new poem, re my personally internalized mantra...

flower moon from inside my tent, cheatham lock a campground in Tennessee

 the last word

052025 by Scott Gardner Merrick

I meditated with my mantra. 

It is six words, but I could only

remember five, where is the sixth?

I know that it belongs to the 

total thought, the perfect pitch

that harmonizes with itself

and resounds to complete the other five

to remind me just what is alive.

Ah, that is it, mantra complete!

I am good, 

I am well,

I am happy,

I am healthy,

I am whole,

I am alive.

Go find a place away from crowds. 

Start by speaking all six aloud,

and then repeat until you are so quiet

then quieter, bringing it inside.

Once there, find that tone of resonation

in a place within imagination,

repeating and repeating until within you

there is no effort, no limitation:

I am good, 

I am well,

I am happy,

I am healthy,

I am whole,

I am alive.

A Bit o' April

Well, just well, Pilgrim. Here we are.

No real reason to post today excepting to do so. Let's see what's in my diminishing brain.

Been painting. It seems a harmless thing to do, which things to do are in rare attendance these days of absurdist dark comedy. Here's my latest, painted from a photo I took several years ago in a neighborhood alley. 

"lonely chair" -- scott gardner merrick

You can always see the collection at scottmerrick.me. If there is a method in my madness it's to create interesting things. I see a great number of paintings posted online. OMG, we've got the Instagerm, the BookOfTheFace, all that other Social and Media stuff, and one doesn't know where to turn sometimes, so one avoids all of them. Back in freakin' 1990-something, I posted (I think on MySpace, hehehe) a short video where I approached our front door over on Cantrell Avenue, opened the door, and labeled it something like "Come On Into the Merricks". My wife went a little berzerk and if I recollect correctly I took it down; but yeah, that's me. 

So I'm not doing that again, though I am proud of our front entrance, even though I got a Metro Codes citation for my long grass, a result of choosing to participate in our local iteration of "No Mow Month." See more here, but let it be known that I called codes, had a cordial chat with the head of the Codes Division overseeing private residence maintenance and learned that our fair City "does not support" that Cumberland River Compact program. Interesting. At any rate I used my weed trimmer to cut everything back, including my red clover. I overseeded front and back two years ago--it was displaying beautiful rolling waves of large and tall petals. Why did I cave so quickly? Well, the $50 a day fine beginning in a few days was certainly a motivator. I still have my yard sign, though, and I promised the authorities I'd be keeping it all presentable. It was, to be honest, looking a little shabby. 

I still have my back yard meadow experiment, though I cut back the grass gone to seed back there. I may mow that just to help define what will be a lush home garden. If half of what I planted a couple weeks ago comes up and blossoms, it will be all that! I will post pics on Instagram and here...

So that's a bit o' news. As always, ever hopefully, more later.

Chat GPT Shortshort: "The Birthday Wish"

Note: If he really wants to shake up the world and establish his place in history as the political spoiler he has always claimed to be, something like this could be the beginning of the turn toward it, remolding his own legacy as the most caring, positive, and progressive leader in the history of the world. May 25 is my birthday.

The Birthday Wish

By ChatGPT 4.0, creative prompt by Scott Merrick

 

 

The Nomination

It was May 25, 2025, and the country had been on edge for months. The death of Justice Clarence Thomas had left a deep void on the Supreme Court, and in the weeks that followed, the media had speculated endlessly about who would fill the seat. The nation had seen an unprecedented political climate over the past few years, and every major decision seemed to feel like a spark in a powder keg.

 

That morning, President Donald Trump sat in front of a camera in the Oval Office, the familiar blue tie hanging loosely around his neck. His usual confidence was tempered by the gravity of the announcement he was about to make. The livestream had just started, and thousands of people across the country—Republicans, Democrats, and independents alike—were waiting for the news.

 

“Good afternoon, my fellow Americans,” Trump began, his voice steady but tinged with something else, something like resolve. “As you know, earlier this month we lost a great justice, Clarence Thomas. A man who served this nation with honor, with unwavering principle. And now, it is my solemn duty to nominate someone who will continue his legacy, someone who will uphold the Constitution, the rule of law, and the rights of every American.”

 

There was a moment of silence. His audience, half of which was no doubt anticipating the name of a staunch conservative, leaned in closer to their screens. But what Trump said next left them stunned.

