Archive for the ‘Thomas R. Turner’ Tag

Cartoon Du Jour — What In Hell Is Happening?   4 comments

What In Hell Is Happening?

CARTOONCOLLECTIONS.COM

In June of this year, George Booth passed away. Like so many people, especially
readers of The New Yorker, I love his cartoons. For the last three years, this one I
look at every day and shout, “What the hell is happening?” 

But, more importantly, for several years starting in the early 2000s, my brother
Tom placed the cartoon in the upper right corner of copy paper he used to write
letters to me, always written in large capital letters. His letters, sometimes unable
to read without having a dictionary nearby, were always informative. 

He once wrote:

“OOOOOPS . . . LOST MY FOCUS . . . (WHAT A HOOT!) I’VE BEEN, AS OF LATE,
DWELLING UPON THE YIDDISH IDEA OF DRECK . . . “MATTER” WHICH PRESENTS
ITSELF AS NOT WHOLLY RELEVANT (OR INDEED, AT LL RELEVANT . . . WHATEVER
‘RELEVANCE’ IS!) . . . BUT WHICH CAREFULLY ATTENDED TO CAN SUPPLY A KIND
OF ‘SENCE’ OF WHAT-IS-GOING-ON. THIS ‘SENCE IS NOT TO BE OBTAINED BY
READING THE WORDS, THINGS . . .  SORT OF NON-SEMANTIC STUFFING OR
‘SLUDGE’ WHICH ARE EASILY CONFUSED FOR CONDUITS OF COMMUNICATION . . .
BUT PERHAPS OBTAINED BY CHECKING OUT THE INTERICES OF THE DRECK . . .
SPACES SURROUNDING THEM.”

Events are always perceived
with reference to a particular
frame; in another system of
coordinates, the ‘same’ events
are not the same.

— kenne

Posted November 15, 2019 by kenneturner in Cartoon du jour, Information

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24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #6   3 comments

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the sixth, and last, I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

The nuances between us were scattered with the 
January snows of Peter's arrival.
Ambiguities, second starts and brokendreams were too
Tangled up in Blue to
Cut to the exact place on the page where our rhythm had 
Broken.
I'm not that young any more.

"Get off your stagnant ass and do something."
The scenario years later would speak.
The Pacific Northwest and a three quarter profile statement
Echoing out Denny's window
Why I never got a job during all those summers.

Only the facts she put to me.
I couldn't keep in step with the definitions you
Dreamed.
 We speculated endlessly in different directions
Whether our togethrness might might imaginable be framed
From inside so that the usual connection between lover 
And lover and loved and loved would be interchangeable but
Paradoxically unchanging.

                     (For my benefit, I suppose)

Was the fiction of my eroticism so damn necessary?

Somewhere I glimpsed you
Coming at me; balancing cryptic hats . . .
Laughing comic confusion.

Now I never see you anymore.
The summers are much colder tha used to be
In that other time, when you and I were young.

I miss the human truth of your smile;
The half-hearted gaze of your voice and all the things
That you'll always be to me.
Only thee is no comic relief
Just a 
Curious translation of cracked nostalgia.

But lets 
Skip the arguments.
I already know how the story ends:
A-not-so-crytic-message:
Don't be naive
You could only gaze into the distance at my life.

	

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #5   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the fifth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

In the inerstices of "hold me," and "stop hovering,"
The symbiosis of us succumbed 
An anamoly had intruded
The desideratum of my life found my eyes
Bestial and sought transcendence through "appointments-only."
The spontaneity of our quick was cheapened.
                (Funny how incredulity becomes more than a word)

The aesthetics of my artifice went against the grain;
Recreation, utilitarian achievement and another sexuality
Were the hidden Karmas of your soul.
My recondite preoccupations rung-up as
No sale.

Impressions filtered through my extranceous fictions
Single out shared neck massages and inept peeling of oranges.
Her solipsistic soaking in the tub found me
Speaking my love through
Closed doors. Anxiety and discontent had obscured our moments
Together.
My metamorphosis was quixotic and debilitating
Labor for the demensional person on which
Her eyes tried to focus. 
Making love in the afternoon was an
Extreme of ethos a sexual shadow world for her
Yet the doctrine-of-discontinous-selves found a measure of 
Your accentance.

