tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25444233636529356002024-03-05T04:14:32.125-06:00crossroads and currents by tom ryancrossroads and currents......by tom ryanTom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.comBlogger821125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-23206552544685733502012-08-26T08:35:00.003-05:002012-08-26T13:51:36.638-05:00Google guilt in KC<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Help me Google. I’m slow. I have three data plans right now and yet
your primary colored bunny looks really cute and I almost clicked it when I
read the editorial about your cool mystical service. One hundred times faster.
Will you sell your data by the gallon or will this be a deep reservoir from
which we can drink anytime, as much as we want?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have this glowing pride, Google. Pride that you chose us. You must
have looked at a Google map and noticed how we’re in the middle of America.
Perhaps you read some history about the area and received inspiration from this
geographical junction of two big rivers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m feeling guilt about you, Google. I just can’t hop over to you right
now. For one thing, there’s no there there. What is it? Somehow a bunny isn’t
going to grab $1,440 a year plus tax just by being cute. Life’s pretty
complicated right now. Have you heard all the talk about the streetcar we
desperately desire in downtown Kansas City? We need to connect people with
Lego-land. People need their greeting cards. So much we need. I’m feeling the
longing and the need for your speed, but like I said, life’s pretty complicated
right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s so comforting to feel your love for us. We need whatever it is to
be faster. It’s really cool to have such a smart company here looking over our
needs. You’re so smart few folk from here could pass your entrance exam. You’re
clever too. So clever that Google is now a verb and a noun. Google is a place.
Googled is a funny adjective. Wow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Have you considered spelling fiber with an “re”? Fibre. That looks
really smart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Forgive me, Google. I’ve been a loyal user of your software fare for a
long time. I use your chrome browser to browse. Your email service rocks. For
right now though, since my building downtown can barely handle Time Warner, and
AT&T spews their digits into my living space over rickety copper wires, and
since I need to petition the UN Security Council to modify my Verizon sentence,
I mean contract, you won’t hear from me for a while.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m glad you’re in Kansas City to save us.</span></span>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-28316895592403908402012-08-21T14:25:00.001-05:002012-08-26T08:57:37.406-05:00Maria Creyts' Trans-Atlantic runway<br />
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I’ve heard fashion design compared with architecture. Fashion as
personal architecture. Architects enjoy discussing the context of space. Many
architects believe a building should be of its place. But fashion embraces your
personal space. Fashion is personal.</div>
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Maria Creyts designed pieces made of more than fabric. These creations
came from her personal fabric of experience. She fashioned a postcard from a
land far away, and rather than posting it, gave it life and placed it on people
who gave it further life on a runway in June this year as the sun set on 18<sup>th</sup>
Street in the Crossroads of Kansas City. A long way from Nigeria. Out of
context? Hardly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The runway seemed to reach for another continent. The patterns evoked
smiles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Clothes can establish a personal mood and project a message. What we
wear says something about us, so they say. Consider Maria’s designs for a
moment. The fabric patterns tell a story.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fashion is serious, and contemporary fashion often possesses a
severity. Power projections via suits and dramatic spiked heels. Severity
sells.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We know exotic when we see it. Maria saw it in the exotic place and
brought it here, then projected it east on 18<sup>th</sup> Street, and stretched
her arms across an ocean to a place she learned to love. It may be a stretch to
wear these designs in certain contexts and yet fashion is transportable and the
transporter can alter the context of a place by simply walking by. Personal,