 

“That’s why today, I am proud to announce that I am nominating… Kamala Harris, former Vice President of the United States, to the Supreme Court.”

 

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the livestream chat. Twitter erupted in confusion, disbelief, and outrage. The idea of Trump, a Republican president, nominating a Democrat—Kamala Harris, no less—was as shocking as it was unprecedented.

 

Trump gave a brief smile, his hands folded in front of him. "You all remember her, right? She's tough, smart, and knows the law. I think you’ll all be surprised at how well she’ll fit in. It’s time for a change—an unexpected change."

 

### **The Reaction**

 

Within minutes, pundits on both sides of the aisle were reacting.

 

“Well, that’s one way to unite a fractured nation,” a Republican commentator quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “A former vice president, a known progressive, nominated by a president who’s spent the last decade denouncing everything she stands for? Pure genius, or pure madness. You decide.”

 

On the left, liberals were equally flummoxed. "Is this a joke?" one headline read. "Kamala Harris: The Last Person We Expected to See in This Moment." Social media was on fire with debates over whether it was an act of reconciliation or political theater designed to confuse.

 

Across the country, a ripple effect spread through Washington D.C. Senators, both Democrat and Republican, were left scrambling. Some called the nomination "a political maneuver" while others wondered if Trump was setting the stage for something bigger—an attempt to transcend partisan divides, to shift the political calculus of the coming elections.

 

Kamala Harris herself was caught off guard. She had been in her office in California when she received a call from the White House. It had taken a moment for her to process the words.

 

“Mr. President,” she said, her voice measured but filled with disbelief. “You’re serious?”

 

“Very,” Trump replied. “You’ve got my full support. I know it sounds crazy, but we need someone who understands both sides. You’re the perfect person for the job.”

 

After a long silence, Harris replied. “I never thought I'd be sitting across from you again in this kind of way... but I’ll consider it.”

 

The Confirmation Battle

 Within days, the hearings began. It was a spectacle unlike any other. Harris, seated at the witness table, was cool and composed as senators from both parties launched into their questioning. They had come prepared to attack, to dissect her record, her policies, her entire career. But there was something different this time.

 

Trump’s unprecedented nomination had left the typical partisan attacks on the backburner. Both sides found themselves, strangely, united in their confusion. There was no clear precedent for how to react. A Democrat in a conservative-majority court? Or was this an opportunity to reach across the aisle?

 

Senator Lindsey Graham, a long-time ally of Trump, stared across the room at Harris during the hearings and found himself unable to fully oppose her. “I disagree with nearly everything she’s stood for,” he said in his opening statement. “But I’ve always respected her intelligence. This is a wild card, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

 

Senator Elizabeth Warren, sitting on the other side of the aisle, was less circumspect. “This is a grave mistake. Kamala Harris is too much of a partisan for this position,” she declared, pounding her fist on the table. “We need someone who represents the people, not a politician with a divided agenda.”

 

But as the questioning continued, it became apparent that the confirmation hearings weren’t simply about Harris’s political ideology. They were about trust. Could America trust a decision as volatile as this one? Could Kamala Harris, with her deep ties to the Democratic Party, truly represent the full spectrum of the nation’s values?

 

The Unexpected Victory

 In the weeks that followed, the country braced for the vote. Public opinion was divided, with both sides feeling the pressure to assert their influence over the proceedings. But when the final vote came—miraculously—it was a narrow victory. Kamala Harris was confirmed as the next Justice of the Supreme Court.

 

The nation reacted in shock and awe. The news spread like wildfire, and the political analysts quickly set to work trying to decode the true meaning of the nomination. Was this a masterstroke by Trump? Or was it a gamble that had somehow paid off?

 

In her first public statement after the confirmation, Justice Harris stood before the cameras, a figure of strength and composure.

 

“This country is divided, there’s no denying that. But I’m here to remind us all that the Constitution is our common ground. We all agree on that. And I will work every day to serve all of America, regardless of party or persuasion. My goal is simple: justice for all.”

 

As she spoke, the reality began to sink in. America had just entered a new era, one in which nothing could be taken for granted. Even the most improbable, the most impossible, things could—and would—happen.

 

And with Justice Kamala Harris now sitting on the Supreme Court, the future of the nation was more uncertain—and more exciting—than it had ever been.

