Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

I write a lot


What would you expect? I have a lifetime of stories stored up ready to come out.

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 7 August, 2017

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Filed under: Current Events

Why First Person? and Amateurs in Business


I squirm a little, OK, a lot, at writing so much so often in first person, always the I, I, I. One gets sick of it. Yet it is necessary. My story as it is happening now, this hour, this day, can only be told in first person. To tell it in third person would be to create an artificiality. The past, not yesterday, not last week, but further back, yes, there is a story that can be told in third person, where I writing from the other end of a QWERTY keyboard, can turn the I, the me, into he, or she. You won’t know, You will be unaware of whether that character you are reading of is me or some other. Even if you know me well, and few do, including my wife. Perhaps no one knows any of us. Well. For we cannot come as adults, and tell our stories, all in their gory or happy details to anyone. They are too many, are so rich. such that pages and pages cannot hold their width and depths. Even novels the size of War and Peace cannot.

We can only ever tell a part. A tiny part.

I am aware that, still in the last stages of recovery from a lifetime of depression, I am shaky on these pages. Like a man who confined to bed for a long period is wobbly on his feet at first. But, here as I write, I am finding my feet. I am not being paid for this, though soon I shall but on other page so who cares if I misstep. (OK I know you care,  you really do, those of you who come to these pages)/ Few have expectations of literacy, sense, self honesty. in a blog as a brief survey of a few of personal bogs will show. Not all, I stress. Some.

The expectations are not high. Should content be of merit, readership will be stratospheric in its numbers. Lucky them. With 18 wheelers arriving at the doorstep daily to deliver the fans’ mail, or at least the Internet equivalent of this, perish the thought.

So there is not excuse for my infelicities. But they will go, they will vanish from these pages as I get into stride. A long distance runner practicing for the race of life.

There is another side to all that I write here. For scores of years I wrote within the confines of engineering. Such writing is formal, stiff, stilted; procedures and safety instructions have perforce to be. But I did not, refused to, write in prose that did not flow, regardless of the formality. I would imagine that is what had me be a good technical, engineering writer. One of the best.

Now, dear reader, I come into a field, the arts, where a semiformal style of speech, act and way of writing rules, holds sway. And I find it difficult to adjust to. Saatchi Art, bless their cotton socks, are business like, doing business with them is a pleasure, straightforward. With others it is not and they are not. Their staff come from the outside world and they have no training in their craft, their work.

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 7 August, 2017

Filed under: Current Events

My story, or a tiny part of it


In brief I shall try to be.

I have befriended a wrecker driver at a place in Rice Village, one of the few villages left within the inner city of this megatropolis that constitutes Houston and its outer cities and suburbs, the place where I have attempted to do my physical art – they didn’t like me doing it there so am on the market for a suitable studio of no cost (fat chance). He waits, vulture like, to pounce on those who park illegally in the parking lot of this place, my ex-temporary art studio. He stands inside waiting for prey to arrive and watch for victims merrily walking off to shop in the neighbouring stores, oblivious to the fact that, in ignoring the warning of in the event of them parking there, they will be towed. He tows them mercilessly; it is his job, his responsibility, no matter how unpopular it makes him.

So there he is, watching vigilantly for those who don’t take warning signs seriously. I normally nestle in front of my computer and get on with what I am doing, digital art, or ordering my art on the Saatchi Art site, one of my two online art galleries, the other is Art Finder, or on some other task, attempting to be as inconspicuous as I can, to not draw attention to myself; I go there every day for four hours or so. Itinerant artist, truly.

He stands at the window, glaring, Gestapo like, head butted forward like a pitbull plus. Occasionally I talk to him. He is a captive audience, and I try my best to not be led into the position of taking advantage of that. We get to know each other a little. Two weeks or so ago, we are sat outside on a bench to the side of the car lot. It is quiet. At that hour, quiet in the Village, there are few shoppers. He is relaxed. I tell him a little of my private life. I feel a confidence in him, that he is real, really real, that underneath the posture of what he feels he requires to perform what is unpleasant work, is a gentle, caring human being who cares for his wife and loves his children. He tells me of some of the intimate details of his life; of how he and his wife and gone through the shallows of a difficult time to avoid a divorce: she slept with another man and he found out. This is a difficult topic for anyone, to describe a surely painful experience. But, and here is the nub, twice he says, “to cut a long story short;” twice. Here is a man in charge of his life. And he can tell his story, one that had, at the time, great passion in it. He can now tell it with the dispassion that such a difficult passage in all our lives this story requires. He sees it with the perspective that allows us to make wisdom of such events, regardless of how hard they seemed to plough through at the time.

