I will change

And then, I will change it But for now I would like to dream.

Wrapped in a Blanket - The Crowd and Kwame Alexander

NPR did an absolutely wonderful job of providing credit to some of the people involved, ignoring the amorphous inspiration that comes from reading submissions, and the ethereal effect on the brain that comes from consuming the thoughts of others.

Episode 0052

Tue, 21 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

SAFETY-CLUTCH, n. A mechanical device acting automatically to prevent the fall of an elevator, or cage, in case of an accident to the hoisting apparatus.

Safety Clutch

Ambrose Bierce

Once I seen a human ruin
In an elevator-well,
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.

And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"

Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."

Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs—

How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T'other one an alibi.

These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.

None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.

Now this tale is allegoric—
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.

I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.

For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.

Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head begun to swim.

Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful come to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.

Though he's livin' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.

The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

Episode 0051

Mon, 20 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Commentary on preparation and scripting of episodes

Episode 0050

Sun, 19 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

50th Episode! A Retrospective

First time I rehearsed an episode. Figured it’d be fine since there were some things I wanted to make sure I got in. I can tell you that scripted episodes will almost certainly be the subject tomorrow.

Vaguely Generic Github

Episode 0049

Sat, 18 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Thoughts on Hillaire Belloc, and where to go from here…maybe

From readings in this episode:

The Bad Child’s Book of Beasts

More Beasts (For Worse Children)

Episode 0048

Fri, 17 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Ramblings, but mostly not not doing this today.

Episode 0047

Thu, 16 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

– Text of the license in the Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc book.

Project Gutenberg Mission Statement

Learn more about Michael S. Hart on Wikipedia

Episode 0046

Wed, 15 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Charles Augustus Fortescue, Who always Did what was Right, and so accumulated an Immense Fortune.

H. BELLOC

The nicest child I ever knew
Was Charles Augustus Fortescue.
He never lost his cap, or tore
His stockings or his pinafore:
In eating Bread he made no Crumbs,
He was extremely fond of sums,

To which, however, he preferred
The Parsing of a Latin Word—
He sought, when it was in his power,
For information twice an hour,
And as for finding Mutton-Fat
Unappetising, far from that!
He often, at his Father’s Board,
Would beg them, of his own accord,

To give him, if they did not mind,
The Greasiest Morsels they could find—
His Later Years did not belie
The Promise of his Infancy.
In Public Life he always tried
To take a judgment Broad and Wide;

In Private, none was more than he
Renowned for quiet courtesy.
He rose at once in his Career,
And long before his Fortieth Year
Had wedded

Fifi,

Only Child
Of Bunyan, First Lord Aberfylde.
He thus became immensely Rich,
And built the Splendid Mansion which
Is called

the cedars muswell hill
Where he resides in Affluence still
To show what Everybody might
Become by

SIMPLY DOING RIGHT.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0045

Tue, 14 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

George, Who played with a Dangerous Toy, and suffered a Catastrophe of considerable Dimensions.

H. BELLOC

When George’s Grandmamma was told

That George had been as good as Gold,
She Promised in the Afternoon
To buy him an Immense BALLOON.
And

so she did; but when it came,
It got into the candle flame,
And being of a dangerous sort
Exploded

with a loud report!

The Lights went out! The Windows broke!
The Room was filled with reeking smoke.
And in the darkness shrieks and yells
Were mingled with Electric Bells,
And falling masonry and groans,
And crunching, as of broken bones,
And dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all,
The House itself began to fall!
It tottered, shuddering to and fro,
Then crashed into the street below—
Which happened to be Savile Row.

When Help arrived, among the Dead

Were

Cousin Mary,

Little Fred,

The Footmen

(both of them),

The Groom,

The man that cleaned the Billiard-Room,

The Chaplain, and

The Still-Room Maid.
And I am dreadfully afraid
That Monsieur Champignon, the Chef,
Will now be

permanently deaf—
And both his

Aides

are much the same;
While George, who was in part to blame,
Received, you will regret to hear,
A nasty lump

behind the ear.

MORAL
The moral is that little Boys
Should not be given dangerous Toys.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0044

Mon, 13 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Rebecca, Who slammed Doors for Fun and Perished Miserably.

H. BELLOC

A Trick that everyone abhors
In Little Girls is slamming Doors.
A

Wealthy Banker’s

Little Daughter

Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to this Furious Sport.

