• begin with me •

I was put off, at first, and a bit hurt, to be honest, when my daughter of nineteen years informed me that I needed to ‘ask permission’, to touch her hair (I had reached out to touch her long auburn ‘tresses’, and was complimenting her on its beauty), but now I see that I really should be rather pleased that she feels entitled to ‘control her space’, and to make the rules, where her values and personal agency are concerned. In fact, having thought it through, I am pleased as punch that she felt okay with establishing new ‘borders’, even with me, her dad, and for me to be okay with it. In fact, darling daughter, begin with me. That’s my job, in a way, isn’t it.
~ Tim Burchfield
11/26/17

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• ain’t that history something •

Turns out, (the First)
Queen Elizabeth,
Sovereign of the Seven Seas,
and of all of Britannia to be,
‘went commando’
(and, that’s a fact),
under all of that exquisite
Elizabethan finery.
“Did I hear that right?”
I heard myself say,
recollecting.
“Well, alright, then.
Imagine that.
Ain’t that history something!”
~ Tim Burchfield
11/21/17

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• vcr day •

I’m looking at a stack of movies.(Whup, I’ve been “organizing” again… does it never END?)
I’m thinking about a VCR day.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen Notting Hill. Can you believe it? (I’ve, finally, I think, pretty much gotten over my aversion to what’s-his-name; I hear Julia Roberts gets (got) good reviews, but I’ll be the judge of that. (My mom had a thing about ‘her mouth’. I couldn’t see it, “What, ma, it’s UPSIDE DOWN??!!” I’d speculate.
What she’d say, I couldn’t make out, something about a horse, I think…but I digress.)
Oh, man. Frantic. Paris, France, International Intrigue. Harrison Ford and Betty Something…I met her, once, at an elevator landing. It was on the fritz. The elevator. You know, for a little woman, she could make a big sound. Still, though, thoroughly nice, to the core, to be sure, and neat as a pin, and, “Oh, my,” (as my Gran used to say,) “She’s no bigger ’round, than a MINUTE!!”
BUCKLEY. Betty. SEE!!?
I knew I’d get it, eventually. (Not exactly one for the quick comeback. I shall be the first to admit it. Insult me at midnight, and I shall have devised such a Retort of Devastation that you’d just better be glad that I didn’t come up with it ’till three, when you, like most sane folk, are somewhere safe, neatly tucked in bed, and sound asleep. But, I digress.)
Wow! I haven’t seen The Mummy since forever. (I wonder if the CGI will ‘hold up’, and, oh, heck, I haven’t been really, really bugged, by what’s-his-name, the fake Tarzan dude, in years. I don’t think I’ll even get nauseated, just looking at him, and that’s before he speaks…as I once may have done. See? That’s progress.
What? Moulin Rouge!!? God, I love, that, what’s-his-name, that Brit, Jim Broadbent, I think (see, I could just look at the box, but such is the ethical aspect of my views on ‘research’, it these days of, “Cause I said so.” Hey, I grew up in (such) days….”Don’t bother me with the FACTS son!” Oh, dear, I’m getting all verklempt, just thinking about it, it’s like Old Home Week.)
I love Broadbent’s voice, and style, and seamless expertise, whew!!
Oh, man. Casablanca…forgive me, I think I may have got a little light-headed, there.
Where was I, oh, yes.
How I used to adore a VCR.
And, as to movies, and whot-not, I’ve got too many to count. How I’ve loved them, over the years. I’ve been away, too long, I feel.
So, why not, maybe…renew an old love affair?
But then (this may need a re-think), there’s…what’s-his-name…
~ Tim Burchfield
11/12/17

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