Does Tumblr protect the content a user uploads or not? Sadly, I do not know...

The reason I am not providing a downloadable link for the material is out of respect for the IP and Copyright Attribution for the original artists and producers. In particular, REX Heritage Disc in Holyoke, MA and most of all, the late Maeve Mulvany-Moore, her family, friends and fans. Sadly, the album IS, in fact, out of print and hard to find. It makes it even harder to preserve if people are pirating the material. There is no way to track increasing interest, downloads and all the statistical data demanded to finance any re-lease or for an accredited university to pay the $375.00 in order to add it to their library.

If her solo album, IRISH REBEL BALLADS, became readily-available for digital download under $10, would you spend the money? How about $5? Or even $1 for a song? I would — if it were available. Since it is not, I hate the idea of my attempt to share it affecting anything other than celebrating the work. What I originally tried repeatedly to post on Tumblr, as seen above referring to Mulvany’s JAMES CONNELLY, the site published and holds the post-listing, “PODCAST 73528349,” or something like that. It does for all the music I upload. I am now considering deleting it — What do you think? Am I just lacking computer savvy?

What has been impressed on a vinyl record was a voice, a woman named Maeve Mulvany, whose sound echoes of a time to be remembered, not forgotten. Is it simply a record of an event; a record of people playing music in a room; or is its simplicity masking a rare treasure to be preserved?

I say compromising the preservation or potential availability for future generations is a responsibility we all have to take on. Especially if we consider how our own actions can help support less internet regulation by federal governments. Call me nuts and give me a good reason to consider my position wrong. Who knows for sure?

Written as a poem prior to a weekend playing music and jamming with friends up in the mountains, the song it became in 1998/1999 is lost with the cassette tape-recording. I can still play it back in my mind and before it fades from my memory, at least in some way, the lyrics may live on. I dedicated it to Kristen K and if you’re out there, lovely red-haired lady, then it’s you, me and ‘THE ROACH’ keepin’ it smokin’. 

I hung up the phone last night

You had told me everything was all right

Then why the pain of fear and fright touch my heart?

I remember the last days of summertime

We were children in our innocence and in our minds

Do you remember that fateful day

When we learned about the ways that a human being can prey

We were fine ‘til we heard that noise

Underneath of the apple tree in your yard

Its funny how we never make any sense…

You came to me in a dream last night. Your illusion reflected in a pool of light.

Asked me if I would pause to catch a dream.

You took my hand and we tumbled down

a flight of stairs until we reached the ground.

The grass was soft beneath my feet.

It was then that you turned and ran away. Leaving me…what to say?

What does it mean?

And the air turned cold as I walked all alone on a road of broken cobblestone.

I heard your voice. From far away. And I called to you. To come back and play. But I couldn’t understand the answer that you gave.

So I told my legs to run. Faster than they had ever done. Towards your voice ‘cause I’d made the choice that I would never leave your side.

Look back. As I turned my head and the wind blew cold. And we froze.

How was I supposed to know?

How was I supposed to know?

I remember the last days of summer in our lives. In our innocence we disbelieved in time.

And you lost me. And you lost me when I left you.

And you lost me. And you lost me ‘cause I loved you.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Copyright 1999, 2012 by Kimberly Cox

For My Own Dark Knight, With Love, From His Own Dizzy Dame

You had me at “FAAAAH-uck You!”

Happy Birthday, Frank, you brilliant and beguiling man!

Down these mean streets a man must go…. (Wearing a black fedora and trench coat, of course.)

♠

Of course, the North-Face was bound to fall subject to the same fate as the South-Face. I just never expected it so soon. There, several years ago, the southern exposure’s view of 1 Penn Plaza was replaced by a 40-story building of luxury condos. But light still reflected off the buildings, making it less disturbing. I successfully paid it no mind.

Shortly afterwards, the erosion on the South-Face of the building became so severe, they sealed it off for repair. All the light was blocked by a make-shift wall of wooden flats and cheap boards. With no other windows except the Western and Northern exposures, more than half of the place was left in darkness. A little house we had rented in the mountains helped make the situation less disturbing. It was difficult, though, to pay it no mind.

