Damn Yankee - George S Geisinger (books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT) 📗

music for classic guitar, one might think I'd capture the funk rock sound in my own music, but apart of its allure to me is that I can never approach it myself. I can't hold a candle to it. My own playing is entirely different.
It's like listening to Arthur Rubinstein, the late, great piano virtuoso, playing Chopin and Beethoven, live in concert, which I did have the unique pleasure of doing when I was the young music student in university. The concert was at Duke University in the early 1970's. I kept my seat then, with a palpitating heart, not daring to leave for even a moment, on that historic occasion, for fear of distracting the master.
The Hendrix – Vaughn sound is as captivating and as inspiring as the other, to my personal ear, and since there is not a large, live audience listening with rapt attention, to distract the concentrating master performer in the event that I felt compelled to flee, I retreat to the hallway, halfway through the recording as it plays, in a self-consciousness that is as personal as to escape expression here. I think I'll have a flashback.
But I continue to plan excursions to my friend's apartment for more hard rock at the hard rock cafe. It's just too good to stay away from too long.

Chapter 4

We have a perfectly matched pair of turtledoves here at the great Brighton Dam; young lovers, who must both be mere octogenarians, by some sweet coincidence, who float down our hallways cooing in perfect harmony with each other, as their feet scarcely touch the floor, almost like a couple of teenagers, his hand lovingly holding the crook of her thin, white arm as they walk; they happen to be so much in love they remain contained between each other.
They walk our grounds without ever being apart from each other in spirit, sitting in perfect, mutually shared solitude at the only romantic, two-seated table in the dining room, the only one situated by the window, while the rest of us have our insignificant dinners as though none of us exists in their two-in-one life they share between them.
They are not unfriendly or less than cordial with any of us. We speak and are recognized, spoken to with every measure of kindness and solicitude. They are every bit as polite as anyone could hope for. But in the greater sense, we are all, simply irrelevant to them.
They are joined together more significantly than any preacher, priest or justice of the peace could ever join anyone. One can see the union between them from afar off, without hardly intending to notice; their union is so natural and complete. They are truly one flesh.
One cannot help noticing how cute they are together.
In a single, vain attempt to hold a conversation with the lovely lady myself, with peeked curiosity, I'm told at every turn of attempting to give any historical accounting of my own, selfish existence; I'm reminded of the total, nonexistence of her memory. She lives completely in the moment, and no one exists in that moment other than the each other of the two of them.
Trying to tell her something about myself was simply useless. I am just as irrelevant to her, to – them, as everyone else is.
They are both cordial and considerate, within the soul of propriety in everything. She has her apartment, he has his. The two apartments are completely in separate areas, and their comings and goings are habitually of the utmost propriety, in reference to time of day, associations in every way, etc.
They are simply consumed by their harmonious, mutual existence, in spite of themselves.
One afternoon, living as I do, next door to the beloved by simple coincidence, I was in the hallway with my physical therapist, practicing my balance, as a part of my physical therapy, by walking backwards holding the pretty, young therapist's hand. Our gentleman lover opens the door of his beloved's apartment, sees the two of us in the hallway, and calls back into the apartment that there are people dancing in the hallway at the moment, and that they should delay their departure for lunch.
They are that charming.
We simply finished the therapy session, and went our own way, and the turtledoves end up in the dining room for luncheon as one, as always, without further regard for us “dancers” in the slightest.
I have loved like that in my lifetime; and lost, as I hope they never do.

