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His hillbilly writing style notwithstanding, Buddy Don is highly literate, attending college, working the computers at Oak Ridge Laboratory, presiding over lively parties at his rural farm, pondering the Big Questions. This novel suggests -- as do so many others done in vernacular -- that there's no clear correlation between conversational idiom and intelligence level. "Shoot the Devil" is a fine piece of work. In quality paperback format, it will withstand multiple readings without blemish. Well worth the price of admission.did i menchun that thays still a few of the furst 49 left?
"Anonymous" doesn't have a lock on proper grammar him/herself. Writing must be true to the heart and soul, and this is the way you want to do it, BD. To thine own self be true.lucky a nuff fer me, i dont know no other way to do it.
The first time I ever read this blog I laughed out loud because it reads almost exactly like me and many of my kin folks talk.mayhap i feel lack i know buck on a counta we could be cuzins or sumthin. twoodnt sprize me n twood be a honor ifn turnt out to be true!
I think it is funny as hell and purty much dead on.
I thank if we followed the blood river Buddy we would find that many of mine are kin to yorn.
Oh buddy don. I have to get to bed right now, but need to put this down before I forget. Over the past few weeks I've been gazing on my own navel on the idea of of "personal vernacular". At this time, however, I will spare you the configuration of the lint, therein.lack i sed, the way marcia knits wurds together is pure poetry. i wish i coulda cum up with half them grate metafors bout persunal vernackular.
Personal vernacular is a powerful thing. It is rich and poor. It connects and separates. It has sound and imagery. It can sustain thought without a word spoken. It is a word spoken, without need of thought.
It is the blankie that comforts and helps us transition to new worlds and experiences.
It is the wallpaper of our soul.
Have you ever done any audio? What I hear when I read you probably isn't exactly what you hear when you write... I'd love to hear the 'real thing'.fack is, i have dun a lil audio, but i aint dun whut i shoulda dun alreddy dun ere now: record a lil bit of this here dialeck that i kin here clear as a bell in my mind but kin convey to the page only so good (never as good as i kin here it).
I'm afraid I've all but lost recollection of the dialects I grew up with, but I love to hear any country dialect, including European ones... they all sound a little bit like home to me.
Although we outspend all other nations
To defend ideals we oft forget,
We feel a sense of growing desperation,
As bands of criminals still pose a threat.
Like British redcoats marching in their files
Through rugged wilderness of colonies
To be defeated by guerrilla wiles,
We think our navy master of the seas.
We do not understand the changed terrain —
Of nations whose people are set ablaze
By terrorists, by pirates, the insane —
Who grow by declaiming our errant ways.
Great power is an awesome thing to wield,
But moral high ground is our only shield.
Not sure how your attempts at the local vernacular are intended as humor.i wood hope them thats been readin this here blog knows bettern to thank my 'attempts at the local vernacular' are intended as humor. they aint. tiz my means of recordin how them i wuz razed by happend to talk. fer me, tiz the best way to tell stories n i lack to practiss ever chants i git.
LEWISBURG, Tenn. — Five years ago, this small factory town was struggling to pay the interest on a bond for new sewers. Bob Phillips, Lewisburg’s part-time mayor and full-time pharmacist, was urged by the town’s financial adviser, an investment bank named Morgan Keegan & Company, to engage in a complex financial transaction to lower interest rates.dont that jes beat all? sum of the wurst news is how them industries is movin out of tennessee, witch the menchun of sanford pencils moving to mexico is a prime eggsample. jes brakes yer hart that these jobs trickle down to other cuntries (on a counta trickle down always means jobs fer them that wurks fer the least money, no matter whuther tiz in this cuntry or sum othern).
When a Lewisburg official attended a state-sponsored seminar intended to lay out the transaction’s benefits and risks, he was taught by investment bankers from Morgan Keegan.
And when Lewisburg decided to go ahead with the transaction, who was there to make the deal? Morgan Keegan.
In January, local officials were shocked to discover that annual interest payments on the bond had quadrupled to $1 million. Morgan Keegan, they said, did not serve them well in any of its roles.
Cruel reality
Cares not whether we live
Or die abruptly,
So life only has meaning
If we live as if it did.
Like a creeping cat,
Haunches set expectantly,
Poised to leap and strike,
So the energy of Spring
Is set to burst into bloom.
As buds become blooms,
Adorning green leaves with pink,
So we turn with hope
To another beginning,
Breathing deep the fleeting scent.
The mollusk pulls back
Into its shell, avoiding
Possible danger,
Waiting for the outside world
To return to normalcy.
last fall i lost a old buddy the same way. he jes fell over dead. i never quit trine to be his friend, but he stopped answerin my emails after while. he wuz 57 also.that putts thangs bout as well as they kin be putt.
tuther day i was huntin fer sumthin and i found all the silly stuff he n i used to pass back n forth at wurk when we wuz in the same office. it jes brought back the hurt agin. he had a blog and everthang, i didn't know till after he wuz gone. hiz name wuz tom wiloch and i thank he wrote his Wikipedia entry his ownself. sounds lak him.
friendship is kinda lak a buncha leaves flowin down a river. thay bunch up then rearrange, flow apart, mebbe flow back tagither agin, mebbe not. n sum sank, n sum flow on.
tis one a the mystries.
If I should die and leave you here a while,i wuz also gratafide to git a anser back frum a email i sent to a nuther ole friend that i hattent herd frum (or writ to) in a dozen years. i caint hep but wunder whar thangs could lead, but tiz promissin.
be not like others sore undone,
who keep long vigil by the silent dust.
For my sake turn again to life and smile,
nerving thy heart and trembling hand
to do something to comfort other hearts than thine.
Complete these dear unfinished tasks of mine
and I perchance may therein comfort you.
Decay eats the heart
Of the great, spreading oak tree,
Leaving it hollow,
A living shell of itself:
So my old friend’s death leaves me.
Brothers and sisters,i writ the waka above fer one of my verr best friends, witch he wuz kind a nuff to buy hisself a copy of that thar novel i writ name of shoot the devil. ye orta order yourn whilst ye kin still git one of the furst 49, witch them that buys one of em will be gittin unnamed bonus benefits a lil ways down the rode.
Mothers, fathers and children —
All are given us —
But old friends grow from choices
That reveal our truest selves.
Books are memories,
Reminders of what we did,
What we wished to do,
What we dreamed we could have done,
How we became who we are.
As haze and moisture
On the horizon alter
White light at sunrise
Into glowing rainbow hues,
So desire distorts life.
The magnolia trees
Blossom for their short season,
Passing like childhood,
As flower petals shrivel
Into wrinkled memories.
As old fabric scraps
Sewn together become quilts,
So neighbors unite,
Becoming the foundation
Of human community.
Even snarling dogs
Will soon lie down quietly
Under the warm touch
Of pure loving confidence,
As two beings become one.
After long illness
The world seems almost renewed,
As if a soft snow
Had blanketed all symptoms,
Leaving one feeling reborn.
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