Returning to the city, I looked out the window (pictured above) and down below, saw:

Foundation of new skyscraper along the North-Face (Spring, 2011)

*

I realized what this meant, as far as both the South and North exposures were concerned, and an inevitable fate of darkness. Only the western exposure remained, already compromised by the neighboring building. My spirits sank into darkness. Yet, the promise of an interim apartment in the city, raised a glimmer of hope. I clung to the prospect, eagerly searching until I found one.

After going through the application and approval process, the new home seemed secured. It took most of the Spring and Summer but I paid that no mind. For two days, the happiness and promise rejuvenated the vitality of youth; a youth, women of my age may naturally celebrate. Then, the phone call came. The call from a stranger thousands of miles away. On speaker-phone, his voice dashed the promise and hope so desperately needed.

*

For him, it was nothing.

For me, it was everything.

*

He never saw the consequences. He didn’t care to see. Without any impression of caring about what would happen, no one else seemed to mind. Nobody felt troubled. But I knew, and vehemently advocated for our cause. My pleas fell on deaf ears. Placating or humoring me, a number of reasons were put forth. I found the attempt only revealed a more appalling predicament. Not one of the explanations for executing his decision made sense. A stranger, having the power to affect our lives so dramatically, was no less than disturbing. It signaled a terrifying, infuriating, epiphany: I had unknowingly been rendered powerless by a series of signatures on a series of documents.

Who could I blame except myself, alone?

I had allowed my own person to end up in whatever awful position I now realized I was in.

Where the situation easily occurs for young women like myself, an ignorance of it sealed my fate. Naive and disillusioned, I placed an unwarranted trust in humanity. Youth afforded time and denial, but not, an understanding to fully grasp the extent of my horrible mistake.

I rallied again despite a troubled heart. “Everything happens for a reason. Mistakes may teach the lesson that must be learned,” I reasoned.

Several weeks later, the promise of a safe and healthy place to call home, came again. I met its hope with trepidation, the second time, but it still revived my soul. The first time, I had been skeptical. As before, my dubious manner received various verbal assurances, “Don’t worry.”

“Everything will work out. Everything will be fine.”

And for a second time, weeks passed searching, and I found a place (at half the budget.) Just as I was making the announcement, that same authority came from thousands of miles away.

I ought to have known better. A pernicious cruelty lies in the breast of false hope. By executing the decision a second time, I was, in many ways, executed as well. Broken, that spirit of youth perished, faster than nature’s course would have had it live.

I look back on she, whom now, seems so far away; a person alien and lost, quickly fading from an old woman’s memory. Denial has caught and digested that youth. In the time it took for the building to be raised by the North-Face, I aged twice my natural years.

The only sky I see now is from the hovel I made in the northwest corner. There I sit, day after day, waiting. The air full of toxic chemicals, dust and who-knows-what-else speed the aging and its coming to pass. I welcome it, tired of fighting and too ashamed by what is no one’s fault but my own.

The lesson?

Never trust another unless it benefits them greater than it benefits you. Otherwise, good faith in humanity will kill slowly the fool who well deserves its noose. The good guy never wins in a world devoid of moral and ethical compassion. Empathy will damn you to hell.

*

I made the mistakes but failed to learn in time. I reap what I sow and don’t care any longer for clinging to this cliff with my fingertips. I let go and fall into the void, never to be remembered. Instead, characterized as this vile, amoral creature, I am quickly forgotten and their creation, that Thing, takes my place. In the little hovel I made around the northwest corner, without a soul to fight it off, that Thing fills an empty shell.

Kinder and more humane would they be, if instead, I’d been shot or stabbed or poisoned. But it was easier, I suppose, to kill me with kindness. No accountability and all responsibility deferred, leaving their creation in the corner, silent, deaf and dumb.

The consequences, I dare not write or speak of. I understand now and pay the price, a fate worse than death. However, remember my story as we do reap what we sow. Humans are weak, cowardly and malicious in their ignorance.

*

As it was in the beginning, so shall it now and forever be….

Fall, Ephemeral Fall

Sonnet Tweeted Live, 12-10-11, 14:10 EST, #GWxii

* * * * * * * * * *

When all honesty return’d with contempt,

Return as unspoken vulgarities;

Tis’ thine own lips, contorted; words attempt

Displacing love, truth, for false charities.