She would deliberately go

And Slam the door like
Billy-Ho!

To make

her

Uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild:
She was an aggravating child....

It happened that a Marble Bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the Door this little Lamb
Had carefully prepared to Slam,
And Down it came! It knocked her flat!

It laid her out! She looked like that.

Her funeral Sermon (which was long
And followed by a Sacred Song)
Mentioned her Virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her Vices too,
And showed the Dreadful End of One
Who goes and slams the door for Fun.

The children who were brought to hear
The awful Tale from far and near
Were much impressed,

and inly swore
They never more would slam the Door.
—As often they had done before.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0043

Sun, 12 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

First Canto available here

Lord Lundy (SECOND CANTO)

H. BELLOC

It happened to Lord Lundy then,
As happens to so many men:
Towards the age of twenty-six,
They shoved him into politics;
In which profession he commanded
The income that his rank demanded
In turn as Secretary for
India, the Colonies, and War.
But very soon his friends began
To doubt if he were quite the man:
Thus, if a member rose to say
(As members do from day to day),

“Arising out of that reply ...!”

Lord Lundy would begin to cry.
A Hint at harmless little jobs
Would shake him with convulsive sobs.

While as for Revelations, these
Would simply bring him to his knees,
And leave him whimpering like a child.
It drove his Colleagues raving wild!
They let him sink from Post to Post,
From fifteen hundred at the most
To eight, and barely six—and then
To be Curator of Big Ben!...
And finally there came a Threat
To oust him from the Cabinet!

The Duke—his aged grand-sire—bore
The shame till he could bear no more.
He rallied his declining powers,
Summoned the youth to Brackley Towers,
And bitterly addressed him thus—
“Sir! you have disappointed us!
We had intended you to be
The next Prime Minister but three:
The stocks were sold; the Press was squared:
The Middle Class was quite prepared.
But as it is!... My language fails!

Go out and govern New South Wales!”

The Aged Patriot groaned and died:
And gracious! how Lord Lundy cried!

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0042

Sat, 11 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Lord Lundy, Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career.

H. BELLOC

Lord Lundy from his earliest years
Was far too freely moved to Tears.
For instance if his Mother said,
“Lundy! It’s time to go to Bed!”
He bellowed like a Little Turk.
Or if

his father Lord Dunquerque
Said “Hi!” in a Commanding Tone,
“Hi, Lundy! Leave the Cat alone!”
Lord Lundy, letting go its tail,
Would raise so terrible a wail
As moved
His
Grandpapa
the

Duke
To utter the severe rebuke:
“When I, Sir! was a little Boy,
An Animal was not a Toy!”

His father’s Elder Sister, who
Was married to a Parvenoo,

Confided to Her Husband, “Drat!
The Miserable, Peevish Brat!
Why don’t they drown the Little Beast?”
Suggestions which, to say the least,
Are not what we expect to hear
From Daughters of an English Peer.
His grandmamma, His Mother’s Mother,
Who had some dignity or other,
The Garter, or no matter what,
I can’t remember all the Lot!
Said “Oh! that I were Brisk and Spry
To give him that for which to cry!”
(An empty wish, alas! for she

Was Blind and nearly ninety-three).

The

Dear Old Butler

thought—but there!
I really neither know nor care
For what the Dear Old Butler thought!
In my opinion, Butlers ought
To know their place, and not to play
The Old Retainer night and day
I’m getting tired and so are you,
Let’s cut the Poem into two!

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0041

Fri, 10 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Hildebrand, Who was frightened by a Passing Motor, and was brought to Reason.

H. BELLOC

“Oh, Murder! What was that, Papa!”
“My child,

It was a Motor-Car,
A Most Ingenious Toy!

Designed to Captivate and Charm
Much rather than to rouse Alarm
In any English Boy.

“What would your Great Grandfather who

Was Aide-de-Camp to General Brue,

And lost a leg at

Waterloo,

And

Quatre-Bras and

Ligny too!

And died at Trafalgar!—

What would he have remarked to hear
His Young Descendant shriek with fear,
Because he happened to be near
A Harmless Motor-Car!
But do not fret about it! Come!
We’ll off to Town

And purchase some!”