Odd.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #4   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the fourth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

Closely watched trains came and went without me without us
I somehow missed you

Eyes have a way.

After love with my caliban sweat and noises
A vacant resentment would knife
From glares askance
First seen in the pain of Vanessa-labor.
And this is what happens when you love someone?

Progeny and sunburn haired sensualness
Prefaced Rare-Earth and a student nurse.
The ideology of lesbos intimacy had
Clandestinely raised its latent head.
But it doesn't matter anymore.

                      (You were the poet in my heart)

91st street was the end
Wasn't it?
Curious how our windows are always steamed-up
On Autumnal days.

                      (Was ANYTHING central?)

The "is-this-all-there-is" syndrome sums up the
Period: Existentialist discontent
With a walk-up duplex decor.
A matter-of-fact sexuality
Presaged a psychic-incarnation I couldn't see.
Lisa brought home a metamorphosis I didn't
Realize.
They cut your "tubes" after she came and that was that.
Funny how I thought even then that is was
All a matter of hormonal imbalance. Shit!

And what about you?

Paradoxes betray the limits of logic
Not of the reality we shared.
Your "passion" was stillborn though so damn necessary.
A dissolution of absence into substance sucked
Screaming through a Rimbaud-Day-On-Fire.
I could't laugh enough for the
Frivolity she needed but detested.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #3   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the third of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

The metaphor Milwaukee-East-Side
Found an oblique happiness on Newhall street and other avenues.
A thirty-three-o-one flight walk-up
Mingled with a sweaty montage of
Walk-down circus parades:
Beer with Richard punctuating assassinations
Democratic conventions and
Halloween readings.
My movements in a not-always-silent
Desperation enveloped the shit of a B.S. paperchase.

                    (My illusions were so intensed christ I missed you)

"Im Home:" used to reverberate through someone's contentment
Of newhall evenings and milwaukee days.
Introspective space refracted my looking-glass image and the
Ennui of your self-esteem.
The enigmatic fruit of our "intimacy"
Was even then becoming spurious and estranged
Yet continued to sustain me and confine you.
Our spring had clouded into a season of
Discontinuities.

Snap-shot ambiguities cannot clarify
Where we were
Only echo tangents of truth
Which negate explanations of a then with Allison:
Lake Michigan shoreline Dr's Park Flag day
Too much to drink
We ate dogs with laughter went to bed at ten
And felt safe.

                    (I still see the scenes, but no longer see
                     myself among those present no longer
                     can improvise the dialogue)


24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home — #1   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the first of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

Standing above me in Smith's room 
Awkwardly looking down through a clipped hesitancy 
Our lives came together. 
TURNER 
With all the ambiguity that last name usage implies 
Was what she called me. 
Mannerisms of ingenuousness and a tendency toward the atypical 
Bespoke your ambiance  
                                     (Ineffably I wanted Her) 

That voice - 
Falsetto 
Laced in bursts of Peter's guffaws 
Seemed contrived with a dreamed-of authenticity.  

                                      (Your mouth, my love,the
                                       thistle in the kiss?) 

From within mutually cancelling 
Vignettes of naturalness and gender-cliche' 
She kissed through closed lips of 
Pristine openness. 
Innocently I loved. 

Through summer notes of vulnerability 
Together we embraced an entangled growth of uncertainty  

                                       (Our fictions were tempered in
                                        a painful and inward time) 

Desperate needs equivocated against ordained directions and 
Dead-end holdings of night-bakery-work. 
Even then yours wasn't other-directed but 
A need to keep the Self-absorption of your Ann Arbor soul on a 
Pedastal of conforming difference. 
Eliptically we lived in the interstices 
Between an illusion of  
Fulfillment and letters etched with 
"Know what?"

 

Tom Turner, Shall Seventy-Seven Bells Sing Struck   4 comments

Tom-kenne_0333-b-w-blogTom and Kenne Turner (Tom would have been 77 today.)