*

Neither Saint, nor Sinner, wherefore lies true speech?

As chaste, yet base, for layeth mine between.

Where honesty doth lie beyond thy reach,

Why speak thee lies, fallacies, so obscene?

*

I love not riches, prestige, nor power;

All ‘ere loved I, but true, love honesty.

Abortive, words, pluck’d barren thy flower,

Reveal how thoughts breed thy deformity.

*

*

Ephemeral petals, brittle’d rust!

Defile’d virtue, love’s truth withers to dust.

So I never    - quite –    wake up.

…

Then

Style my hair however you wish

Pick whatever clothes to dress me in

Tie all the strings, connect all the lines,

I’ll wink, I’ll grin, I’ll shine

 •

I’ll be your Uber-Marionette 

I’ll be your emotionless human puppet.

˙

Make me from paper bags

Or

Laundry socks

Whatever form

Shaped in shadows

…

Make me from chicken wire, a shell!

A Shell made of Sky-Blue paper-mache

∆

I’ll be your Uber-Marionette 

Unawake

At last in my own reverie.

Hand carve me from wood

Design only craftsmen master

Reshape me with gentle hands and familiar tools

Spend days, weeks, months

Finding that perfect shade of green

For my eyes.

Tie all the strings, connect all the lines

I’ll wink     •     I’ll grin     •      I’ll shine

†

Your Little Uber-Marionette

Emotionless and hollow 

Your darling ironic puppet .

˙

But I know something you don’t know.

•

After awhile

You’ll wish I was real

Waking me up

Forgetting our deal

To let my soul sleep

As you do what you will.

`

And with fury and madness

Whirl like a dervish

Spinning awake

Hurling      •     Twisting

Faster      •     and Faster      *FASTER!

The lines all snapping

The strings go flying,

Faster, Faster   •   … still …

Cyclonic rage

The uber-marionette gives way

Sucking you into its vortex

§

And when the tornado dissipates

It

Drops

You

OUT

A  Puppet

Copyright 2011 by Kimberly Cox, GidgetWidget™

1892 NYT Classified Listing Requesting "Computers" For Government Jobs

He fought well in the Battle of Information.

Well, as Aeschylus, whose Epitaph, “Fought well at the Battle of Marathon,” mentions little about his achievements…

So, do we have the inability to grasp the achievements of Mr. Steve Jobs?

Not only the Greek Tragedian who helmed his path to shape the Golden Age Of Ancient Greece, Aeschylus, himself, was a man whose influence transcend time. Profound and prolific, the impact of his philosophy, science of reason and invention of vision defines 5th Century BC, Athens.

2,500 years later, Aeschylus continues to inspire, helping us, somehow.

Do not dismiss his ORESTEIA or PERSAE.

Dismiss the rumor Aeschylus died because an anomaly occurred in the sky over Sicily: a tortoise fell, striking a fatal blow to his head and fracturing his skull. Apparently, dropped by a hawk or bird.

Thus, Tortoises are responsible for killing the Ancient Greek, the Warrior-Playwright — Aeschylus, the Athenian. He fought well at the battle of Marathon.

LOTUS 1 – 2 – 3

Hence, tortoises and turtles, are relevant. Neither Steve Jobs and his “Chelonia,” nor Aeschylus and his  χελώνη , neither Darwin and his Tortoises, nor any Millennial and our turtles, could have imagined these creatures playing a small part in the dawning of a new era in human civilization.

In third grade, we had to take computer class. And that consisted of learning and practicing basic fundamentals in computer programming skills. This totally eludes me now as it did at nine, ten, eleven-years-old. Picture my freckled face scowling, immediately bored and fidgety. With the 10-12 other students, our torturous assignment always involved this Tortoise or Turtle. To make it move in a straight line. Some kids got it. I didn’t.

We have the computer I am typing on now because Mr. Jobs had a vision. His life and accomplishments will help to define the era of our Information Age. Hopefully, another 2500 years will pass and Lotous 1-2-3 will be a forgotten thing, but Steve Jobs and his role in developing computer technology, will never be.

We have the coolest gizmos — things 19th/20th Centuries’ Science Fiction fans used their imaginations to revel in.