transportable architecture that transforms.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZHthx8L1Nc0Uxfjb3IesYRKDXcAuJX-XV53I4Eoa2CTred5KOV75yADH2pXIgVCvpZqDxhGjVQxbIcXG26ju2TKTLMuhtTGA2z7Fke045H8GpKVxRZh24g1KDWaB_upHF84o9Rx6Wu1O/s1600/MC_picsA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZHthx8L1Nc0Uxfjb3IesYRKDXcAuJX-XV53I4Eoa2CTred5KOV75yADH2pXIgVCvpZqDxhGjVQxbIcXG26ju2TKTLMuhtTGA2z7Fke045H8GpKVxRZh24g1KDWaB_upHF84o9Rx6Wu1O/s640/MC_picsA.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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MARIA CREYTS ✴ <b><a href="http://www.mariaurora.net/">www.mariaurora.net</a></b> ✴ 347.687.5247</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
mariacreyts@gmail.com / 1600 Genessee, # 516 Kansas City, Missouri 64102</div>
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Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-50439241479771525852012-08-20T15:57:00.002-05:002012-08-22T18:00:59.109-05:00Todd aching with the rest of usThere is ample time before November for more statements and phrases of
recorded sound suitable for broadcast and analysis. Mr. Akin’s blush has
probably faded. Retractions forthcoming. He made Obama’s appointment book, and
gave a presidential speechwriter a writing assignment. Todd made many slap
their foreheads. And on we go with the campaign, right?<br />
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Are people as disenchanted as Steve Kraske and Dave Helling assert in
their piece in Sunday’s Kansas City Star? Editorial insight on the front page, “The
End of the Middle”. Gloomy stuff. Opinion overshadows the news.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Federal elections have their relevance but the media is more than
the message today. The media orchestrates the election, selling their
advertising time and space. It’s business. Candidates court for exposure time. They
have money to spend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Without their large print front page editorial, I wonder what we could
have read for $2.00 on Sunday. Journalists bask in their media-driven aura of
national division. I don’t think the American people share the linear model of
left and right. Few can articulate the yardstick and explain the landscape end
to end. Labels are easy to apply. But the labels have little meaning. I ached
reading this simplistic article with its 11x7 inch cartoon of an elephant and
mule on a broken see-saw.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What’s missing from our newspaper, the only one we have right now
within a 50 mile radius, is the authenticity of this complex locale. Writers
ache to write stupendous pieces that will get national attention and
affirmation. Readers ache for news rather than therapy for disenchanted
journalists. I’m sorry that Dave and Steve are aching. I really don’t care
about Todd’s aches and pains.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ache for some younger voices in our local political media.<o:p></o:p></div>
Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-30517933841484152592012-08-15T16:52:00.002-05:002012-08-15T17:05:06.438-05:00Wesley Clark’s fun with guns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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He’s selling it well. The former US Army general hosts a television
show, classified as reality. Hardly. Real bullets, but strangely surreal.
Action-packed missions that remind me of my days “playing army” in the back
fields, junkyards, and urban landscapes of my West-End of Chester Pa.
neighborhood. We used air rifles with dirt clump grenades. We watched episodes
of Combat starring Vic Morrow. Rat Patrol. Our Fathers’ war.<br />
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This reality stuff is way cooler, but kids can’t play army outside
anymore to practice squad tactics. Fun to watch this in your living room,
though. Clark throws in a bit of patriotic heart into the meaty stew. Is this
show giving honor to our women and men in uniform? Clark’s selling it. America
appears to be buying it from the recent ratings. Clark makes the show serious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Seriously. This show produced a few swirls of vomit in the back of my
throat. I swallowed hard but couldn’t swallow Wes’ narration. Had to laugh when
Mr. Palin got a little teary-eyed after his army play.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This bit of television entertains and surely sustains the romance of
armed conflict, the thrill of victory, but cannot show the agony of a stomach
wound, or a shrapnel sliced limb. The cardboard targets do not shoot back.
Hollywood technicians rig the bombs for effect, careful not to deflect debris
that could wound the stars.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Gold Star Family members in America probably won’t watch Wes and
his gang having fun with guns. Some veterans may be jealous of the veterans
with lucrative contracts as technical advisors and trainers in this show. I
cannot fathom seeing any of my Ranger Instructors, who trained Class 501-73, as ringmasters in this contemporary combat circus.