At a later point in our chat, the conversation turned to art. He had seen me building a tower crane, a child’s construction toy, destined, when finished, to play the part in a work, not yet completed, called The New Arrival Safely Delivered – it stands my bedroom awaiting the funds for its completion. He tells me, “incorporate your poetry in your art.” I have thrice, with The Naked Canvas, Did a Single Tear Fall, and Slaughter’s Laughter, but he does not know this and it is inappropriate to tell him. Besides, dear reader, when did I tell him that I write poetry? I didn’t. The man is intuitive, perhaps deeply so.

Some time later, oh ten, twenty.minutes or so; he has told me several other stories of himself, he turns to me and says, “Tell your stories in third person, not first person.”

All this from a wrecker driver. Not something you would normally expect.  But this is how my life is now: jewels from people whom I have just met, who respond with a depth of honesty with which all of us are capable excising but for a huge variety of reasons, cannot employ, Is this how I am; to inspire in others so much confidence that they speak freely and truly to me. What greater gift could any artist wish for.

But I tell myself daily now, Expect the unexpected.” And does the unexpected happen?You bet it does. In truckloads.

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 7 August, 2017

All of the art works of mine referred to above can be seen at Saatchi Art Online.

Filed under: Current Events

In Praise of You Tube: the music


The Internet adds immeasurably to the depth and pleasure of our lives. The Internet brings what seems at times an infinity of riches with more being added, sometimes it seems daily. The building blocks of the Web came into place early in its birth. Only some of those in no sense of importance to any other that emerged its early days: Wikipedia, Google. Our lives as a result have been transformed and will continue to do so in ways not yet imagined. We are in many ways dependent on the availability of being able to go online at anywhere we go at any time. We demand  faster and faster search speeds, wider and wider bandwidth.  The dependence is now approaching the critical with no backup. For example, were internet phones access not be available the effect would be extensive, paralysing and, in some cases, catastrophic. AT&T told my wife that they are no longer a telephone company they are an Internet one. No thought appears to be given by the powers that be to what the effect would be were the Internet not be available. No emailing, for example. But this is not the subject of this post. This topic has been touched on in previous posts, and wit willing, will be expanded on in future posts.

Foremost of these Web foundational stones in You Tube. Competitors of this service, can it be referred to in that way. You Tube has become a sort of utility that water and electricity are, have come and gone and most have disappeared into the night never to appear again. The Web comprises many monoliths which hold total dominance in their field on the Internet. There is danger in this two. The hallmarks of these giants is their sheer excellence and their continual improvement of what they offer and how they offer it.

In this post only what value You Tube brings to music will be discussed. I seldom, if ever use the medium for much else.

So what is this value, values, that You Tube brings to music. There are many and I fear I shall not touch on them all. But sufficient will be said here to start you thinking.

It is difficult to give an order of priorities of these values. But one, at least, has to be sound quality. Individuals and You Tube itself have striven to improve the sound quality. The quality now exceeds that offered by the Compact Disc which while offering convenience and far more length than vinyl or cassettes or their forerunners, does not offer the quality of sound that vinyl offered which is why vinyl has reemerged as the leading recored sound medium. CDs never brought any kind of felicitousness of sound to classical music in any of its forms. What the CD did do for classical music were essential two things: length, whole operas extending over hours, which made those new to the musical form, I am sure, a wonder at how any human could sit through three, four and even five hours of sometimes excruciatingly difficult or awful music, depending on your taste. What CDs also did was bring a cornucopia of classical music to the listening public, at least to those who are fervent about it: to mention any particular recording label would be invidious, but there are companies which offer unbelievale amount of music at prices less than a paperback.  Companies making and selling CDs emerged into the market place taking the availabily of classical music into the most arcane of musical history and at its cutting edge. The range on offer is breathtaking: early music, composers who whose music would otherwise never seen the light of day after their death if it even had any kind of exposure during their lifetimes. Of course, such music is of questionable worth, some of it quite awful; derivitave to the extreme and incompetent in its composition, appealing only to the most acquisitive of classical music collects.

