Just took a chance and posted an old piece on a site I came across.  The piece is the one about what it would have been like if the ancient Egyptians had used corrupt construction trade unions to build the pyramids.  The site is 'http://www.ebookmall.com/americasnextauthor America's Next Author.  Could be fun.  A lot of short stories to read and review and perhaps win an I pad, and if my piece is well received, could get $$.  Who knows?  It's getting stuff out there.

Portrait of Artists by an Old Man

      Sitting in the town square on a lovely autumn day waiting for my car to be serviced, began musing about how many artists of all types call this little town home (Leonardtown, Maryland).  In the short time I have lived here, I have made friends who are involved in painting, photography, writing, music, theater and dance.  Pondering; does being involved in these activities give you the license to call yourself an "Artist"? And having recently reread James Joyce, this happened.

Portrait of Artists by an Old Man 

           Art is magnetic, or is it the artists?  Are they drawn to one another through their crafts and talents, or perhaps through their longings?  All artists have longings. Are they seeking a patron or just a kind, friendly ear or eye or simpatico heart?

            My sense of true art advances through criticism to the very brink of an abyss which swallows up the timid, incompetent, cowardly, and egocentric. Most of those retreat early lacking the courage to go to the edge for their art.  And only those with the guts to go to the edge will advance the arts and fly ike the disciples of the legendary Appolinaris.  The others will retreat to their little cliques and huddle together in sessions of mutual admiration, lacking the mettle to put their 'art' out there; reluctant to express and defend their 'art' toe to toe with society. They retreat to the conclaves of their own,damning the unaccepting public instead of realizing that lack of acceptance is brought about by lack of vision and recognition of the evolution and ecology of art.  They sit in gloomy circles in the back booth of a smoky cafe and compete in artistic expressions of self pity and moral poverty

More on the ecology of art later.....

"Fenwick Inklings" writer's group at a crossroads.  Attempting a triage analysis to project a future.  Stay tuned

The Rebecca T. Ruark carries my family name, and I am in the process of writing a poem about her.....stay tuned.

Statement of Significance (as of designation - July 31, 2003):
The Rebecca T. Ruark is the oldest vessel in the skipjack oyster dredging fleet, the last commercial fishing sailing fleet in North America. Of the estimated 2,000 skipjacks built on Chesapeake Bay before World War II, only about 16 survive. The Ruark is the only vessel in the oyster fleet with a sloop hull, and is known as one of the best sailing skipjacks in the fleet. After sinking during a gale in 1999, she was subsequently raised and restored to operation.

Have considered that some of what I have written in the past could be marketable, so I am starting to submit stuff. Sent short story parody about labor problems in Ancient Egypt to Ninth Letter magazine.  Also sent 2 poems to Artsvine, an on line magazine.   If anything is accepted, I will be qualified to say my occupation is "writer".

An old poem by Thomas Davis written in honor of one of the heroes of the Irish Rebellion of 1641,
Owen Roe O'Neill.

Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill

By Thomas Davis

“DID they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill?” “Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.” “May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow, May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh.” “Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.         5 From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords: But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way. And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard’s day. “Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One. Wail, wail ye for the Dead, Quench the hearth, and hold the breath—with ashes strew the head.         10 How tenderly we loved him. How deeply we deplore! Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more! “Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle—’twas Eoghan won them all. Had he lived—had he lived—our dear country had been free:         15 But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and ’tis slaves we’ll ever be. “O’Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon—ye valiant, wise and true: But—what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle’s corner stone.         20 “Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride! Would that on the battlefield our gallant chief had died! Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb—weep him, young and old: Weep for him, ye women—your beautiful lies cold! “We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,         25 And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow— Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky— O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die? “Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill! bright was your eye, O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?         30 Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high, But we’re slaves, and we’re orphans, Eoghan!—why did you die?”

Derbforgaill's Betrayal 

Dermott MacMurchad of Leinster, with heart of wood,
Ruled stolen land with cruel blood
Chieftains of Eire who stood to fight,
If they kept their life, they lost their light
Insulted the Abbess of St. Bridgit's Church grand,
Closed her in a cell in the bed of a man.