Still Waiting. revisited

 Hello July. This year, my 74th trip around the sun, has already been a thing. I'm ignoring the absurdist play that politics has made ours, and instead focusing on crawling out of the mourning pit which this past Thursday night's debate dropped me unceremoniously into, and sharing something that made my day, just yesterday.

Yesterday began as a home-based workday, with loads of laundry piled in two rooms, remnants of our little aside journey into heaven the previous week. I may post on that soon, but maybe not. Suffice it to say that our 9 days at Jumby Island Resort, Long Island, Antiqua, Antigua and Barbuda.

Jumby Bay Island teaser

My main reason for posting today, however, is due to my afternoon yesterday, which began with yard and housework then joyfully deteriorated into grabbing a mid-day Mexican snack at Don Julio's in Joelton  with my friend Rocky, and then retreating to Rocky's own little heaven, his farm office, to sit in the air conditioned tiny home watching all manner of birds feed from the flower garden and the feeders out his big Northwestern picture window. He had picked up a couple of nice cigars and we each had one while sipping whiskey and working our way slowly through those together, chatting and sharing music. 

He introduced me to Erika Lewis and some wonderful other singer/songwriters who he had discovered on Spotify, and we talked about how much we both like the app's suggestions features. For the one or two people who may not know, I can, for example, play an album (Rocky and I are both unicorns who prefer listening to a record beginning to end) and then let it continue to play other songs Spotify's algorithms determine we will like based upon that. It's a feature that can be turned off but we both agree it is one of the app's best features, despite the well-known usury of artist's and its nation-mimicking economic unfairness to the less-famous creatives. Both of which we are.

Rocky snuck a song of mine I did not expect to hear. I hadn't listened to it, I swear to you, in years. It was kind of good. He proceeded to tell me that it had played after he had listened to another artist, and he had checked in to see who it was. "I said, 'Is this the Scott Merrick I know?'" And then he told me the album was in his morning rotation of music to start the day with his morning coffee, looking out upon the same garden view we were sharing. "I listen to it once every week or two." He also said the he thought "This is your masterpiece," and "I would love to get this in a studio with some really good players after running it by a producer who knows what he's doing. Orchestration, strings, an upright bass on "Strumsticking..." (on which I allude to bass with a tuned down acoustic six-string, ha).

So I listened. It's the first time I have ever listened to it with another human person. I like it. Some of the songs are instrumental versions of songs I sent out in 2004 with my Last Frontier Band live compilation, some are just instrumentals, titles suggested by musical themes within them. Rocky's favorite is one of the latter, "Flying Dutchman," a ghost ship song created in Alaska after reading about it somewhere, I don't recall. It's 12-string so it must have been recorded before my honey and I left Nashville to work and live in Florida in the mid-80's. But maybe read the Flying Dutchman's Wikipedia entry whilst listening to the song.

I share it all here. Hear...

Brrrrrrr December

 Okay, it's not nearly as cold as most years at this time but I'll repeat that Tennessee cold is colder than any other because of the omni-present humidity. That humidity is cursed in the summer and the winter with equanimity. 

On a happier topic, I'm beginning work on a new painting, another dive into another arena of complete inexpertise (there is some uncertainty if this last is actually a word, but apparently Wictionary approves).

I had a chill (in every sense of the term) experience at my friend Matt Melon's detached garage workshop in Madison a few weeks ago, sitting with mutual friend Rocky Alvey, smoking cigars, drinking some Green River bourbon, and watching Colombo episodes on Matt's laptop while Matt worked (see https://www.magicmetaldesigns.com/ for how truly magical his metal artistry is). I snapped some pics and one of them is this one:

Matt Melon making magic

There are soooo many angles and objects in this image that I may well tame it down. On the other hand, that is what gives it its interest, so I may lean more toward realism than I have really yet to do. It's never boring, largely because if it seems to be getting that way, I will veer away onto other paths of decisions. Stay tuned.

