Saturday, July 29, 2017

Great film - Life on the Line - Poem: This Ole Pole - Poem: Miles' End

Woke up very late after watching the 2015 action drama LIFE ON THE LINE.  It's a riveting story about "line men."  From Wiki

A lineworker (lineman is a tradesperson who constructs and maintains electric power transmission and distribution lines.

A lineworker generally does outdoor installation and maintenance jobs. Those who install and maintain electrical wiring inside buildings are electricians.

At the end of the film, there's a tribute to all the dead linemen. Look at it here.  The names of the 'fallen' scroll on by.  I happen to know one dead lineman and sent off the website.

Show your support for fallen linemen and their families
LIFE ON THE LINE starred John Travolta, b. 1954, so he was about 62 in his role as a much younger man, a line man. I discovered the film by accident as I was searching for films by Travolta, who I consider a terrific actor.

Went to the kids' house last night, following my direx on how to get there bc of the Edge Hill Road Bridge detour.

Max, 4, always comes running out as soon as I enter.  For some reason, Grace was interested in spending time with me. What a kid!

I'd made a new dish I sort of invented. Asparagus and pasta. Protein was chunks of cheese and pecans.

I'm unable to post photos on here.

Behind my house is a old pole on which line men will climb up if necessary.  One time when Dan used to live here he went out and talked to the guy, who installed some free cable for us.

I'm gonna write a quick poem now which I'll then post on FB.


Who looks at it now?
Who pays attention?
Jes me, because of the John Travolta
movie, The Linemen.

They climb the pole, their
equipment jangling at their
waists, a purtier sound
can't be imagined.

The sound of work being done.
Hard hats. White trucks the
color of appaloosas riding
on the plains.

Wild blackberries grow out there
With my working gloves on
I fill up the wheelbarrow and
dump the garden clippings
over the cliff.

Imagine somersaulting
over the cliff and
wondering, Who will
eat my eggs
cooling on the
kitchen table.

Needed to store the following poem somewhere, so here t'is.


in memory of Miles Dewey Davis III (1926-1991)

After the lights went out
and the smoke
like gray ribbons of cloud
drifted into the other room,
he departed,
carrying at half mast
his horn,
much the way he did as a kid,
but this time not daring to
ask for even one more solo,
one more tumbledown sobbing arpeggio
clambering skyward,
leaving the stage instead for
more restless, wondrous countries
than ever his breath could tell.


So when I woke up, which was about an hour ago, I thought, Wouldn't it be nice if I got an email like this:

Good morning Ruth! So glad you're part of this world. You contribute so much. Today you have a party to go to in Roslyn,,, etc etc

NOW if I could sell this sort of email, I could make some money. I used to subscribe to all sorts of emails that would come in the morning. Many were inspirational. I guess as a person who had all sorts of probs back then, including bipolar, they served a purpose.

All right. Let's get to those eggs NOW.

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