Lusted beyond the fjords of Wex and Water
E'en to the walls of Dublin's fine quarter
In MacLoughlin of Ulster Dermott found a friend
Thought his conquests then would know no end
Set his greedy eyes on Connacht and Meath
O'Connor and O'Ruaric vowed to stand to the death

The King and the Prince together stood tall
With honor and sword 'neath Breffni's stout wall
Ere the kerns of MacMurchad heard the clarion's call
Had neither stomach nor heart for naught but withdraw
O'Ruaric's confessor in piety's name
Bade the Prince make a pilgrimage away from war's game

Prince Tiernan, the pilgrim left with the first crow of the cock
Trusting husband saw not the need for a chastity lock
He believed the Bride of Breffni would wait
But the fair Derbforgaill did not lock the gate
MacMurchad came under cover of night
Abducted O'Ruaric's wife and took flight

'Twas a dastardly act, or so it would seem
Yet heard within Breffni's walls, nary a scream
When Tiernan's horse boy gave his account
He swore Derbforgaill was astride the Prince's best mount
And several housemaids reported before the gates closed
She was leading four pack horses carrying all of her clothes

Prince Tiernan returned to find a cold bed
With the fire of vengeance burning his head
Mustered his army and moved with great haste
Toward a fortress in Leinster with intent to lay waste
Dermott's walls breached, the villain escaped in the end
But in all Erin's Isle he found not a friend

But there were those that owed Dermott an old debt
With his daughter Eva sailed o'er to England without regret
King Henry had once borrowed Dermott's ships under sails
To suppress a pesky revolution out there in Wales
Finding Henry in England was sure of little chance
Because the King of England spent most of his time in France

But once found, old Henry would not lend a hand
Unless MacMurchad promised fealty and, of course Irish land
Now Henry avowed he could not an English soldier loan
Gave a letter permitting Dermott raise an army on his own
He looked, but could not hire an army anywhere
Until he met a red-haired Earl, name of Richard de Clare

Now Dermott could not understand, nor would he ever know
How this femme-faced Norman ever earned the title of, 'Strongbow'
He was far from manly, never mistaken for a swain
Some say of him was written, "His blood is better than his brain"
But 'twas a false inditement, Strongbow had a clever plan
His price for aid, an Irish estate and the daughter Eva's hand

The pact agreed for Irish land and Eva as his bride
Strongbow set out to hire some men to fight for Dermott's side
Dermott for Ireland sailed with Norman knights and gallowglasses
 O'Ruaric and O'Connor greeted him and kicked some Norman asses
To buy some time and for his kidnap crime Dermott offered Tiernan gold
Tiernan took the bribe and set the stage for history yet untold

Irish troops fell back, laid down their arms hoping to fight no more
But now Strongbow and his Norman knights stormed onto Ireland's shore
With a thousand men at arms to recapture Dermott's land
His promise kept, Strongbow could now claim fair Eva's hand
The wedding assured Strongbow was now old Dermott's heir
A Norman on the Leinster throne was a curse on all of Eire 

And now... a bit of esoterica

JUXTAPOSING SENSES IN SPACE AND TIME
Fred Ruark
8/23/2012

CONSIDER, IF YOU WILL, HOW YOUR SENSES EXIST IN SPACE AND TIME...

The audible exists in time                             The visible exists in space

Music rendered comes to your ear...and then is gone

The sheets, where in lies the code of the sounds, remains

The music is gone.  The source remains

The horns and strings, the brass and the reeds remain

Existing in space, their music, exhausted in time

CONSIDER , IF YOU WILL...NO WAIT...NOT YET

The instruments are not the music

Without the player, they only exist in space

In time, the brass may corrode, the wood will dry rot

In time, things that exist in space, corrode, erode, disappear.

The pieces disintegrated are still there in space

But no longer able to produce music in time

The player and the instrument exist in space

Together they produce the music at a point in time

Technology captures sounds and images and makes them timeless

A reproduced disc in space that defies the existence of the player

NOW CONSIDER, IF YOU WILL, A WORLD WHERE ROLES ARE REVERSED.

Things, visible things, now exist in time  and sense exist in space  HMMM

It takes the sophistication of a human mind to create such a world.

Look at something around you - - - - See "it"  Now turn your head - - - - - it is GONE!

They exist only in time...They have been removed from your space.

Is it still there?  Without 360 degree vision, your reality is "here."

But your sensual tool kit has many resources.

You can validate the existence of objects out of your sight.

Just call on other treasures you possess - sound, smell, taste, touch

Like sight, they only exist in time, too soon gone.  And for that, be grateful.