Twits

POEM ON HIS BIRTHDAY

We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twits,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why might you ask?
If you  look closely, you will not see
tasty morsels in our beards,
while Twits upon close review
will have tiny little specks
of dried-up scrambled eggs.

So says Roald Dahl,
and he should know
of all the disgusting things
found in the beard of a twit,
but no need to hold your noses.

So, what is it these hairy men
are trying to hide?
Is it an ugly face, you ask?
No, not really,
for we are two guys
possessing good thoughts,
which shone out of our faces
like sunbeams,
so we will always look lovely.

Again, Roald Dahl should know:
‘If a person has ugly thoughts,
it begins to show on the face.
And when that person
has ugly thoughts every day,
every week, every year,
the face gets uglier and uglier
until it gets so ugly
you can hardly bear to look at it.’

Even so, on this sand grain day
in the bent bay’s grave
I celebrate and spurn
what would have been
brother Tom’s driftwood
seventy-seventh 
wind turned age,
shall seventy-seven bells sing struck.

— kenne

(Some lines in this poem are from Dylan Thomas’ poem, Poem On His Birthday. My brother loved quoting lines from Dylan Thomas’ poems.)

Thomas Robert Turner, Two Tears Out   3 comments

Lummi & MCLACThomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
I love you, Bobby!

On this day as I have many days since his passing,
I read from the many notes, letters and emails
I now cherish as he seems to grow bigger than
life with each passing day, just like children sleeping
his being inside me can’t be dreamed away.
The many words 
he shared can be taken away,
but not the love that 
keeps growing in
the soul of my very being. 

He left for me many literary and philosophical
examples 
to live by, probably not knowing they
would continue to shape my very being as I
continue my journey in other people’s reality.
One was a quote by Paul Lafargue:

Healthy in body and mind, I end my life before pitiless old age
which has taken from me my pleasures and joys one after another;
and which has been stripping me of my physical and mental powers,
can paralyse my energy and break my will,
making me a burden to myself and to others.
For some years I had promised myself not to live beyond 70;
and I fixed the exact year for my departure from life.”


He was 72.

kenne

Posted November 13, 2016 by kenneturner in Information, Philosophizing, Quotes

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Coach Turner   10 comments

Pub - Kenne & Ana (1 of 1) blogAna Claudia 

Last weekend, as I stood in front of those attending the celebration of life services for my brother Tom, I couldn’t help but notice the tears on the face of a dark-haired women among those attending. I had not yet met this beautiful women, so I had no idea who she was.

Knowing that some of Tom’s former students would be in attendance, I was not surprised when she came up to me after the service, with tears still in her eyes, and introduced herself — Ana Claudia, one of Tom’s former students. We embraced with the affection of dear friends seeing one another after years of being apart. For Ana, I was channeling Couch Turner, something that is second-nature for me since my brother and I are kindred spirits. We talked, drifting from the present to the past and back, her tears of joy still on her face. 

As we talked and hugged, Ana shared something she had posted on Facebook after the death of Coach Turner:

I don’t often share my feelings on here,
but today I have a good reason to do so.
I’ve often thought about how blessed I am
for having had tough but kind coaches
and mentors throughout my life.
I am grateful beyond words
that good-hearted people took time
to help keep a poor immigrant kid from the hood
on a path towards a positive life
that included the desire to give back or pay it forward.
I know most of you didn’t know him but in honor of him,
I want to say that among all of those good people
none made more of a difference
in my life than this good man — Coach Turner.
He passed away yesterday and now,
here I sit openly weeping still, smiling,
and remembering him not only as a coach,
but also as a mentor, a defender, a family friend, and even a father.
I’ll never forget you Coach Turner. Thank you from my heart.
— Ana Claudia

I have no doubt that her words are shared by so many of his former students. He was a special man who liked using the power of his vocabulary to impress those around him, but for Tom his ability to share his feeling was more powerful the words. Like all of us, he had his demons, but above all, “Bobby”, my little brother, knew the value of caring and sharing.

In the form of a elegy, I share the last two stanzas from Federico Garcia Lorca’s, “A Dream of Life”:

No one knows you. No one. But I sing you — 
sing your profile and your grace, for later on.
The signal ripeness of your mastery.
The way you sought death out, savored its taste.
The sadness just beneath your gay valor.