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0040

Thu, 09 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Algernon, Who played with a Loaded Gun, and, on missing his Sister was reprimanded by his Father.

H. BELLOC

Young Algernon, the Doctor’s Son,
Was playing with a Loaded Gun.
He pointed it towards his sister,
Aimed very carefully, but Missed her!

His Father, who was standing near,
The Loud Explosion chanced to Hear,
And reprimanded Algernon
For playing with a Loaded Gun.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

P.S. please if you get a chanse put some flowrs on Algernons grave in the bak yard.

-Charlie

Episode 0039

Wed, 08 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Godolphin Horne, Who was cursed with the Sin of Pride, and Became a Boot-Black.

H. BELLOC

Godolphin Horne was Nobly Born;
He held the Human Race in Scorn,
And lived with all his Sisters where
His father lived, in Berkeley Square.
And oh! the Lad was Deathly Proud!
He never shook your Hand or Bowed,
But merely smirked and nodded thus:
How perfectly ridiculous!
Alas! That such Affected Tricks
Should flourish in a Child of Six!
(For such was Young Godolphin’s age).

Just then, the Court required a Page,
Whereat the Lord High Chamberlain
(The Kindest and the Best of Men),
He went good-naturedly and took

A Perfectly Enormous Book
Called People Qualified to Be
Attendant on His Majesty,
And murmured, as he scanned the list
(To see that no one should be missed),
“There’s William Coutts has got the Flue,
And Billy Higgs would never do,
And Guy de Vere is far too young,

And ... wasn’t D’Alton’s Father hung?
And as for Alexander Byng!— ...
I think I know the kind of thing,
A Churchman, cleanly, nobly born,
Come let us say Godolphin Horne?”
But hardly had he said the word
When Murmurs of Dissent were heard.
The King of Iceland’s Eldest Son
Said, “Thank you! I am taking none!”
The Aged Duchess of Athlone
Remarked, in her sub-acid tone,
“I doubt if He is what we need!”
With which the Bishops all agreed;
And even Lady Mary Flood
(So Kind, and oh! so really good)
Said, “No! He wouldn’t do at all,
He’d make us feel a lot too small,”
The Chamberlain said,

“ ... Well, well, well!
No doubt you’re right.... One cannot tell!”
He took his Gold and Diamond Pen
And Scratched Godolphin out again.
So now Godolphin is the Boy
Who blacks the Boots at the Savoy.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0038

Tue, 07 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Franklin Hyde, Who caroused in the Dirt and was corrected by His Uncle.

H. BELLOC

His Uncle came on Franklin Hyde
Carousing in the Dirt.
He Shook him hard from Side to Side
And Hit him till it Hurt,

Exclaiming, with a Final Thud,
“Take that! Abandoned Boy!
For Playing with Disgusting Mud
As though it were a Toy!”

<strong>MORAL</strong>
From Franklin Hyde’s adventure, learn
To pass your Leisure Time
In Cleanly Merriment, and turn
From Mud and Ooze and Slime
And every form of Nastiness—
But, on the other Hand,
Children in ordinary Dress
May always play with Sand.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0037

Mon, 06 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Matilda, Who told Lies, and was Burned to Death.

H. BELLOC

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,
It made one Gasp and Stretch one’s Eyes;
Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,
Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,

Attempted to Believe Matilda:
The effort very nearly killed her,
And would have done so, had not She
Discovered this Infirmity.
For once, towards the Close of Day,
Matilda, growing tired of play,
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the Telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
Of London’s Noble Fire-Brigade.
Within an hour the Gallant Band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow,
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow
They galloped, roaring through the Town,

“Matilda’s House is Burning Down!”
Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
And took Peculiar Pains to Souse
The Pictures up and down the House,

Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed
And even then she had to pay
To get the Men to go away!

It happened that a few Weeks later
Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that Interesting Play
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.

She had refused to take her Niece
To hear this Entertaining Piece:
A Deprivation Just and Wise
To Punish her for Telling Lies.
That Night a Fire did break out—
You should have heard Matilda Shout!
You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
And throw the window up and call
To People passing in the Street—
(The rapidly increasing Heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidence)—but all in vain!
For every time She shouted “Fire!”

They only answered “Little Liar!”
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0036

Sun, 05 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Henry King, Who chewed bits of String, and was early cut off in Dreadful Agonies.