I recently finished a pic I alluded to in my previous post (https://scottmerrick.blogspot.com/2022/11/december-2022-looks-to-be.html) and I'm pretty happy with it. Anyway, here are two stages of it--the first is what I brought into the workshop, and the second is what I consider the finished piece:

UPDATE 121622:

I attended the awesome Blended/Broken Color full-day workshop led by sensei Charles Brindley yesterday at Scarritt Bennet Conference Center and Charles made some suggestions for my "rocky's ridge" painting that I spent the whole afternoon implementing, (pictures above). Luckily for me, ten feet away from me in the full-to-capacity painting studio the amazing beautiful and amazing Amanda Shires was working on several absolutely beautiful abstract canvases. I got to meet her at the end of the day when Charles gathered the artists around my easel to view the final painting. I laughed when he told them "this guy came out of nowhere" to learn painting. Amanda was painting with her mother, Lisa, also a very capable artist, and both were really, really nice human beings. New adoring Amanda fan, check.

On another topic--Yesterday my brother Ed and I sat in on a Zoom meeting with our first cousin twice removed, Kathy M., who lives in California and who recently tracked me down via this blog. Her mother, the daughter of our half-aunt (nothing is simple), recently passed away and left behind what appeared in Kathy's background to be a dozen or so bankers boxes of letters and photographs. I won't be sharing these as they come my way, but childhood pictures of our dad, baby pictures of us with our mom, and the like  are exciting to look forward to. As of now the only baby pic I have of me is on the cover of my novel, Lives, and Kathy has already sent me another one. Who's that grumpy baby?

Mom and me at 4 months old

I look forward to continued correspondence with this distant newly in-touch cousin!

Finally (let's just go for it--is this the randomest blogpost ever?) I'm hitting The Blue Room Bar at Third Man Records Friday night, with my pal Rocky, for a show featuring the Lockland Strings, a group of East Nashville musicians who get together and perform a concert once a month or so. I am all giddy and expectatious (sic) to see Madi Diaz live, as well as to be introduced to a tidy handful of other performers I have not heard, until I put together this playlist on Spotify with one "record" from each artist who will be there. Feel free to listen, and I do recommend randomizing, if you can't make the show. (Note: Peter Mulvey will not be there, but it was the album with SistaStrings I found that features the most of them.)

Cheers! Have a lovely Winter Holidays season! 

Wait! I want to share that Thursday night we'll be attending "A Sonos Christmas," live at the Parthenon and getting to hear our marvelous, beautiful, talented, and, well, perfect daughter Miranda sing. She auditioned for the choir a couple months ago and was embraced into it, happily. Although I had the pleasure of attending the Timbre Cierpke Christmas Concert at a Nashville church this past Thursday and got to hear her sing, my honey has not and I couldn't be more excited to sit at the base of the golden Athena and share that experience with my life's love. Well, I couldn't be more excited until Friday at the Blue Room!

Now go be good and have fun!

There and Time, Recorded 2020

In the course of doing a little YouTube management this morning I came across this little ditty I wrote several years ago while visiting my dear Godbrother, James Morrison. At the time he and his (also dear) family were living in a cozy little house on North June Street in Hollywood, just 3 miles, as the California Crow flies, from the famed HOLLYWOOD sign. I was in running form then. I will admit that running is something I miss from my life prior scheduliberation.

On a morning run that included Beverly Boulevard, probably something like this,

I started by humming the melody that generated the first line and the song took off. It was one of those that I finished in one day and it never took any later revision because I was satisfied with its gestalt. My current assessment of the performance/recording is that boy oh boy do I have some serious looks on my face, and...it's a pretty good song. I also like my rhythm patterns and yes, it's a pretty darned good song, despite the fairly common misinformation about the Einstein quote.

Please pardon the sleepwear. I was pretty much confined to the home for much of the pandemic and this video was a trial for a series that never came to be. I have to laugh at the Covid Beard in my profile pic at the time. Checkout Jimmy's website, linked above, and enjoy...

and just for good measure, here is an archived pic of him and me with our band behind us. JK, it wasn't really "our band," but the cast of the Western spectacular, "Diamond Studs" from the Alaska Repertory Theatre's season in I think '78. We're ancient history!

Peace out. Stay Safe and Well.

October? Really?

 Allllllllllrighty, then...

It's early October. I spent some time yesterday putting together a little 41 song playlist of one of my favorite songs, one we covered in Alaska Summer/Summersong back in '77, in The Last Frontier Band in '79, and on the cruise ships in (I think) '81. This new mini-infatuation with listening to versions of songs is made simple by Spotify and I'm having fun with it. If you have Spotify, I suggest listening in the app and sorting it by duration--that way you'll get any remasters/rereleases played back to back for comparison. And there's one lurking in there that's not a cover, but rather a song by the same name. I like to leave those in for fun. Fun fact: the 11+ "The End" Doors masterpiece was included in the search results originally and I almost left it in since in the duration sort it came at the end. Ha.

