i don't see any way to comment, no matter what thread (topic) i am reading.
help!.
Greetings, SWAT, and welcome to the forum.
Since you have already commented here and elsewhere, I'm not sure of the exact nature of your problem. However, using my current pc (with Windows 7), I can both read and comment. My old Apple PowerBook allows reading only and no interaction whatsoever. It is shutting down bit by bit, page by page, on what I can continue doing.
Hope you resolve your issues. Simon, the forum owner, has helped many of us with our technical issues.
a long time servant of the watchtower organization died this week.
his name was dean songer.
does anyone have any memories about him that they would like to share with us?
Dean Songer was my work overseer when I served as proofreader for Watchtower Publications Index, 1966-1970 and various other publications. He was a kind man in the situations I saw him.
I remember his telling me how exciting it would be if Bethel were disbanded and we were all scattered and set about spreading the GN (something to the effect of what the death of Stephen led to in early Christianity).
While I cannot recall in what detail he explained it to me, Br. Songer said the Society was very exacting in getting the nations' boundaries (is this the word?) correct on their maps of the world. There could have potential disputes over incorrect boundary demarcations. It's just bits and pieces I recall at this very late date.
I had a nervous breakdown (many of us boys did) and left Bethel early. Our work in the foreign field exhausted us because it took every spare hour outside our work assignment. There was no way, as I saw it then, to abandon my congregation that was growing by leaps and bounds. Songer said that Bethel came first, congregation second. I loved Bethel and wanted to stay but was too overwhelmed with guilt. I left. I wished afterwards that I had talked to him before making my retreat.
Dean Songer was a good man. Charlie Plaeger (also in writing, I believe) was his roommate.
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
Thanks!
Back later . . .
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
Thanks, Wasa, for the very helpful editing.
As an editor, I do for other writers what you have done for me. I clearly see the redundancies that I would strike out in another writer's work. I cannot believe what I overlooked. That's why all writers need editors!
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Immersed in Dickens and Hawthorne, I cannot easily shake off their dusty antiquity. However, I am not living in the present but hearken to shadows of the past. Hot blood pulses anew within fingers stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse, a reluctant awakening to a life sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.
Permit me to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway of dearly departed poets. If I search within the dark channels of elusive time, might I find old friends who have been rendered immortal in ink?
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BTW: I changed might to may and you corrected it to my original. For a moment I did know the difference.
Love you, too, Bro!
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
Immersed in Dickens and Hawthorne, I cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era. However, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.
I'm hooked on Dickens and Hawthorne and can't get them out of my head. Not them, not their time. It's not real -- I get it -- this going back in time to yesterday's shadows.
Hot blood pulses anew within fingers I thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse. It is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.
I'm writing again, fingers to the keyboard, when here I figured I was washed up as a writer. Yet, I wonder if my old, dusty friends were better off than I am. Who knows? There's no way to bridge time.
Permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets. If I search within the darkened channels of elusive time, may I find old friends who have been rendered immortal in ink?
In any event, I need to get back, back to that time and place where my favorite writers lived. They have lived forever in the books I read. I want to join them.
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
Points well made, Wasa. Simplicity and clarity.
The above is about the third edit. Cutting out the so-called dead wood is not the problem it used to be.
I could start a bonfire. Of course, the use of certain words and phrasing is intended as a transport back in time. I really don't talk like this. It's meant to be specific to an era. Nevertheless, I appreciate the wise counsel regarding pretentiousness.
Thanks!
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
. . . inspiration will come but she has to find you working. -- sparrowdown
I can really use that advice.
Thank you!
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
Dear humbled:
I always look forward to your extraordinary way of making your thoughts, expressed in prose, so poetic. Excellent point regarding all those inhibitors. I wrote on the "Moonlight" thread that I initially feared my forays into moon lore would constitute me a pagan. Big deal.
Thanks, as ever, for your contributions!
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
Well, I do think the picture of the contemplative poet is pretty cool.
Do you, fellow writers, ever experience the look above? Not to mention what's going on inside the skull . . .
immersed in dickens and hawthorne, i cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era.
however, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.. hot blood pulses anew within fingers i thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse.
it is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.. permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets.
Immersed in Dickens and Hawthorne, I cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era. However, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.
Hot blood pulses anew within fingers I thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse. It is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.
Permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets. If I search within the darkened channels of elusive time, may I find old friends who have been rendered immortal in ink?