Those sergeants were competent beyond measure. Clark would recognize their
names. They served together in Viet Nam...Roy, Littlejohn, Burnell, Stuckey.............<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it doesn’t matter what the old folks think. Former soldiers may
dream of past glories, tell stories, and try to remember names of comrades and
places. Young people make the choices.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And this summer, in various training areas, soldiers train hard to earn
their Ranger Tab. Gold Star Families take it a day at a time. Wounded warriors
heal. New warriors deploy. Memories come at the oddest unannounced times. A
fragrance, a sound, a flavor, a color evoke and provoke, dig on the soul. The
temporal thrill of the hunt, the pre-mission jitters, the vomit swallows, all pale
in comparison with the sweetness of home, the post-operation rest periods, the
pre-op rehearsals, the reconnaissance, the arrival-home-embrace, the slow march
to graveside and the slower walk as the years go on to those Vermont marble
white blossoms. I remember walking with my son through Arlington Cemetery down
a long lush grass row to visit the spot where his Uncle Dave, who wasn’t really
his uncle but was because that’s what my son called him, rested and rests
still.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m glad I watched an episode, just one, of Wes Clark’s American
Grandstand. Are you buying it?<o:p></o:p></div>
Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-29536562889671779372012-07-29T10:37:00.001-05:002012-07-29T12:08:20.165-05:00fashion copy and joe brainard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1jpR63Sg3xh-oQhDwNg3L6L44EusgBhvvudO8ESA25P6KSc3m4i2szxdQR8dMgPFJP1KLy36lsrMBeukMLCtDdBGCtaQ4qUg40l3G1tZUaIllHB9CNBZnVL1dsK2Oqvg-z3PJL8uTQlT/s1600/Blogwrite_20120729a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1jpR63Sg3xh-oQhDwNg3L6L44EusgBhvvudO8ESA25P6KSc3m4i2szxdQR8dMgPFJP1KLy36lsrMBeukMLCtDdBGCtaQ4qUg40l3G1tZUaIllHB9CNBZnVL1dsK2Oqvg-z3PJL8uTQlT/s640/Blogwrite_20120729a.JPG" width="478" /></a></div>
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<br />Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-13651418556924735192012-07-27T19:27:00.002-05:002012-07-27T19:40:00.876-05:00handwriting test<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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5" x 6.5" on legal pad paperTom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-35001506870735374692012-07-24T20:52:00.001-05:002012-07-24T20:55:23.341-05:00political fricassée<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 21px;">The Kansas City Star's editorial team has a series of columns with the preface phrase "Political Fracas"... to this I offered an alternative dish... I have broken my promise to myself to stop writing at the Star's editorial blog discussion table... no intervention required...yet</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 21px;">Mom made fricassée often with leftovers and served it up on toast. In New Orleans I tasted a few Fricassée recipes with that delicious dark chocolate colored roux. One was really spicy.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 21px;">Battle rhetoric can be fun. I’m seeing the word fracas here often as a hook. My Dad used to mispronounce the word, saying instead “frucus”. Wrong vowel, Dad. Reminds me of a fun English word, as in a word one hears often in England – kerfuffle. Kerfuffle suggests more confusion than conflict although a lot of conflicts start with confusion. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 21px;">It’s odd that on one hand we read pieces here extolling the virtues of peace, gun control, responsibility, and a Batman-less summer amid the recurring fracases…fracasi? fracasum? I think the plural is fracases although that sounds a lot like rhinoceroses. Is there more than one at the zoo? </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 21px;">The collection of fracases thus far have much in common with fricassée. A slow-cooked stew, with gravy. There’s plenty of recipes out there. I’m unable to recommend a link. Don’t fight it. Eat it.</span><br />
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Read more here: http://voices.kansascity.com/entries/political-fricassee/#storylink=cpy</div>
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</section>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-7697146068135813892012-07-24T08:32:00.002-05:002012-07-24T08:41:48.801-05:00united consumers<span style="background-color: white;">America is divided in many ways. But in a basic way, Americans are all
consumers. Use the word customer if that suits you better. Or buyer. In
America, we have choices in the marketplaces and choices in labels.</span><br />
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It’s natural for sellers to work to draw customers. Advertising seeks
to convince the buyer that the buyer has a need, a desire. Competing sellers
seek to divide the throng of buyers. Sellers create custom items to appeal to
perceived customer groups. Size matters, for example. Colors attract.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The divisions are temporary. The customers walk away from the
marketplace, satisfied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Conflicts occur when the marketplace contains limited items. Consumers
worry. Will there be enough? As long as there’s enough, the buyers remain calm,
but hopeful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As consumers, Americans are united. And consider that over the course
of a week, for instance, Americans spend most of their time consuming, or in
activities related to purchasing. Now the marketplace is virtual and screens
deliver our goods.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Americans drift to religion and politics but the driftings are short.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sports and pastimes can be passionately consuming but in the end most
activities require a fee for entry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I think many issues deserve more examination from a market perspective.