Listen (might take a moment to load):

 

On other fronts, I had a fun one-night camping experience at Cheatham Lock and Dam last week. I had intended to make it two nights but the first night's low was 46 degrees and the 2nd was predicted to hit 40 and I discovered over a long first night's "sleep" that I needed a little more gear. I have that now, and my upcoming road trip to Texas to see my much-loved bro' will be more comfy camping. It's a 12 hour + drive and I plan to break it up with a night camping at another US Corps of Engineers dam campground. I like dam campgrounds. Dam campgrounds are damn good. Here's the view from the fishing chair outside my new tent. This will soon be a painting.

pano at dusk, cheatham lake (really just a wide spot in the mighty cumberland river)

By the bye, I am loving my painting classes (really an "Open Studio") with Charles Brindley. I learn a little each time I am in the room with him, and the two classes a week for 3 hours duration are perfect. Here are the two pieces, one on canvas on one on upscaled 2x6 discarded lumber, that I most recently completed:

purple vetch, barbed wire, and montana

riders on a piece of brownland farm in franklin

That be all for the mo'. I'm not gonna promise to blog more regularly. Something about scheduliberatedness has made me comfortable with doing it when I do it and not when I don't. You should try it in all kinds of scenarios. It's a dam good thing (sic).

Sojourn to the Berkshires Day 2 -- some walks, a dinner, and a play

 OKAY! I'm in the Albany NY Airport, and I've found a perch at the terminal walkway bar table  counter, on a stool with a nice draft local hazy IPA beside my laptop. I have 3 1/2 hours before my flight to DC boards, but I did save a little $ on Bruno the Purple Charger by getting it in a bit earlier than the reservation. 

Yesterday morning I slept in until around 7, grabbed a decent and filling "free" breakfast in the motel lobby, then drove out to the theater to make sure I knew where I was going when I had a curtain time to honor. It's a good thing, because pulling out of the parking lot I went rogue on Waze directions and found a shortcut that bypassed all of the roadwork that slowed down my drive there. I made a note to go out without cell phone directions and to turn on Tacatonic Road to get there that evening. That night, after the play, I drove out at waning dusk onto the road bordered by fields of high wild grasses and lit by more fireflies than I have ever seen in one place. I almost pulled over to video, but decided to save the image in my old brain instead. 

As I have shared before, my mantra is "I am good, I am well, I am healthy I am Happy I am whole." Yesterday I changed this to "Healing Seamus Seamus Healing" and will continue utilizing that for the immediate future. He is healing and he is home from the hospital as of last night, but I figure anything I can do, you know, on the spiritual plane... The benefit of this tack, as opposed to praying, is that no deity, no higher power, needs to hear and respond. I am certain it is at least as effective. After all, if there is one God, she must be checking those mantras, right?

Okay, I'm getting all non-linear again. Jimmy and I talked about that at breakfast this morning. He cam to the hotel and we took Bruno ("because your car is cooler") up less than a mile up the road and ate outside at the Rio Cafe. Really good stuffThanks for breakfast, buddy, if you're reading this. Who is linear anyway? "Oh, there's a dandilion. Oh, that thing I did in high school." Right? But. That discussion was today, and we were talking about yesterday.

Let's pop in a picture to break things up, shall we?

After breakfast see ya later hug at the Rio Cafe

Okay then. After leaving the theater on my scouting mission, I hit downtown again, and found a place to park at an entry point to River Walk, an attraction that came up early in my searches. It was attractive enough, and everyone needs to see it, but it turned out to be only maybe a city block long. I took some video along the way, and a couple pics--note the two of a dark barn with a bright little something in its darkest region, then the close up. Class, folks, that's class. I wish I'd got a pic of the road-facing wall of the building. It's just an old barn with two big doors and nothing else, but I can imagine families starting here, on a cool fall night with the disco ball fracking the room.

I walked the little downtown, saw some cute shops, refrained from buying art at some really inspirational studios, took a pano from a corner, and noted the location of The Well, a restaurant and bar I had my sights set on for the next night's preshow dinner. 