H. BELLOC

The Chief Defect of Henry King
Was chewing little bits of String.
At last he swallowed some which tied
Itself in ugly Knots inside.

Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
“There is no Cure for this Disease.
Henry will very soon be dead.”
His Parents stood about his Bed
Lamenting his Untimely Death,
When Henry, with his Latest Breath,
Cried—“Oh, my Friends, be warned by me,

That Breakfast, Dinner, Lunch and Tea
Are all the Human Frame requires ...”
With that the Wretched Child expires.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0035

Sat, 04 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Jim, Who ran away from his Nurse, and was eaten by a Lion.

H. BELLOC

There was a Boy whose name was Jim; His Friends were very good to him. They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam, And slices of delicious Ham, And Chocolate with pink inside, And little Tricycles to ride, And read him Stories through and through, And even took him to the Zoo— But there it was the dreadful Fate Befell him, which I now relate. You know—at least you ought to know. For I have often told you so— That Children never are allowed To leave their Nurses in a Crowd; Now this was Jim’s especial Foible, He ran away when he was able, And on this inauspicious day He slipped his hand and ran away! He hadn’t gone a yard when—Bang! With open Jaws, a Lion sprang, And hungrily began to eat The Boy: beginning at his feet. Now just imagine how it feels When first your toes and then your heels, And then by gradual degrees, Your shins and ankles, calves and knees, Are slowly eaten, bit by bit. No wonder Jim detested it! No wonder that he shouted “Hi!” The Honest Keeper heard his cry, Though very fat he almost ran To help the little gentleman. “Ponto!” he ordered as he came (For Ponto was the Lion’s name), “Ponto!” he cried, with angry Frown. “Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!” The Lion made a sudden Stop, He let the Dainty Morsel drop, And slunk reluctant to his Cage, Snarling with Disappointed Rage But when he bent him over Jim, The Honest Keeper’s Eyes were dim. The Lion having reached his Head, The Miserable Boy was dead! When Nurse informed his Parents, they Were more Concerned than I can say:— His Mother, as She dried her eyes, Said, “Well—it gives me no surprise, He would not do as he was told!” His Father, who was self-controlled, Bade all the children round attend To James’ miserable end, And always keep a-hold of Nurse For fear of finding something worse.

Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc

Episode 0034

Fri, 03 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Well, it happened, I forgot. And then I recorded a thing about forgetting, and didn’t find the time to actually upload it (perhaps I forgot).

Episode 0033

Fri, 29 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Landscape with footprints in Ash

Landscape with footprints in ash

Selma Asotić

You must leave for the story to begin is what fairytales taught me. I left. My ghosts now trail behind and weep. I try to comfort them. At night I place a bowl of milk on the terrace. I promise a trip to the sea. They disappear. When I’m alone in the room all catastrophes are easily traceable. I bury my mind. Useless mill churning voices, plastic straws, bills, hands demanding to give and give and give. My own hands I fling down the river. At the estuary they remember everything. In my head is a circle farm. If I die, this very moment, no one will finish what I set out to say. What will you do then, my misery? Already August. In heat, things expand. So do minutes. Fire swallows trees, entire forests. At some point, there won’t be anything left to burn. Fire has no future. What a relief for the fire.

Say Fire by Selma Asotić

Episode 0032

Tue, 26 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Oppressionists

Jayne Cortez

Art what do the art suppressors care about art they jump on bandwagons wallow in press clips & stink up the planet with their pornographic oppression Art what do they care about art they go from being contemporary baby kissers to old time corrupt politicians to self-appointed censorship clerks who won't support art but will support war poverty lung cancer racism colonialism and toxic sludge that's their morality that's their religious conviction that's their protection of the public & contribution to family entertainment what do they care about art

The Oppressionists - Poetry Foundation

Episode 0031

Sun, 24 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Some thoughts on an upcoming project

Episode 0030

Sat, 23 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Orange

Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange— The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half. And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new. The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I’m glad I exist.

Wendy Cope - The Orange (Gladdest Thing)

Episode 0029

Wed, 20 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The best laid plans … There is a poem that seems to be the source of that saying. Interesting, but not read here.

I talked about Stoicism. Look it up, I guess.

Episode 0028

Tue, 19 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Forgot one, and a bit of a rant about AI slop.

Episode 0027

Sun, 17 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Green, delicious, scruptious peas.