CDs brought to music such an extentive range of forms and styles that, in my case, leaves me with hundreds and hundreds of recordings all of which I have listened, and some repeatedly.  They offer a musical companion in driving the long distances required of me when I was a professional engineer, required as part of my work to drive into the corners of whatever country I happened to live in at the times to reach constructions sites. Cassettes, well the less said about them the better.

The availability of CDs at the very least offered music lovers and buyers access to music they may never otherwise have listened or even knew the existence of. Among these were those who discovered classical music and sometimes became devotees.

You Tube besides the sheer wonderful sound quality of the music if offers, makes available a range of music exceeding that even of CDs. Music from the extreme corners of the Earth can be found on You Tube. Individual or groups of people with no training in music nor with the remotest talent to play it, and on occasion with tin ears where music is concerned, in other words, tone deaf, can record in a few hours on a Saturday can record music, or what is offered would sounds like the equivalent of sonic garbage, liquid or otherwise, played live in a garage, or something similar overdubbed out the kazoo, over electronically manipulated with machine drums and the like, taking original musical sources, existing popular songs and rendering them utterly unrecongaizeing. These are laughably called covers, What covering a song means. I am not sure. Covering the original work with a duvet and strangling the life out it, so that we have to listen to the poor original being mangled to death. The aural result defies with  all but a millisecond of listening before one shuts of the musical post on You Tube and rushes to something well tried and trusted and true to regain our sanity, at recover our musical one.

I am being absurdly extreme about only one tiny corner of the infinity of the musical universe that You Tube offers.

To return to a sobriety of writing let’s enumerate some of the wonderful music that You Tube offers which, prior to its existence, was not remotely available to those of us who listen to music occasionally, or frequently, or even abed, asleep through the night with meditative nonsense murmuring to us throughout our sleep. I make no apology for a well developed taste in music with very particular awareness to what I like and don’t like but am always willing to expand. And enjoy. If one is a musical traveller, exploring new territories, there is much to find among the strange and exotic.

You Tube offers the opportunity to listen to bands whose original recordings were execrable. Take the Velvet Underground for example. I could detect that their music was good, excellent; a leader among their peers with inimatable songs, “I’m waiting for m’ man, with 26 dollars in my hand.”  How could one live without knowing this song. The sound quality on You Tube brings this band to life, as with many others, like an old master’s painting restored from being previously covered with centuries of layers of dust and varnish to being pristine and as bright and light as the day it was painted.  You Tube has performed this wonder to many, many bands who sounded before this sound quality to be playing from a covering of mud six feet deep. One heard a sound like a baby gurgling from a mile off. Yet, despite the efforts of recording companies to bury these bands in their inept use of the recording studios, the sheer wonder of the bands’ originality shone through despite being barely perceptible. Another band which suffer a similar treatment at the time were the Doors. Poor Jim Morrison sounded like he was singing through the wrong end of a speaking trumpet!

Before I continue with the wonders of what You Tube brings to music, not all of what it offers is gold. Some is dross as spoken of above but little of it thank goodness. One form that this, this deplorability, if that even be a word, are Official Videos. These bring nothing to the music, and are nothing for the most part but a distraction or annoyance. This is not true of some lover of the music lover who has taken time, trouble and expertise to provide a meaningful, even interesting, visual accompaniment to the aural pleasure of listening. Watching while listening is seldom necessary or brings an added dimension to the listening. Exceptions to this are those vehicles which by their conception combine the music and the visual. But these forms must have action for them to be successful in their combination, even integration: opera, musicals. What would West Side Story be without Maria singing, “Tonight, tonight is not just any night…” In passing let’s note how immeasurable one’s life is enhanced by such an experience. Music has a dubious role to play as a soundtrack to a film. Borrowing from existing music may spoil, sully, in future listening to a one favourite piece, song or whatever. I am sure countless examples in your own life. However, what would Gone with the Wind be without that glories sound track. Countess examples can be mentioned. However, however there are dangerous territories where the sound accompaniment to a dramatic film is not simply extraneous to the film’s or whatever it portrays. What business is there for music to accompay Private Ryan coming over the hill in Victory and Triumph with shell holes and mangled and dead body parts all around. Music in this setting is incongruous, grating and downright misplaced. The judgement of those who decided to place it there are seriously  deficient in their ability to make films, if not dysfunctional as individuals. No one in their right mind would put music to the visiting of one of the Holocaust camps, (as a Tourist, of course).