Okay again. First little thing after my scouting and my Riverwalk aside was to head up to Housatonic Flats. I pulled into the parking lot with only one more car there. It's been quiet in GB during my stay. Jimmy says they are getting big weekend tourist hits, but luckily my stay was Wed-Fri. Here's Bruno at the trailhead. I was hoping it was a bit longer than a city block. But, it calmed me down nicely. 

Bruno the Purple Charger at the trailhead

I checked my shoelaces and hit the trail. 

Trailhead at Housatonic Flats

Flats sign with explanation. It's a buffer, ya'll.

Trailhead sign closer and clearer

First bench stop with an aside trail to the river

Two dandelions

Pano at the river, click to enlarge-o

I just liked the color here and think it might be fun to paint

And a video... Ducks, ya'll...

It was a quiet, wonderful walk. The trees are taller, older, up here, I think. And the tall wildflowers grow taller before they dry and turn to seed, as they are doing in Tennessee as I type. I just cut mine down in my little back "yard," though I really enjoyed the Queen Ann's Lace and the tall clover that I let run out its time in my "meadow," as I like to call it.

I drove back to the motel and after an hour in the pool with an intervening hot tub soak (excellent power in those jets, Fairfield Inn by Marriot). I took a nap. I got into my nap by meditating on my new mantra, "Healing Seamus Seamus healing." With the help of a phone alarm (I left my iWatch charging at home. I hope it's good for it) I got up, showered, dressed, and drove.

At the Great Barrington Community Theater, Bard College Daniels Cultural Center (say that three times really fast), I parked and moseyed inside, where my ticket was awaiting me. I jacked into the play, which I thoroughly enjoyed and believe is going places, but will not review here. No photos were allowed after I took this one 

of a couple audience members (Sandy and friend, as I found out later) awaited the dimming of the lights. Turns out it was a preview performance with opening night tonight (as I write from the airport). There were only about 20 of us in the small theater audience. That's all good. It was spectacular, and intimate, and I enjoyed emersion in the world I only peripherally experienced. Jimmy called me the day of the diagnosis. I remember it so clearly--I was helping a kindergarten teacher, Mary McCullough, set up her classroom printer and begged off that to go to a corner of her bright, welcoming, kindergarten classroom to talk and to weep a bit. I do that, and it was certainly all right to do that day. From my perspective as a retired human person, I now know that the right thing to do was to fly out there. I did not. I wish I had. Jimmy and I have talked over the years, and I didn't get far from Seamus's recovery, but neither did I really get close to it. Regrets. And healing, which this trip generated, at least a little.

"Leave your Fears Here" is  a "Rememberer" play, a Father play, and a play everyone should experience. I got to meet both Robert Egan and Michael O'Keefe, sat next to Michael for the preview performance. More on all that later. 

That's freakin' it! I'm ready to fly om the morning. I am ready to be home. I love you, Jimmy. Keep plugging into that impressive piece of writing you've created and bringing it alive. You are going to awaken a whole new audience to this kind of journey and its kaleidoscopic complexities and contradictions, and to your beautiful son, to your beautiful soul mate, and to your beautiful self. I love you.

First release from "covid drafts"

Hey, y'all,

Been doing some recording and editing and I hope you enjoy this first in a series from "covid drafts" 

-- stay tooned for more!

Open Letter to ISTE, ISTE VEN (and anyone else who is interested)

I have a little announcement I want to share. 

Let me just say it: I “resign” from any and all leadership positions in ISTE and in ISTE Virtual Environments Network. When my membership to ISTE expires in May, I do not intend to renew it. I wish the best of everything to everyone--members, leadership, staff, and administration. Lots of friends. Lots. Lots of dear memories. And all the best to ISTE VEN. Take off, y’all, take off and soar. You have some passionate and capable leaders still, focused on the future of XR (all new things 3D and alternate reality).

Over the past two plus decades, I’ve enjoyed participating in and enriching my life with my membership to the International Society for Technology and Education. The thing that I enjoyed the absolute most about those conferences was the coming together, in a different city every summer, of thousands, and increasingly more thousands of educators, technologists, vendors, and media professionals--all in the service of exploring how to serve, grow, and nurture our children’s learning through technology. 

I met so many dedicated educators at those conferences, and I have carried them with me throughout the years (as they carried me) while we pursued sometimes very parallel paths. I met some very close friends at the legendary ISTE Island in Second Life. All the friends I met at ISTE converged annually at the in-person conferences. There was always a powerful feeling of reunion that struck like lightning when I would meet a colleague at the conference who I had grown to know in SL. I’ve always said there should be a word for that feeling but I never got around to coining it.