CONSIDER, IF YOU WILL THE AGONIES YOU'D SUFFER

If all of your lifetime sensual experiences were held hostage in your space

Every rock concert, birdsong, car wreck, crying baby, thunder, crashing wave, and symphony

Bombarding your ears concurrently forever!

While the odors of roses, frying bacon, sweet perfume and sewage crowd into your nose.

And every pain and pleasure your tactile nerve endings ever experienced were there forever.

James Joyce captured just such an existence in "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man".

It was his description of hell and it terrorized Daedelus into almost becoming a priest.

So you are lucky you know for the way your senses only exist in time.

The way your senses exist only in time is a gift, a part of your lifelong learning.

You've learned to seek out some experiences and to avoid others

The ability to capture time limited sensual experiences is called ART.

I've said "consider if you will"  Two very important words, consider and will.

To consider is to think seriously.  To imagine an outcome

"Will" is to deliberately choose a course of action to achieve that outcome.

Given the human intellectual ability and the will to  consider things that exist outside of time and space,

We get RELIGION

You can only hope to be free to select your spatial experiences in the time you have.

And to be free to explore whatever it is that you consider exists outside of that realm.

Work hard to stay free in space and to enjoy yourself in time.

Auditioned and got a role in the next production of Southern Maryland Originals who produce short plays by local playwrights.  Also invited to do some 'spoken word' presentations.  Looking at old pieces of poetry and stories from the past to find something I can memorize. We'll see what happens

Played soccer in Baltimore for a long time in 50's through the 70's, and still remain a fan of the game.  When I played, the season was in the winter, and watching the women win the gold in the Olympics brought this old piece back from the deep recesses of my memory.

THE GOALIE

By Fred Ruark

8/8/1974

Standing tip toe in the cold soggy mud

Squinting against the icy rain

Trying to follow what’s going on

At the far end of the pitch

Icicles form on the net at your back

Your fingertips freezing inside your big gloves

A solitary warrior in a rectangular frame

Part of the team ….. but lonely, alone

You play the same game but abide different rules

You can’t wear the colors that get the fans cheering

With the game in front of you

You’re the defensive boss

You’re the rear guard, the last ditch defender

When all others fail, you’re on stage

Decide – Hold your line or charge the ball?

Decide and act – To hesitate is to fail

The goat or the hero with no stops between

Your defenders split and a striker breaks through

He’s onside, you tense to repel the attack

Don’t move too soon, but don’t wait

The rain in your face sets your eyeballs on fire

The ball looks the same as the mud

It’s come down to this one on one – sudden death

You meet the attack with attack off your line

You make yourself big to reduce the shot’s angles

The outside of his left boot strikes the ball hard

The ball curls left just touching your hand

Not enough … you hear the ice in your net shatter like glass

The attacker takes off in a high victory leap

Team mates pull him down and pile on.

Your team mates, dejected, retreat from the pitch

You lie there alone in the mud

LAMENT FOR IRISH OAKS
JULY 2012

Erin lies barren of oaks

Ghosts of the druids are weeping

Oaks of Eire are globally strewn

At the bottom of all the oceans where English warships sailed

Sunk by pirates of the Spanish Main

By cannon balls of French frigates

And corsairs off Morocco

And Yankees at Fort McHenry

Storms at the Horn stopped some doing 'transportation'

Short of their mission to Van Demman's land

Some of her oaks remain in Alba

Lining barrels of Scotch whiskey

Some in England as girders

Of Wren's great buildings

Rowans and Hollies now thrive in the sun

No longer in understory of the great oaks

Hills of Ireland, now meadows of green

Grazing sheep where red deer once ran.

Generations await the great oaks return

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your dreams.


 Small people always do that, but the really great ones 


make you feel that you too, can become great."

Mark Twain

An interesting quote from James Lane Allen: 


Man's rise or fall, success or failure, happiness or unhappiness depends on his attitude... a man's attitude will create the situation he imagines.

Been dealing with a case of 'the block'.  Put writing on the shelf to deal with health issues in the family.  Trying to ramp up to regain momentum, cranked out about 600-700 words, and some how lost them attempting to save.  Don't know what key stroke I made to do the damage, but it was a momentum killer.  Back to ground zero trying to restart.  Looked at the file of old pieces and came across the following:

Staring at a blank page

Awaiting inspiration

Millions of issues

Demand prosaic comment

When the ideas start to flow

Will the words be worth the ink?