Some resources for this extremely extensive deep dive on this plant, and the accompanying genetic breakthroughs.

Peas

Gregor Mendel

Episode 0026

Sat, 16 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Marginilian, and some content from Maria Popova.

The article, How to Build a Universe: Philip K. Dick on Reality, Its Enemies, and Its Heroes was the primary reference for the bit of chat on this episode.

Philip K. Dick gave the quoted speech, How to Build a Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later, in 1978. The full text is available at the link.

Maria Popova and The Marginilian most likely does not know this podcast exists, so can’t really endorse, condemn, or condone anything said here. Same goes for Daily and her site, which I did not know existed until yesterday. The bit I’ve read seemed cool though. I really hope she’s not a fake human.

Episode 0025

Thu, 14 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Usambiro barbet

Episode 0024

Wed, 13 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Rambling a bit about automation

Episode 0023

Tue, 12 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

No description today.

Episode 0022

Mon, 11 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Cloud iridescence. I didn’t really notice it until 2020. But it is everywhere if you pay attention.

Put words to your gratitude and spread those words. In person and online.

Episode 0021

Sun, 10 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Song of Myself

Walt Whitman

The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them. And proceed to fill my next fold of the future. Listener up there! what have you to confide to me? Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.) Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. Who has done his day’s work? who will soonest be through with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me? Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

Episode 0020

Sat, 09 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Gratitude

From the Latin gratus meaning “pleasing”.

I meant to say something about these in the episode, but I didn’t. Harvard University, which for the most part is not about knowledge, and more about networking (look at the number of US politicians who are really really dumb and went to Harvard). They do some cool studies though. From one of those, I got this list of question about gratitude, if one is struggling to come up with something. I don’t like the Social Media question, but I’m not everyone, and it may help.

What happened today that was good?
What am I taking for granted that I can be thankful for?
Which people in my life am I grateful for?
What is the last book I read or movie, show, or social media clip I saw that I really appreciated, and why?
What am I most looking forward to this week, month, and year, and why?
What is the kindest thing someone has said or done lately?

I mentioned Sonja Lyubomirsky (holy hell that’s a horribly designed site, but fun studies she’s done, and with the exception of a ridiculous amount of “also”s in the abstract of some of these studies, seem pretty good). Props to her. One could even say that I’m pretty grateful she exists.

Spread the word. It might even make you live longer.

Don’t forget, if the ambient noise (like the dog barking today) annoy you, and you just want the bell with a built in timer, I made a blog post that has just the audio file.

Episode 0019

Fri, 08 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Ornithomancy and Magpies

Divination by means of birds; ornithoscopy; augury.

One for Sorrow

It turns out that the Oxford English Dictionary decided to put words behind a registration-wall, the only purpose of which is to collect and sell your data. You are the product to them.

I stumbled across GNU Collaborative International Dictionary of English. They seem legit.

Episode 0018

Thu, 07 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

label /lā′bəl/

a piece of paper, cloth, or similar material that is attached to something to identify or describe it
a word or phrase that describes or identifies something or someone
a company that produces musical recordings
a name shown on clothes that indicates the store, company, or person who sold, produced, or designed the clothes

verb

to put a word or name on something to describe or identify it : to attach a label to (something)
to name or describe (someone or something) in a specified way : to give a label to (someone or something)

Episode 0017

Wed, 06 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Just a quick one today. A Darkness Hovers

A Darkness Hovers

John Lawless

A darkness hovers A silence whispers A shadow threatens Every movement A choreographed dance routine Places, places everyone The new ABC’s Aggravate Belittle Confuse The new math One is never too many And a thousand Is just the beginning The new “religion” A well funded Burt and Ernie Puppet show Everyone is watching everyone Hovering in a darkness Whispering silently PLACES….PLACES ACTION TAKE(WHAT YOU CAN)

John Lawless, 2026 - Poetry Soup

Episode 0016

Tue, 05 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The host forgot. But there was a bash issue with exlamation points too!! Did we break everything?

Episode 0015

Mon, 04 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The wall, hitting it, and some clarification. Motivation!!

Episode 0014

Sun, 03 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Crikey, spiders ballooning, and oaths of the minced variety

Episode 0013

Sat, 02 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Is it a bonus? Or is the target audience the host? It’s the host.