A group of us formed the Virtual Environments Network, created in order to explore and celebrate the possibilities of using virtual worlds for learning and teaching in a mainstream way. But with all our hard work, it has consistently felt, year to year, as though realization of those extremely promising models for meeting, learning, and teaching was always hanging just below the upswing of the bell curve of adoption. Things got in the way: Second Life’s dismantling of its own educational support community, the dissolution of the Teen Grid, educators and school administrators’ aggravating addiction to “the way we’ve always done it.” ISTE's funding support dwindled in stages. It finally disappeared.

An announcement went out to the 500 members of the SL Group, ISTE Virtual Environments Network this morning. ISTE VEN in Second Life will shut down at the end of April, 2021. As far as Second Life is concerned, I will still attend some educational events, but I will lead them no more. 

Hugs, smiles, and waves, ISTE.To quote a classic Tom Waits song, Marie, “I loved you the first time I saw you. And I always will always love you…”

Peace Out. 

All the best, always,

Scott/Scottmerrick Oh

The Water is Wide

The Water is Wide

Recorded in Nashville's West Park

Accompaniment:

Briley Parkway Traffic

Birds

Footsteps

Origins of The Water is Wide

Running, Installment 10, Chapter 26, "an end to it"

 Well it's been fun. I am toying with the idea of publishing the whole thing in one post next week. Frankly, I'm not sure Blogspot is up to that, but I may give it a whirl. Thanks to my lovely wife, Lee Ann, for bearing with me always, to my brothers James Morrison and Rocky Alvey for priceless input, and to you, dear reader. I hope you can say, by the end of this read, that you have enjoyed Running with me. Stay safe and well and don't be burying anyone under new construction. It's not cool. But you are. Here is...

26—an end to it 

 

The gas fire flickered beneath its conical chimney, adding cheerful warmth to the already pleasant environs of the London Oyster. It was a wonderful place to spend any Sunday afternoon, the little tables draped as they were with crisp white tablecloths, the wall of windows looking out over the parking lot and the backs of buildings which fronted North Santa Cruz Avenue. From where Will sat, he could see the intersection of that street and Main. Lazy traffic crawled through the drizzly afternoon, and rain dripping off the storefront eaves intensified the coziness of the dining room. 

The restaurant’s Sunday brunch was long over, and a few small groups of well fed and thoroughly champagned hangers on lingered, as if unwilling to venture out of the room’s warm embrace. Glasses tinkled at the bar, and smatterings of lighthearted conversations wafted over to the window table where the three sat. 

“Merle, you see, well he was a strange old bird, you know, a history nut from the word go.” George had been a distant cousin of Merle’s and the two had known one another from childhood. “That was his passion, yessir, old books, and letters, why one whole wall in his room, back when he stayed with us, it was just covered, why, literally covered with old postcards, and photographs, pictures cut out of all those old newspapers.” He leaned back in his chair, seeming to picture in his mind Merle’s room. “And I was up in that apartment where, God rest his soul, he must of died, and you know what? There were tape marks all over the walls of that bedroom, you know, like I know he’d done the same thing there, taped up all his old pictures and such, but I couldn’t find a single solitary one of them.” 

George sighed and made a little clucking sound with his tongue. He took another sip of his Irish Coffee. “Guess that murdering son of his…” he stopped himself. “no, I shouldn’t say that. Merle Junior never had it in him to actually kill his father. Though he sure acted like he would of liked to. Anyway, I bet that bloated bastard threw all his father’s stuff out.” 

He sighed again. “Never replace some of that stuff. Never replace it.” 

There was a long silence. Everyone in the room seemed to have been cued to freeze in position. The rain outside fell straight down, in light parallel lines of droplets, and heavier drops from the buildings’ eaves fell randomly, accenting the stillness. 

George shifted his frail weight in the comfortable chair and reached around to his hip pocket to bring out a weathered leather billfold. He thumbed through plastic snapshot leaves until he found the one he was looking for, then offered the wallet to Will. 

“There,” he said, pointing to the snapshot of two elderly gentlemen, that’s me and Merle, took a couple of years ago at Thanksgiving.” He searched Will’s face for recognition. 