“Private” Ryan? What’s private about Ryan? His private parts? Oh, I see, you mean he’s not a sergeant. What a relief he is not. Any army is better off without him in that role. All the men, the colonels and generals included, would desert. But we digress.

You Tube brings further benefits to music. The discovery of bands whom we have heard of but have never listened to. Posts of albums of a group which we never owned or even knew that band, a favourite band even recorded. Concerts that bands made in some remote part of the world which we could for various reasons never attend, even if performed in an adjacent town, never mind in Moscow, or Tokyo. Tangerine Dream’s Concert in Poland, one the finest recordings, if you are a fan, of their music ever made.

Or videos of whatever quality from the past which have survived in some basement, say or recorded by some fan at the time and never previously had an outlet for their showing for example, the Beatles in Hamburg with Tony Sheridan, with Peter Best and … before they even became the Beatles and were called … playing and singing the most unlikely of covers of songs from other artists after they broke free of Tony Sheridan, the less of whom the better. Or old rock programs made my German television companies who were world leaders in the presentation of this musical form long before others, alongside side early American television programmes in black and white, where presenters guested bands, groupsm were shown whom the presenter would never have listened to in his private life even if you strapped him to a chair in order for him to do so. Never mind, that fact that these group were given a platform in the first place is a wonder in itself.

Through You Tube you can hear bands playing music their records companies would never allow them to record, play music for which those same record companies could not record for copyright reasons. You Tube can bring to us individual musicians can be seen and heard who could not otherwise be seen and heard together at those self same concerts which we could never have gone to. To allow us to see and hear those parts of the first Woodstock concert we missed because of the rain and mud we fled from or simply had other commitments. We always have those, don’t we.

You Tube allows us to listen to music, especially that that would never otherwise be available to us. Record companies refused to record, “Not commercial, won’t sell, won’t top the charts and make us millions while you get halfpennies.” Or the bands or singers simply didn’t have record contracts to record them or were simply disinclined to have such contracts in the first place, or didn’t have agents who built their image like Colonel without Elvis Presley would never have been hear of, never heard. I am sorry the good Colonel punted him and not some better talent. But that is personal taste and may offend some who admired him, even idolised him, Heaven forfend.

You Tube allows us to discover music deep within the labyrinth of its is ever abundant, seemingly endless, joys. Posts, do they call putting up music and videos on You Tube “posts” (Oh dear, I am sometimes – often – so ignorant) where their popularity measures in the ones and twos where other videos visits measure in their countless millions, viewers from ever place in the world, even the Artic, from atop Mount Kilimanjaro?

The extent of what You Tube offers seems endless and surely our lives have been enhanced by its existence.

By way of a footnote, these articles, written by the present author will contain in them in eloquencies of speech, inadequacy of expression, obscurity of meaning, deficiency of grammar and spelling errors, others. I will attempt to spot and correct those that stand out from a cursory reading. Some will remain. I do not intend to polish them. They are not designed, nor intended to be published within the domain of some august medium, an international, and internationally respected newspaper, let us say. where such things would disgrace the paper or medium in question, have subscribers and reader flee in droves and millions of readers deluge the editors with vituperative language which would even have a nun blush.

No, they are offered, warts and all, for their possible, questionable, charm at the speed with the speed intact at which they were written and the spontaneity of their producing.

I intend with these articles to run the gamut from the highly elevated to the lower forms of writing without descending into the banal. At best I intend to place within them some humour, that great stuff of life as good as if not better that water, in its necessity of life, the life of humans.

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 7 August, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed under: Arts, Current Events, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

Writer; writing


People sometimes say to me, seeing me write, or learning that I do, “I want to write, to be a writer.” This nonsense, one either writes or one does not, there is no in between. Though I don’t tell this in those words. I am more polite. I mean writing is not like wanting to  walk on the moon; now that we have literacy and have the ability as a result to write, writing comes naturally to us like driving, a car, an automobile. Wanting to walk on the moon is different. Although they have stopped sending rockets there. At least for the time being. It doesn’t matter diddley squat whether you write badly or well or somewhere in-between. You write because you want to, are driven to. Those of us who write, do not write for fame or fortune, though the latter might be a worthy goal. The wannabe seeks celebrity in the way that many say, “I want to be rich.” Well, you will never be. You not get rich, unless you are given to thievery, or skullduggery, through hard work, relentless effort, always pushing and pushing yourself whatever difficulties you face, whatever obstacles you meet. No wall is insurmountable. You simply find a way round it.