Episode 0012

Sat, 02 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

When the host has no idea.

And Thou Too

Voltairine de Cleyre

The moonlight rolls down like a river, The silence streams out like a sea; And far where the eastern winds quiver, My farewell goes floating to thee. Like night, when the sunset is fading And starbeams troop up in the skies, Through a cold, dark and lonely forever Gleams the light of the poet eyes. And sometimes when I am weary, When the path is thorny and Wild, I'll look back to the Eyes in the twilight, Back to the eyes that smiled. And pray that a wreath like a rainbow May slip from the beautiful past, And Crown me again with the sweet, strong love And keep me, and hold me fast. For the way is not strown with petal soft, It is covered with hearts that weep, And the wounds I tread touch a deeper source Than you think it mine to keep. Down the years I shall move without you, Yet ever must feel the blow That caused me a deeper pain to give Than you will ever know. For the tears that dropped on my hands that night 'Neath the mystical shining moon, Were a sacred dew, consecrated there, On the rose-altered heart of June. And the heart that beat against mine like a bird That is fluttering, wounded sore, With it's nest all broken, deserted, torn, Will beat there forevermore. But the world moves on, and the piteous Earth Still groans in the monster pain; And the star that leads me points onward yet, Though the red drops fall like rain! Ah, not to a blaze of light I go, Nor shouts of a triumph train; I go down to kiss the dregs of woe, And drink up the Cup of Pain. And whether a scaffold or crucifix waits 'Neath the light of my silver star, I know and I care not: I only know I shall pause not though it be far. Though a crucified life or an agonized death, Though long, or quick and sharp, I am firmly wrought in the endless thread Of Destiny's woof and warp. And I do not shrink, though a wave of pain Sobs over me now and then, As I think of those "saddest of all sad words," The pitiful "might have been." "It might have been"— it is not to be; And the tones of your "swan's farewell" Ring sadly, solemnly deep to me Like the voice of a sobbing bell. Ay, gather your petals and take them back To the dead heart under the dew; And crown it again with the red love bloom, For the dead are always true. But go not "back to the sediment" In the slime of the moaning sea, For a better world belongs to you, And a better friend to me.

St. Johns, Michigan, 1888

Episode 0011

Fri, 01 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Connecting some dots, and organizing my brain.

Episode 0010

Thu, 30 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

From ruins, about ruins.

Crumbling is not an instant's Act

Emily Dickinson

Crumbling is not an instant's Act A fundamental pause Dilapidation's processes Are organized Decays — 'Tis first a Cobweb on the Soul A Cuticle of Dust A Borer in the Axis An Elemental Rust — Ruin is formal — Devil's work Consecutive and slow — Fail in an instant, no man did Slipping — is Crashe's law —

Crumbling is not an instant's Act by Emily Dickinson

Episode 0009

Wed, 29 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Today

Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house and unlatch the door to the canary's cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb, a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table, releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is just that kind of day.

Aimless Love by Billy Collins

Episode 0008

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Made it a week. It may be time to actually listen to the previous episodes to see if I need to tweak my audio processing pipeline.

Episode 0007

Mon, 27 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Musings about food, self-sufficiency, and some other stuff.

Episode 0006

Sun, 26 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A bit of talking about being a nerd, and the podcast pipeline I created just for this. Took way more time than I’ve spent recording so far. Still like it. podcast-pipeline on github

Episode 0005

Sat, 25 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Almost didn’t do this one. Motivation is hard sometimes

Episode 0004

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Just some observations about twitching, comments on the Merlin app from Cornell.

Episode 0003

Thu, 23 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Some wikipedia common misconceptions about arts and culture.

Episode 0002

Wed, 22 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A walk past a cherry tree.

Some rambling history sourced from a very quick glance at a couple of Wikipedia articles.

Nothing is perfect, and there are cars that drive down streets, so one will hear them when taking the footpath next to said street.

Episode 0001

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The closest thing to an intro you’re going to get.

A daily podcast, where some words might happen, and then 5 minutes of quiet. It’s mostly for the host. It’s not crisp or clean. It’s recorded wherever. If all you want is the gong mp3, it’ll be somewhere*. Ooh, actually, maybe open it up to other people to send in their own versions.

[Update July 2026] - There is now a blog post with a link to the sound affect at this blog post.