Creating a peaceful plentiful marketplace is what most of us want. It’s
primordial stuff.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I broke my silence and posted this at the Kansas City Star's MidWest Voices page.</span></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-81442789146666603682012-07-23T16:39:00.002-05:002012-07-23T16:39:52.013-05:00the myth of the american citizen<span style="background-color: white;">The American citizen is a myth. America is populated by
consumers. Consumers sometimes try to think like the mythical citizen. When
consumers do this they become frustrated. If consumers desire change, they can research
their consumption choices: where to shop, how to shop, varieties, sizes, color.
Some consumers vote in elections. Most consumers do not vote. Not all consumers
are eligible to vote. Governments call consumers citizens but consumers
consume.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-48141184691910443782012-07-23T16:14:00.002-05:002012-07-23T16:14:54.583-05:00consumer control<span style="background-color: white;">Consumers can control their consumption choices and habits.
The media speaks for the market as they should since companies pay for media
time with their advertising money. The media sells even when they sincerely try
to be objective. People sell. People buy. When buyers, after they’ve bought,
forget that they’ve bought, and turn on their media to hear and see selling,
and think that they’re watching and listening as citizens, the citizen part of
them gets frustrated and angry with the sellers. In America, there are no
citizens. America is populated by consumers who buy things. The citizen part of
America is now a myth we continue to retell.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-27166134181951164122012-07-23T15:59:00.004-05:002012-07-23T16:05:52.623-05:00companies that make firearmsThe word firearm is interesting...suggests a flaming human arm in my mind.<br />
<br />
With the recent (recurring) debate about gun control, I was thinking about the companies who make guns. Gun manufacturing is lucrative business. How profitable is the gun business in America? I found this<b><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Firearms_manufacturers_in_the_United_States" target="_blank"> list of gun manufacturers in America</a></b>.<br />
<br />Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-37725321990679814132012-07-23T15:48:00.001-05:002012-07-23T15:50:01.624-05:00follow the brush<span style="background-color: white;">A phrase
that makes me think about writing. I read an essay called In Praise of Shadows
by </span><span style="background-color: white;">Jun'ichirō
Tanizaki. He wrote the meandering piece in 1933. In 48 pages he shifts from
architecture to lacquer bowls and discusses light and darkness. The places of
shadow in between. His thoughts took me back to my time in Japan. To ideas and
insights I forgot. Thomas Harper wrote an afterward. I’m happy he didn’t write
a usual preface. Harper discussed the Japanese way of writing that has no
structure. I’m used to a beginning, a middle and an end. Harper explains the
Japanese way of “following the brush”, what we often call a stream of
consciousness. Stream of consciousness is a general term. I know one when I
read one. I follow the brush often without having named it. I allow myself to
write. But there’s place for structure. People need structural writing that
reads with a purpose when purpose is appropriate. Yet, I don’t want to write in
a wandering way just to wander. Perhaps this is defeating the purpose of
writing if writing is too self-conscious. In other words, if I’m aware of the
method or style, does that detract from the act of writing. I want to write
with an outcome. I want to make things. I’m learning to balance the process and
the longing for a good product. Following the brush makes sense today. But I
want to file that away into what I know I don’t realize I already know and just
dip the brush in dark black ink and start moving.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-6880201182051903032012-07-23T15:29:00.002-05:002012-07-23T15:51:15.879-05:00lions and bats<span style="background-color: white;">Today the New
York Times reports the NCAA’s fine and sanctions for the Penn State Football
organization. $60 million over four years and a ban from bowl appearances for the next four years. Chatter around the news in editorials about the Batman film and the
Aurora Colorado massacre. Gloomy stuff. It feels like America is staggering,
exhausted, and lost. What I feel is sadness and wonder. I wonder how young people
feel about all of this? I cannot find a place to read the voices of the young.
