- Loved; lovable.
- Loving, affectionate, heartfelt
- Such dear embrace tenderly comforts even in this dear sorrow.
- Precious to or greatly valued by someone.
- The dearer the giver, the dearer the trinket he brings!
- High in price; expensive.
- The dearer the jewel, the greater the love expressed?
- A formal way to start (possibly after my) addressing somebody at the beginning of a letter, memo etc.
- Dear Sir/Madam/Miss, please notice our offices will be closed during the following bank holidays: […] .
- A formal way to start (often after my) addressing somebody one likes or regards kindly. [quotations ▼]
- My dear friend, I feel better as soon as you come sit beside my sickbed!
- An ironic way to start (often after my) addressing an inferior.
- My dear boy, if your grades don’t pick up I won’t bounce you on but over my knee!
- (obsolete) Noble.
The two Demons shivered in the high desert winter, sheltered partially though they were by the adobe wall of an old neighborhood Capilla, a small chapel at the foot of the Sangre de Christo Mountains, North East of the Capital, the only known diplomatic fortress of its kind, one of the few earthly points of contact in the Universe with the “Folk from out Yonder” as it is uncommonly translated into the English vernacular, the term’s origin being from a people ancient and very well acquainted with the evolutionary and other mysterious behavior of this sacred land.
The Demons, who much preferred hotter places, were on a mission however and firmly committed to their task at hand. Let it be known, that while you may wish to think twice before trusting a Demons’ word, to their task at hand they commit completely, and these two to their taskmaster, The Great Master de Blue Willow, they submit completely…
One of my favorite authors, Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, published a collection of his aphorisms and called the work his Wastebooks. I hope to expand this genre to include these memoirs to my Grandchidrns.
This online copy of Grandpa Moses’ Wastebooks, Episode VI has been donated in its current form to the Taos Public Library in Memory of Bob Ellis, a very fine artist.
If you enter this blog through any other means than this “Free Library Access” link, you will have taken from this author’s intellectual property without permission. This is okay. The author is trying to repair any damage caused to his karma by his old Napster account.
Keep Austin Weird. — Unknown
It never got weird enough for me. — Hunter S. Thompson
I appreciate the offer, August, but Taos is quite weird enough for me. — Moses T. Black
The policeman laughed, but, noticing that no one else was laughing, became serious and said: “That’s Molokanism. I have heard they are all like that in the Caucasus.” “But I was not killed by a thunderbolt,” Matvey went on, crossing himself before the ikon and moving his lips. “My dead mother must have been praying for me in the other world. When everyone in the town looked upon me as a saint, and even the ladies and gentlemen of good family used to come to me in secret for consolation, I happened to go into our landlord, Osip Varlamitch, to ask forgiveness — it was the Day of Forgiveness — and he fastened the door with the hook, and we were left alone face to face. And he began to reprove me, and I must tell you Osip Varlamitch was a man of brains, though without education, and everyone respected and feared him, for he was a man of stern, God-fearing life and worked hard. He had been the mayor of the town, and a warden of the church for twenty years maybe, and had done a great deal of good; he had covered all the New Moscow Road with gravel, had painted the church, and had decorated the columns to look like malachite. Well, he fastened the door, and — ‘I have been wanting to get at you for a long time, you rascal, . . . ‘ he said. ‘You think you are a saint,’ he said. ‘No you are not a saint, but a backslider from God, a heretic and an evildoer! . . .’ And he went on and on. . . . I can’t tell you how he said it, so eloquently and cleverly, as though it were all written down, and so touchingly. He talked for two hours. His words penetrated my soul; my eyes were opened. I listened, listened and — burst into sobs! ‘Be an ordinary man,’ he said, ‘eat and drink, dress and pray like everyone else. All that is above the ordinary is of the devil. Your chains,’ he said, ‘are of the devil; your fasting is of the devil; your prayer-room is of the devil. It is all pride,’ he said. Next day, on Monday in Holy Week, it pleased God I should fall ill. I ruptured myself and was taken to the hospital. I was terribly worried, and wept bitterly and trembled. I thought there was a straight road before me from the hospital to hell, and I almost died. I was in misery on a bed of sickness for six months, and when I was discharged the first thing I did I confessed, and took the sacrament in the regular way and became a man again. Osip Varlamitch saw me off home and exhorted me: ‘Remember, Matvey, that anything above the ordinary is of the devil.’ And now I eat and drink like everyone else and pray like everyone else. . . . If it happens now that the priest smells of tobacco or vodka I don’t venture to blame him, because the priest, too, of course, is an ordinary man. But as soon as I am told that in the town or in the village a saint has set up who does not eat for weeks, and makes rules of his own, I know whose work it is. So that is how I carried on in the past, gentlemen. Now, like Osip Varlamitch, I am continually exhorting my cousins and reproaching them, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness. God has not vouchsafed me the gift.” Matvey’s story evidently made no impression whatever. Sergey Nikanoritch said nothing, but began clearing the refreshments off the counter, while the policeman began talking of how rich Matvey’s cousin was. “He must have thirty thousand at least,” he said. Zhukov the policeman, a sturdy, well-fed, red-haired man with a full face (his cheeks quivered when he walked), usually sat lolling and crossing his legs when not in the presence of his superiors. As he talked he swayed to and fro and whistled carelessly, while his face had a self-satisfied replete air, as though he had just had dinner. He was making money, and he always talked of it with the air of a connoisseur. He undertook jobs as an agent, and when anyone wanted to sell an estate, a horse or a carriage, they applied to him. “Yes, it will be thirty thousand, I dare say,” Sergey Nikanoritch assented. “Your grandfather had an immense fortune,” he said, addressing Matvey. “Immense it was; all left to your father and your uncle. Your father died as a young man and your uncle got hold of it all, and afterwards, of course, Yakov Ivanitch. While you were going pilgrimages with your mama and singing tenor in the factory, they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet.” “Fifteen thousand comes to your share,” said the policeman swaying from side to side. “The tavern belongs to you in common, so the capital is in common. Yes. If I were in your place I should have taken it into court long ago. I would have taken it into court for one thing, and while the case was going on I’d have knocked his face to a jelly.” Yakov Ivanitch was disliked because, when anyone believes differently from others, it upsets even people who are indifferent to religion. The policeman disliked him also because he, too, sold horses and carriages. — Anton P. Chekhov
To the Taosenos & to those of the D’Dah who refuse the name Taosenos:
-for welcoming me into y’all’s extraordinarily beautiful Community–this Heaven on Earth commonly called The Enchanted Circle–my new Home in the Great Land of Entrapment West of Texas, Taos, NM;
-for encouraging me to pursue my Dream and providing me both the spiritual, mental, and physical stability I needed to do my dreaming and a community in which to design and refine those dreams;
-and for helping me create a creative outlet that will erupt this Volcano in my heart, head, and viscera–the result of 23 years of obediently trying one’s best at times learning and at times both teaching and learning simultaneously in all sorts of schools, surviving sittin’, concentratin’, readin’, writin’, and livin’ in libraries across the world.
PAXCHRISTI (i.e. Much Peace and Christian Brotherly Love Be Unto Y’all)