Retrospect and Respect

While I may mourn the loss of an icon like so many others, there are a few who know Steve Jobs as a friend, family member, colleague, boss, mentor, competitor and/or beloved person. For you, I write my most sincere sympathies upon hearing the news of his passing.

We will never know the full impact of the iMac, iBook, iPod, iPad, iPhone and the other transmutations Mr. Steve Jobs has firing our digital technology. But we will know the name of a great man whose work changed our lives. Perhaps the advantage of retrospect will help us to see in 20 or 50 years more clearly.

Meanwhile, I propose we show our respect with an International Day for the great historical figures, like Steve Jobs, and their common friend, the species Chelonia: Turtles, Terrapins, Tortoises, alike.

They move, making haste slowly, FESTINA LENTE.

Let the race for the clouds, begin.

I’m Gidgie. And I ain’t PC.  Apple MACs, all the way.

Thank you, Mr. Steve Jobs.

Rest In Peace.

Thursday, October 6, 2011 ~ New York City

Copyright 2011 by Kimberly Cox, GidgetWidget™ 

The Murder of James Connolly & Antonin Artaud from Gidget Widget on Vimeo.

I learned an Irish Rebel Ballad about James Connolly and a new book, Antonin Artaud’s final work, “50 DRAWINGS TO MURDER MAGIC,” recently arrived. So I sang the song, recorded it and randomly, these images happened to pop up on my screen saver…

Totally random, perhaps, but isn’t it strange how many parallels exist? It’s a short slide-show of artwork by a Frenchman and a song about an Irish Rebel.

LIFE IS SO … cruel in its magic.

James Connolly was executed on a May 12th for treason against the British. He died just before Antonin Artaud left the sanatorium to fight in the trenches of France/Belgium in The Great War. The year was 1916. Connolly, at his court martial, made reference to the Easter Uprising:

“We succeeded in proving that Irishmen are ready to die endeavouring to win for Ireland those national rights which the British government has been asking them to die to win for Belgium. As long as that remains the case, the cause of Irish freedom is safe.”

Meanwhile, Antonin Artaud returned to the sanatorium before summer’s end. At four years old, Artaud contracted meningitis and he survived the disease. Tormented his whole life by neuro-physiological damage, his work as an artist, filmmaker, actor, director, writer, and in theatre have inspired generations, including ours. The images shown here are from his final work. He died in March, 1948.

Enjoy, ~ *Gidgie

I just made up the song as I filmed this on a smart phone. It’s sad, kinda… The view from my window, one I have looked at for years, will be gone forever; either today, tomorrow or by next week.

Watching something change, you know? It’s the only thing we can expect in this life. At least, that’s what my Nonie says, and she is most wise.

Silly little happenings in our little lives. Caught on the internet, here’s a bit of mine. XO

If it were up to me ~ I'd quiet the cacophony ~ So, maybe we could see ~ Maybe we could hear.... How close we are ~ To Being ~ Washed Away ~ Washed Away

WASHED AWAY

Lyrics and Music by Kimberly Cox

Let me be

For just a little while

Let me breathe

Let me breathe

~

I’ve seen an angel, fall from grace

I’ve seen the devil in my own face

~

And I know the whispers

Well, they lurk in corners

And they speak of the answers

Without using any words

~

And if

It were up to me

I’d quiet the cacophony 

So maybe we could see

Maybe we could hear:

~~

How close we are

To being

Washed away, oh, washed away

~

We think that we’re lost

All so lost we can’t be found

And it’s not easy, no

To keep believing

But don’t take the answers

As Grace comin’ down

‘Cause there’re no answers

That we have found

~ 

And I know the whispers

Well they lurk in corners

And they speak of the answers

Without using any words

~

And if

It were up to me

I’d quiet the cacophony

So maybe we could see

Maybe we could hear:

~~

We don’t need to

Be washed away

Washed away, oh, washed away

~ 

I just keep holdin’ on

I keep holdin’ on

I keep holdin’ on

Waitin’ for something else to come along

~ 

Let me be

For just a little while

Let me breathe

Let

Me

Breathe

Visit my page on SoundCloud for this and other songs! 

Copyright 2011 by Kimberly Cox, All rights reserved

For further information and/or permission to reproduce,

please refer to the Copyright & Intellectual Property Notice

on the GidgetWidget 2.0 Home Page or leave a comment.