I hope they write soon. I need to hear what they think. In the meantime, most
of what I read is written by older folks like me. The Kansas City Star is like
that; a sort of retirement home daily. I believe in the power of young minds.
Unfortunately they’re not in the written news mix.</span><br />
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I haven’t written
anything at the Star’s MidWest Voices site since July 4<sup>th</sup>. I’ve been
tempted a few times. But my temptation fades when I read the pieces there. Yael
Abouhalka writes with a patronizing style. He writes about trite subjects with
the frequent phrase “too bad”. He’s better suited as a beat journalist because his
strength is writing about local city hall politics where numbers imbue the message.
Yael’s good with numbers not insight. Barb and Lewis are predictable. It’s
really good to be away from the mix there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s a very hot
day in Kansas City. I’m not going to blame the heat for this sluggish sense
within me. The lion and bat stories have me contemplating our American
sluggishness.<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-13134428611844365512012-07-21T21:55:00.002-05:002012-07-21T21:55:33.238-05:00unfolding<span style="background-color: white;">Seeking to understand how things unfolded. I can accept history. But
there’s more to it than the word. History. I’ve studied it. Read it. Re-read
it. Still reading. How did it unfold, I mean really happen. It just doesn’t
seem right to me, this history thing we humans do. With some important things
like wars and religion, is it worth the time to study the unfoldings? What
happened? Does it matter if I find out the truth? Could the ultimate truth be a
long story, a telling from a knowing teller who tells what happened, complete
with a Q & A session? Would the truth, the true history of things make a
difference to the present or change anything about how I fashion my future? I
think it’s one thing to get it wrong, to not follow a plan. To not believe in
plans would be different. To think there’s a plan and then find out one never
existed. History doesn’t matter anymore. History is a word. History exists. I
wish I could think of lighter things right now. This makes me wonder about
events and collective decisions. All the stories within everyone. All the
myths. The dreams.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-52478074748336872122012-07-21T21:39:00.001-05:002012-07-21T21:41:05.611-05:00one stayed, one left<span style="background-color: white;">The story of one who chose to leave. One who decided to stay. This
happened on a day. Of all the days to pick! Why this one? The one who was real had so much to
him. So many days to choose. The one I created is one who left. Why? What were
they thinking? How did they decide? Was it their decision? Who cares?</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-81276645015205352472012-07-21T21:32:00.001-05:002012-07-21T21:32:21.110-05:00instruments<span style="background-color: white;">Many people have instruments to transmit their thoughts. Transmit
quickly. The chorus is huge. Everyone is a writer. Everyone is an artist
without knowing it. It’s always been like that. Even before the instruments.
Before the first human-sharpened rock. Before the first finger in the dirt.
Before the first stroke in the sea. Instruments merely amplify what we know.
Allow us to see what we’re thinking. Sometimes I don’t have all the words I
want. I look for them.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-70230446726501300482012-07-21T21:20:00.002-05:002012-07-21T21:21:04.264-05:00acreage<span style="background-color: white;">Writing here in the quiet. No one visits this space. I’ll not give a hint
or a link. Better to think a while and keep the lines short. Whittle to the
truth. Maybe there’s more than one.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Giving two plays a rest for a while. Two stories. Letting the words
sink deeper onto the flesh of me. I can hear the people talking. Characters with
voices now. Stories of their own. Working things out among themselves. I listen
and watch. Touch the edge of their stage gently to feel their feet meeting the
planks. Boards. Tape marks things. Boundaries. Some call it the acreage.