Not soon, if ever, will Andalusia see
so  towering a man, so venturesome.
I sing his elegance with words that moan
and remember a sad breeze in the olive groves.

— kenne

Coach Turner blogCoach Turner

Tom & Track Students (1 of 1 blog)Turner with some of his track students

 

Capturing The Moment — Scattering The Ashes Of Tom Turner   2 comments

Meydenbauer Beach Park_Panorama2 blogPanorama View of Meydenbauer Bay, Bellevue, WA 

(CLICK ON ANY OF THE FOLLOWING IMAGES TO VIEW SLIDESHOW FORMAT.)

This past Sunday, in a drizzling chilly rain, I was with my nieces Vanessa and Lisa scattering their dad’s ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park where they often spent time with their dad. Joy and I first visited the park in the mid-eighties and with the passing of time the park has changed — then a more rustic park with a lot more trees and shrubs. Either way, it’s still a beautiful park on Meydenbauer Bay on Lake Washington. Among the stories the girls shared as we walked together in the park was of their dad running from their home in Bellevue to the park — running directly into the water, which sounds a lot like Tom.

Knowing that we would be with Vanessa and Lisa as they scattered their dad’s ashes, Joy and I traveled to Seattle with some of Grandma Agnes’s aches so they would be scattered together. Since we had an “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony Saturday in the Main Hall at Camp Long in West Seattle, there was no formal scattering of ashes ceremony — just Vanessa and daughter Violet, Lisa, Joy and me. Vanessa’s husband Jon was home with son Henry, and Lisa’s husband Mike home with son Austin. The scattering of ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park was the way Tom would have wanted it, intimate and personal.

This coming May 23 we will be remembering Tom’s birthday with the Dylan Thomas line he always sent to me on my birthday:

“…High Among Beaks and Palavers of Vultures
He Celebrates and Spurns His Driftwood
SEVENTY-THIRD Wind Turned Age…”

In your honor, Tom, we will keep searching for clarity . . . lucidity.

kenne

 

The following poem ended Saturday’s “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony.

A Clear Midnight

by Walt Whitman

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

(Go To kenneturner.com to see all the “Becoming is Superior to Being” Postings.)

. . . because we need the eggs   1 comment

Tom Turner 2013 (1 of 1)-2 B-W framed blogThomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014

Today we are flying to Seattle to be with my brother’s daughters, Vanessa and Lisa and their families and friends to celebrate his life in words that communicate thoughts and feelings manifested in knowledge, experience and love.

My brother often shared and laughed about the closeness to home the following Woody Allen quote was for us:

“It reminds me of that old joke – you know,
a guy walks into a psychiatrist’s office and says, 
hey doc, my brother’s crazy! 
He thinks he’s a chicken.

Then the doc says,
why don’t you turn him in?

Then the guy says,
I would but I need the eggs.

I guess that’s how I feel about relationships.
They’re totally crazy, irrational, and absurd,
but we keep going through it because we need the eggs.” 

Saturday’s celebration of Tom’s (aka, Bobby) life will include a “sharing” program, because we need the eggs!

You may call me Tommy, you may call me Jimmy
You may call me Bobby, you may call me Zimmy
You may call me T.R, you may call me Ray
You may call me anything but no matter what you say.

You’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You’re gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody.

— minor changes to Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody”

Click to see a pdf file of “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner.” Tom’s Celebration

kenne

On The Waterfront — No Longer Seeing The Workings Of Time.   Leave a comment

Tom Turner On The Waterfront (1 of 1) blogThomas R. Turner, On The Waterfront (June 2, 2006) — Image by Mary Ann

Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time!
It’s abominable! When! When!
One day,
is that not enough for you,
one day he went dumb,
one day I went blind,
one day we’ll go deaf,
one day we were born,
one day we shall die,
the same day,
the same second,
is that not enough for you?

They give birth astride of a grave,
the light gleams an instant,
then it’s night once more.

– from Waiting for Godot, by Samuel Beckett

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