As I stand at the threshold of becoming a professional writer, as I know I will, I am finally learning my craft – took some time – I am learning that what makes a writer, a good writer, is not skill or talent, not a gift for the blarney, but a control of ones tools; a mastery of our language, whatever that language be, learnt at the mother’s side, at school, and a willingness to pay attention. To watch what we write and take a dispassionate view of it. Writing well can never come from the “look how clever I am” approach, the narcissistic.

I met a fellow the other night at one of the few all night food places here in Houston, Texas – there used to be more – (I shall never use the real names of the people I meet or talk of or photograph unless they specifically give me permission to do so). I had not met him since 1988. He wanted share with me “what he had written recently.” He thrust in front of me some writing he had recently done, 40 pages or 400 pages. “You want me to read all of it now?” I said. I could see that the merest glance that it was junk. He kept doing this until it was as plain as the typeface of a bill board that I was not going to do so.

He started to read it out loud, unasked, uninvited. It was utter bilge, imbecilic. He was reading to assure himself. I told him that he was ,,, the word I used above, that he was self absorbed, not a pretty thing to see or hear in public. His companion of the opposite sex, if we still have such things, who seem to be of uncertain relationship to him, said, ”He does that all the time.” To be a companion of such a man, no wonder the relationship was opaque to me. Was made so by her when I had earlier asked her.

So, writing. Yes. I have tried to write all my life. Been told countless times that I have the makings of a good writer, even a great one, but have never been able to. I have kept continuously a journal, the study is filled with piles of the completed, favoured note books I use. But they are all full of junk, too embarrassing to go back and read.

What one needs at the very least in order to write is a clear head. And, through depression I never had one. If one is not clear as to what one wishes to write, how on earth can you. You stumble and stumble. Some call it writer’s block but maybe that is different. I have never known it.

Now the journal I keep is filled with stuff I can read, that makes sense, that I shall have to go back and read to ensure that I have followed up, will follow up, on the notes contained therein.

You know, it is funny. I come to the arts, the arts of writing, of the visual, of music at this stage of my life always having wanted, passionately, to do what I am doing now.

I come into the arts world fully fledged or close to it, some polishing required and drop right in the middle of it. How can this be? Because all that I have ever done, all those playwriting classes, those journalism classes where I have been told, “you have an eye for story, for the headline,” this from a leading writer for the Guardian, this was years ago at the University of the Witwatersrand, “Malcolm, I would pay you to attend my classes. You have what I try to teach my students,”  at the same place by a professor o journalism at Rhodes University where he was visiting from. To be told by an artist with whom I took a life drawing class in San Antonio when I was visiting my brother there in 1977, as he looked at a life drawing I had just produced, “That line is beautiful.” No higher praise can be got from a teacher of art, of life drawing.

I say all this not to boast. Why should I? Such behaviour I find obnoxious in others why would I not find it so in myself. I guess I tell it to tell my story. Of how it is that I am now doing what I am doing. And come out of the blue to do it.

OK, my writing smacks of the prolix, of the stumbles, inelegant expressions, of repetitions, of redundancies, of spelling errors occassionaly, of words inappropriatenes in their use. Of never using 2 words where 20 will do. Of making a point too heavily. Of being didactic, horror upon horrors. The learning writer makes mistakes, I have them all. But, as in most things in life, we learn by doing. We make mistakes. One is too many with knowledge aforehand, two mistakes too many not good, beyond that, you are destined to lead a life where you always do that, are incapable of learning, are blind to what you need to do: pay attention. No detail too small.

So here we are on the threshold of a new life; or have already begun: beginning life again as if I were twenty, when first time round I got off on the wrong foot and have up yesterday, or the day before, or a year go. And now am turning round.

The transformation.

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 6 August, 2017

Filed under: Arts, Current Events, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, politics, songs, stories

Those of you who have been paying close attention


and those that haven’t, will know that I have been undergoing a transformation.