Measurements. Depth. Careful not to overfill. Judgment calls necessary.<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-26044527296456375652012-07-21T21:05:00.003-05:002012-07-21T21:07:38.121-05:00consumption<span style="background-color: white;">Not much in the mood for multiple experiences of theater via the Fringe
Fest tonight. Just tired. Just thinking of consumption. The consumers, the
things consumed. Don’t blame the makers or the purveyors of things made. The
sellers sell in markets. Consumers visit and purchase, maybe trade. Consumers
complain. Consumers consume and blame the market. They resent the sellers who
now have their money. Consumers sit and ponder their purchases. The market has
guns most of which not designed for hunting animals. Visit the market and see
for yourself. Where are the factories for guns? Let’s become more familiar with
the brands. Time to see a few commercials on television alongside the ads for
alcoholic beverages and cars. Without enough oxygen, we’re choking. Lungs
filling with thick fluid with nowhere to drain. Consumption.</span><br />
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But tonight in the city there’s artful things. Performances. Things
collaboratively created. A festival of edgy things. People telling stories. Advertisements for all of this. Select your venue and attend. I’m
barely writing. Written out for the time being. Seeking air. Silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bullets in a theater. The images I create of those people scattering,
falling, slipping. The deaths in Aurora bring it close to my experience in my
place. A familiar setting, the magic of the movies. This consumes me. I feel sad
and empty tonight. I’ll write.<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-44199096081644366402012-07-21T08:30:00.004-05:002012-07-21T08:31:19.240-05:00mourning has broken<span style="background-color: white;">The communication sources, so many of them, in so many forms chattered
on and on yesterday analyzing and telling the story from Aurora Colorado. Mixed
emotions, collectively. Trauma. Ripped torn lives and bodies. Death. Weapons.
Scattered intellects. Horrible dreams. Victims still unnamed. The person who
shot his victims, quickly investigated, named, and his face stares at us with
smiling eyes. His official portrait. A time to mourn. We do not know how to
mourn. We know so much so quickly now. It’s difficult to take the time to
mourn, to somehow slow time and think in order to remember and relate to loss,
to people now gone. I know what is happening, but I find it difficult to write
clearly. I will try my best.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-2054262421955946182012-07-19T16:36:00.005-05:002012-07-19T16:38:06.030-05:00finger in the sand<span style="background-color: white; color: #5c1101; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">John 8: 3-11</span><br />
<div class="heading passage-class-0" style="color: #5c1101; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-top: 10px;">
<div class="txt-sm" style="font-size: 12px;">
King James Version</div>
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<span class="text John-8-3" id="en-KJV-26385"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">3 </sup>And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery; and when they had set her in the midst,</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-4" id="en-KJV-26386"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">4 </sup>They say unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act.</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-5" id="en-KJV-26387"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">5 </sup>Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-6" id="en-KJV-26388"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">6 </sup>This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not.</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-7" id="en-KJV-26389"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">7 </sup>So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-8" id="en-KJV-26390"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">8 </sup>And again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground.</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-9" id="en-KJV-26391"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">9 </sup>And they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last: and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst.</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-10" id="en-KJV-26392"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">10 </sup>When Jesus had lifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-11" id="en-KJV-26393"><sup class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">11 </sup>She said, No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.</span><br />
<span class="text John-8-11"><br /></span><br />
<span class="text John-8-11">what did he write?</span></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-41257419849738636642012-07-19T11:00:00.003-05:002012-07-19T11:02:02.081-05:00myth(s)-making is human<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I think humans create myths as part of being human. We experience. We imagine. We relate. We create stories we desire to tell. We forget. We remember. What we (want to) remember are the myths.</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">"Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board. For some they come in with the tide. For others they sail forever on the horizon, never out of sight, never landing until the Watcher turns his eyes away in resignation, his dreams mocked to death by Time. That is the life of men. Now, women forget all those things they don’t want to remember, and remember everything they don’t want to forget. The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly."</span></div>