Will they ever touch

The people with the problems?

Or does drafted metered verse

Merely free you of your guilt?

Through your poems

Do you turn your back on real life?

Wrote that back in 1971 and rereading it convinced me that for a long time my writing was an escape.  But now I am convinced that I have something to say.  There are parts of history that have been obscured which need to be addressed.  Indeed issues that"demand prosaic comment.  So screw the loss of 700 words!  They were lost in the computer, but they are still in my skull vault, and will be recaptured and inserted into chapter 17.

Been otherwise occupied in life, but now anxious to get back in the swing.  Writing more frequently, and posting to see who is out there who might have an interest in Irish history (circa1633-1700)

Playing Dress Up at the Celtic Society Medieval  Feast

Celtic Song Circle

Started a once a month gathering of folks who like Celtic songs.  We meet and teach each other our favorite or newly discovered songs, mostly from the Celtic culture, but not to the exclusion of other good music.


Our Ciorcal na nAmhrán Cheilteach
(Celtic Song Circle) has met 4 times and looks like it will continue.  It's great learning new songs and meeting new musicians.

CREATIVITY QUOTE

• Once you are possessed by the creative urge there is no room for any other drive or thought.

                                                                                                          (Carl Hauptmann)

• If I ever made any valuable discoveries, it has been owing more to patient attention than any other talent
  .                                                                                                  (Isaac Newton)
• To make ideas effective, you must be able to fire them off.            (Virginia Woolf)

American Aristocracy (scrap)

Can a democracy have an aristocracy?
Or is that a question of hypocrisy?
Aristocrats are a step above the rest of us.
We look up to them, they want respect from us.
Have aristocrats ever earned something?
Some were born into royalty and deserve nothing
They had to do nothing but get their ass born,
And with paparazzi's help toot their own horn.
Others rose because of their prowess at war
Stepping on the necks of the weak and the poor.

Kings and Despots, Czars and Emirs,
Moolahs, Cardinals, and Inquisitioners
Popes and Saints, Counts and Earls,
Sheikhs with harems of beautiful girls
Barons and Lords, a Prince and a Countess
Queens, Marquis, Dictators and a Princess
Aristocrats of a by-gone day
Not for us in the USA

We don't crown royalty
But the champions of American loyalty
Are actors on reality TV
Who don't have real lives like you and me.
Unfaithful politicians and Wall street crooks
Rappers and jocks and TV cooks,
Gangsters, Rockers and country western pickers
Movie stars who can't hold their liquor
NASCAR, NFL, NBA
Comedy Central and PGA
Our American Aristocracy
The product of our democracy.
USA, USA shout it loud!
Just look at us ..... I'm so proud!

Commitment to collecting the scraps

I have a bad habit of NOT carrying a single notebook to record thoughts that in a busy life are fleeting and lost.  Instead, when a sight, sound, smell , memory or idea moves me, and I want to capture it, I seek out any available scrap of paper to write on.  And having captured the inspiration, the 'scrap' gets put in a pocket, or tucked into another nook or cranny and somehow, gets summarily lost to posterity.  I have decided to use this blog as the repository of the 'scraps'.  the first scrap posted was "October Sky"  Others to follow will be tagged as 'SCRAPS'

FAR

Flash!!! Writing a BLOG about Writing is a Trap

I read that creating a BLOG about what I am writing was a way to gain a following of readers.  But I soon learned that time spent writing stuff for the blog is a distraction from the writing I should be doing for future readers.  So, I am focusing on Ireland in 1644, building my characters and strengthening the plot of
                                  "The Dispossessed" 

Always Learning

Learned today at a lecture in historic St. Mary's City, that 'Baltimore' the place of my birth was based on the Irish words for 'Place of the big house, or "Baile Tigh Mor" So my BLOG could rightly be called:

BREFFNI TO BAILE TIGH MOR 


Who knew??

MoreCreativity Quotes = CQs

- Only mediocre people are always at their best
            Somerset Maugham
- Be not afraid of going slowly, be afraid of standing still.
            Chinese Proverb
- Try? There is no try.  There is only do and not do.
             Yoda -'The Empire Strikes Back'
- Sacred cows make great steaks.
             Dick Nicolosi