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Here is a Sup—I mean repository of the texts of my together with some readings of them. The essays were broadcast by WXXI 91.5 Classical of Rochester, NY on Salmagundy each Saturday at 9:35am Eastern Time, from the beginning of time (1985) till May 2009 when Entropa (evil Goddess of Change-for-the-Worse-or-Possibly-the-Worst) troubled the minds of the WXXIites and they retired Simon and Salmagundy, and Rochester went into a terminal decline---for ever.
I continued on that brilliant bastion of all that's good and kultured, WCLV's syndicated Weekend Radio on many (mainly NPRish) stations traditionally on the first and third weekends of the month, though weekendage varied, till the horror crept ever onward and that too was devoured (in August 2023, a date which will live in infamy or at lease mild irritation)... and only I remain, defiant though wimpering.
Richard Howland-Bolton
There are pop-up pics and links all over the place here. In text they are indicated by a double underline like this:
mouse-overing brings the pop-up up and clicking (usually) goes to the link |
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Ahh! In the old days when I was still young and skillful (and cut a dashing figure) I lived the adventurous life of a professional photographer---why I even took photos! (Oh the fond memories: the original sinar-P, the Hasselblad SWC, the Nikon f-2, and (I'm afraid) finally the young ladies who while keeping all of their clothes on some of the time, never could manage to keep all of their clothes on all of the time--which, by the way, I believe is one of those things that it turns out that Abraham Lincoln never actually said)
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When everything is going awry and I'm feeling down, and depressed and nigh on utterly, slougherly despondent1, I find that I get great comfort from remembering that old saying "This too will pass" and, things being the way they are, in time it does pass and all is well again and new and bright and full of joy: and then of course I can't help but remember that old saying "This too will pass". I believe they call this ‘bipolar disorder’.
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In the spring a young tree’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of ...
well, though I’d like to, I can hardly put what it is that they’re doing into human terms, at least not on this programme, at least not unless we’ve just been taken over by Howard Stern...
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‘I gent to the gentist the o’er gay and...’ well I can stop that nonsense right now, because I only went for my six-monthly cleaning and check up and oil change, and I only mention it because while I was there I had one of those co-incidences without which these essays would be a lot less common.
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As the year starts its inexorable crawl towards the heat of summer and the season of open windows and drive-by boomings and parties and loud music and I retreat into my shell, I am minded of that old story of noise abatement and the consequences of taking the law into ones own hands.
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I think I have mentioned before that I once stepped onto London Bridge on the north bank of the Thames in London and then stepped off it again at the other end in Lake Havasu City in Arizona.
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I suppose I just have to jump on the band-waggon before it leaves the stati... um... before it leaves whatever band-wagons leave from, and add my few comments to the many on that new movie thing from that Mel Gibson person.
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One of the most wonderfully ironic things about the latest technology is the way it makes it so much easier to live in the past. (I've had thoughts like these before, and I'm sure I must have mentioned them on this station before, probably because I'm getting too long in the essay not to repeat myself).
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If you ever happen to visit my web site I probably need to give you an explanation or an excuse or something because...
well...
well...
I suppose it's really rather a lot like that old joke (or perhaps it's not actually a joke, but more properly an old philosophical crux or perhaps even a kōan ), you know it, I'm sure; it's the one where the man goes into a strange town (at least it's strange to him) and then he decides that he absolutely must have a haircut.
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Well I finally started that photo essay1 , as I'm sure you'll be pleased to know---or maybe you don't know about it. You see, for months I've been meaning to document the strangely, inordinately inaccurate parking habits of a particular little red Volkswagen Beetle who always manages to get in to our parking garage at work before me and hence (since I'm always nearly the first one to arrive in the mornings) before everyone else, and so with an entire garage to park in it still manages, every morning to park on (rather than between) the lines that mark out our individual bays.
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