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<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">opening lines from</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Their_Eyes_Were_Watching_God" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Their Eyes Were Watching God</a></i> by Zora Neale Hurston</span></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-20680580826698434872012-07-19T10:10:00.001-05:002012-07-19T10:13:20.567-05:00taxing<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. The
fact that you don’t want to show me yours makes me suspicious. You see, we live
in a world where suspicion and fear fuel how we feel, fix our perceptions. You
must understand that people have abused people. The abuse continues into the
present tense of our perceptions. We all cannot afford the fees necessary to
follow all the rules. Like playing golf, not everyone can afford the greens
fees, so we watch from outside the fence and wonder about the game. We can
watch it on a screen but we’re filled with the sort of wonder that’s not the
sentimental kind. It’s not the kind that fills us with awe. It’s more like
wonder that leads to longing, but not the variety of longing that leads to
happy encrusted desire. This longing over time ferments into jealousy. And that’s
really not good. Because we don’t truly know it, we long for things that are
unreal. I cannot fathom those numbers. I suppose if someone analyzes them and
relates them to my life, or presents them in a way I can take the time, if I
wish, to relate them to what I understand, maybe I’d understand more. I’ve
played a great deal of golf and I can relate to a slice. I’ve hit quite a few.
When I see a nice shot, the word nice means something. America is fascinated with
vetting and the process that goes along with the word. Juries judge art. A
friend recently had her paintings in a show, selected by a jury of one, she
said. The American election process consists of a mass jury; a diverse
unintelligible crowd of shouting and silent jurors. It reminds me of the floor
of the New York Stock Exchange. Raining down upon the crowd is a steady flurry
of paper. Can we gather enough papers, take the time to read them between the
shouts and the soundtracks? I’m not registered. I won’t vote. I’ll gather stray
papers and read what I care to read. Plentiful paper. In America, most eligible
jury members choose not to be part of the jury. For me, the crowd is the thing,
the chaos, the noise. We never really hear or see the ones selected, anyway.
All the papers swirling above our heads, the shouting to reveal numbers, that
to me is the essence of life. Longing for more paper raining down upon us. More
words. More numbers. More ballots that may end up being counted in our highest
jury room due to confusion and our incompetent counting methods. Are you
afraid?</span>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-47441490001085287542012-07-16T10:19:00.003-05:002012-07-16T10:20:25.440-05:00Midsummer Night’s magic interrupted with economics and self-promotion...Puck!<span style="background-color: white;">Last night I went to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the park,
Shakespeare in the Park that is, Kansas City style. The organizers and
promoters made lengthy announcements before the play. One after another, they
told us how great they were, how they need more money to do this, the corporate
underwriters and all that jazz. Their sermons detracted from the magic of the
play for me. But that’s the way of theater here. Preludes of announcements,
pleas for money, and reminders to silence cells. To do something different…
imagine people coming into a theater they know has a play commencing at 8. For
the house lights to dim at the appointed time. For the play to just begin.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-10884940422916573912012-07-16T10:10:00.000-05:002012-07-16T10:10:20.395-05:00Mitt Romney's returns<span style="background-color: white;">Read an interesting piece by Henry Blodget ( </span><a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/what-romney-is-hiding-2012-7" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="background-color: white;"> ) about Mitt Romney’s tax returns and Mitt’s
hesitance to make more of them public. In a very practical way, this makes a
lot of sense. It would be very easy to make a narrative about all of his
numbers if and when he releases his numbers. But what then? The numbers and our
focus upon them, our efforts to quantify things and measure gets in the way of
meaning. Why does Mitt desire the presidency? He has his reasons and his ideas. Right now the numbers discussion loudly keeps those ideas in the background.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2544423363652935600.post-74301319249329872682012-07-12T08:45:00.002-05:002012-07-12T08:52:07.440-05:00refining in julyHaving drilled deeply into the subject, it's time to refine the crude, that's actually elegant.Tom Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13752149104120912594noreply@blogger.com0