Beyond amazement anymore, Will spent a few seconds in his mind running, smiling at the old man at in the old tweed touring cap and the oversized plaid greatcoat. What was it he had said? Something.  

No matter. Oh. "I wish I could do that."

Will cleared his throat, “George,” he said softly, “I only have one question that I can’t seem to answer. Maybe you can help me figure it out.” 

The older man looked suddenly tired, suddenly he looked every day of his eighty some odd years, as he returned the younger’s earnest gaze. “I’ll help you in any way I can, boy. You know that,” his voice broke a little, “You know, Will, I really loved that old,” he trailed off, but he maintained eye contact with Will. “Well,” George dropped his gaze to his coffee, then raised it back up to Will, “What’s your question.” 

Will forged ahead, determined to find the answer, if there was one. 

“All the dreams about fire, and all the stuff about lost records and the cemetery move and all that. Every bit of it can be explained, as much as any of it can be explained, by your cousin’s obsession with history. I believe he was using the only tool he could to draw me to where his body had been buried. History.” 

He looked from George to Sarah and back again to assure himself his point was taken. Will had long since accepted that merle Senior had called him from beyond death, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of assuming that everyone with whom he discussed the matter agreed with that assessment. 

No one at this table voiced any interest in contradicting it.  

“And it worked. That much I can figure out.” He took a draft of his Guinness and let its cold fizz soother his throat. “And the three beats, that’s obvious too.” 

George spoke, “That’s the part that makes my skin crawl, you know, sort of makes a fellow wonder what’s going to happen to his mortal remains.” He smiled a little nervously. 

Sarah spoke up, “George, if I may, I really don’t think we can assume that anything that went on here can be applied to the normal business of life. Or death,” she added. “This is a really strange case—of abuse, maybe of murder, and definitely of some kind of spiritual bond between Merle Senior and Will. We could speculate forever about its meaning, but I think we only need to be concerned with its outcome.” 

Both men regarded her with profound respect. 

“Well don’t look at me like I just laid an egg. I’m perfectly capable of remarkable insight, even if I don’t make a habit of scaring myself half to death with psychic dreams and missions like Mr. Gardner here. You can have those, and with my blessings, my love.” She picked up her own cup if Irish, offered a little silent toast to the two, and took a dainty sip. 

Will picked up the thread once again, “There was one other image that really stood out. I mean, it was really its introduction into the stream of my consciousness that spurred me to start doing something about this mess instead of just sort of laying back and letting it all assault me.” He took a beat or two to visualize it, then continued. “It was as clear as anything else that I dreamed, or imagined, and it recurred at least as frequently. An image of a team of horses, out of control, racing toward me, and then…through me, like as if it were the end of my life. But, aside from a kind of a tug, both sharp and gentle at the same time, it wasn’t altogether painful.” He shrugged, “Almost pleasant, in a weird way.” 

He chuckled nervously. There. 

George, who had been sitting still as a stone during Will’s little monologue, now shifted once again in his seat and cleared his own throat. He held aloft his cup and looked around for the waiter. After he had requested another Irish Coffee, he returned his attention back to Will. 

“I guess you’ve connected with more than one side of life and death, Will.” 

Will sensed an answer coming but did not see it yet. The old man continued, in a low voice, “Merle, you see, was older than me, so I never really thought much of this. His mother, who was the second cousin of my mother—we were all cousins in those days, it seems like—his mother, I now clearly recall, had died giving birth to him. Medicine back then was not all it should have been, you know, a whole lot of mothers lost their lives giving birth. A great many children were lost, too. And in Merle’s case guess you could say that it was a miracle that either of them was saved. 

The tuxedo-vested waiter brought his fresh Irish with a smile, and after that little flurry of activity George completed what he had to say, “His mother, you see, Merle’s mother, was run over by runaway horses pulling a buggy down Main Street.” He inhaled deeply. “Merle was a premature baby, don’t you know? Pulled from the belly of his dying mother. Will. Will, you’ve heard, don’t you see, from the other side of death? And, don’t you see? You’ve heard from the other side of birth as well.” His eyes brightened with understanding. “The other side of birth.”  

The rain seemed to patter just that much louder as the three of them gazed out into it, each lost in silent speculation. The old man whispered, half to himself, “My God in heaven,” and then he was quiet, and the rain still came.