Chapter 5

The great Brighton Dam is nestled in a quiet country setting. The waters of an active river collect here. One approaches the dam coming down hill from either direction. It's beautiful here. The forest and hills surround the entire area, while the collective waters focus on a major city's water supply somewhere to the south of this lovely wooded area.
Then, there are the people here.
There is the self-effacing Mouth of the South, who unfortunately enough for the rest of us, dwells in our midst.
“I'm leaving, and I'm taking my mouth with me,” he announces defiantly after every meal. He's doing us a favor by going back to his apartment. Don't hold your breath.
“Have a nicer day,” he says, looking for people's relief to register on their faces. Yet, he lingers, savoring the display of cringing faces still at the tables, as we anticipate more self-effacing humor that is not funny, as he stands over us, talking about leaving, while not leaving.
He's always referring to his mouth, as if it's a separate entity from himself.
“I can't help it. I've got diarrhea of the mouth,” he says, in the midst of the community dining room in a loud voice, while he's at table, as people try to eat their food.
He's doing us all a big favor by leaving, while he's not leaving but standing over us, as if he wishes he could leave his mouth behind when he exits, to continue the disdain he projects, after he's gone back to his vacuous life.
I can hardly believe he was a professional high school teacher.
The man publicly refuses to accept any responsibility for the things he says, as if he is not in control of his thoughts or words at all, but rather that he is under the control of someone or something other than himself, whenever he talks.
His voice carries throughout the hundred-seat dining room, as if he were using a microphone, and the Mouth of the South seems to delight himself in being a consternation to all those around him. He's leaving ever so slowly, standing first on one leg, then on the other, looking people in the eye, if they'll let him, one after the other, as he scans the room, enjoying every sign of discomfiture he can find, as he balks at his departure.
He'll leave his seat at his table before he eats, where there are a few sitting who have resigned themselves to putting up with him, and he'll go horn in on visitors' conversations, standing over their tables without segway into their conversations, delighting in being dubbed a “character,” by unsuspecting people who don't know him.
He's a self-appointed clown who simply does not get it that he's not funny.
It could be said of him that he's cruisin' for a bruisin', but this is a sheltered environment, expressly so for a refuge for seniors, and is generally devoid of violence. We are all screened for harmlessness in our backgrounds, chosen for our mutual safety and mutual comfort. It is unlikely that anyone here would take a poke at him, though he tempts everyone every time he takes a breath and opens his mouth.
He wants to be a nuisance.
One wonders how he passed the entrance requirements to be accepted here, and how he remains here with such impunity. How he ever gets away with his demeanor is beyond me.
Actually, his claim that he is not in control of what he says is probably not so far from the truth in some sense, except that he claims the ineptitude as he's practicing the behavior, acknowledging full awareness of it while propounding he's not in control of it. It seems like a double standard to me.
What goes around comes around. There remains the consequences for the actions of us all, in the final analysis of life.
The Mouth of the South is not misbehaving with as much impunity as he believes of himself, as he demands his two beers per meal. He'd like to have more beer. He'd like to have people call him a character more often.

Chapter 6

There is a gentleman farmer here, retired, who conspicuously keeps the company of two of our ladies. He associates with two of the ladies in the most wide open and frank manner, that one would wonder what goes on in the minds of either of the ladies involved.
There doesn't seem to be any of the adolescent notion of “going together,” among them, and there seems to be no contention among them otherwise, whatsoever.
***
Earlier, before the time this tripling took place, before these particular ladies arrived here at the great Brighton Dam Apartments, this gentleman, and I do not use the word lightly – I consider him absolutely a gentleman – was known to keep the company of another one of the ladies, sitting at their own table among others who would sit with them, myself included from time to time, in the great Brighton Dam dining room day after day, and spent time together otherwise as well, until this particular lady took her leave, went to the hospital, and quietly passed away.
The deceased was well advanced in years by the time I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance, and was indeed a delightful, charming individual in her own right. She was well up in her 90's, at the last there, and seemed perfectly content in every way by the time I met her, her junior by a full 30-odd years, and then some. She seemed perfectly content to spend her time with us here, in this calm waiting room for the end of one's lifetime. It was her one misfortune to suffer a bad fall toward the end of her life, which did not seem to bother her much, except that she had unsightly bruises on her face that were slow in healing. She did not complain about any discomfort, though.
One fact about my personal background is that I was surrounded by the elderly in my formative years. I lived with my grandmother, two of her elderly sisters, my aunt, and my mother, along with my three siblings, from the time I was entering adolescence. To be in the company of my elders seems only natural to me, and I enjoy it, by enlarge.
It is only when one of my elders insinuates an untoward relationship, that I find myself revolting against her. Girls talk about dirty old men...
We all have our fantasies, but there needs to be a limit. I'm talking about one of my elders hitting on me, here. I'm not preaching to anyone but myself. I suffer from the same malady with my juniors.
What goes around comes around.
Furthermore, I offer a heart-felt apology to any of my juniors around here who might feel unduly uncomfortable because of me. I don't wish