You know, the great thing about a blog is that you can write freely. You don’t hold people here on the terrestrial captive while you go on and on … and on and on. Those who come to the blog are free to read or not read what I write. I don’t use bad language and I seek to not offend with my outspokenness. My stuff  is interesting to some and not to others and might be boring at times and of interest to no one. That is what a blog is all about.

Well …  the transformation. After a lifetime of being locked within the prison of depression I am all but free. And life, now, is a revelation. Night and day is not a sufficient an expression to describe what is now going on. A contrast between those lives is difficult to word.

There are so, so many examples I can give. Two:

I was at *$ on South Rice and was talking to a man, an Eritrean whom I have known for some 10 to 15 years. He goes there to join a group of his fellow countrymen, no women. He went through a long period where he did not greet me. One seldom knows what is going on in a person’s life whom you know only slightly, and I was telling of what I now do; the arts suff and all that.

Readers, the response was astonishing. This, believe me, is happening daily. He talked of Dubai. I know this city, along with some others in the world, intends to put itself on the map for the future. Big time. He talks of the buildings. I find them so … well I find difficulty in looking at pictures of those built and drawings of those to be build. They are so fantastic that they seem to be like those we saw in the space comics we read as kids.

The point is that he told me of a Festival of Digital Art; I haven’t looked yet. You mean there is a market for the stuff I do?

Yesterday, Sunday, another glorious day in Houston. 81degF when I came out of the house, no humidity, and this is August when this city is usually like a steaming jungle of tall of office towers and residential buildings not trees where the stuff is so thick you could almost walk on it. I was in Guitar Centre in the afternoon, and was speaking to the Customer Support Manager; one can see why he has that role. Anyway, at the conclusion of our conversation during which he told me in response to my telling him that I has started composing, that he too composes, I invited him to make a concluding statement, he said, “Malcolm, cut loose.”

I can say that we humans understand everything, retain everything, we have ever said, heard or seen within our subconscious, but intellectually I didn’t know what he meant. I did and did not understand what he meant. But what a gift, and I get them day after day after day.

As the Eritrean and I were parting to go our separate ways, one of the people behind the counter, they all know me, I have been going there ever since we bought the house in 1998, came up behind me, close but not too close, and said, “Whatever you are doing, you are doing it right. Keep doing it.”

Truly human beings are astonishing, not in the sense of being clever, coming up with all this stuff around us, walking on the moon and all that, but exhibiting the capacity to understand and respond to a fellow human being in the way I am daily witnessing. This is humanity in all senses of the word. Why we do not see it in our governments or corporations or institutions of whatever kind, I don’t know. What I am seeing and hearing around me in the interactions now taking place in my life clearly say that we, as a species among many, are capable of creating a great world, not a Utopia,  not that that Marxism sought, but something different, something we have never seen. 

But perhaps it is only me. That something in me evokes this response in others. But, readers, it keeps happening. Now, no envy … I am here to share my world when and as often as I can with you.

Why not pass on the energy and uplift in me that those around like and admire.

We only have such gifts as I am receiving to share and pass them on. I am right glad to.

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 7 August, 2017

 

Filed under: Current Events

I’m a bad boy


I have lost three posts in draft. Am kicking up a stink with WP and making a nusiance of myself and WP folks, I am sure they are all sweethearts in real life, but they are kicking back and adopting a strange stentorian tone:  you should’ve done this and you should have done that … really?

I post this note so’s you all know. I wrote three of the best writings I have ever done by way of posts. They are not reproducible. I shall move on. The next posts will be even better. Can’t do better than that, right?

To all my lovely reader, followers and visitors alike, thank you. Every reader matters. Should there be only one reader for a post, that’s a lot more than simply me writing in the vacuum of my journal. To write publicly, ah, such bliss.

This is not written in the spirit of seeking sympathy; I don’t think I would welcome it. But sharing, ah that is different.

Malcolm D B Munro
Written this wonderful day,
Monday 7 August, 2017 where the temperature was 86degF when I cam out of the house;

One I spent yesterday, is, was, a post on Music on You Tube. 4-1/2hours to write. And I not supposed to be upset? Maybe I’ll try again. Maybe not.

Any of you bloggers have problems with saving now that the saving button has gone?Stupid thing to do in my ugly opinion.

Filed under: Arts, Current Events, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, politics, songs, stories

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