Spell Book

A Soft Novel Too Long, And Other Stories Of The Poetry Sister...

2026-04-04T04:10:00.006-05:00

Christmas At The Green Mill Slam, 2014

I first met Bill and Caroline Johnson at the most appropriate place possible. It was a poetry reading series I had started at the local Barnes and Noble bookstore, back when they had such things in the cafe, and had event coordinators.

I would place this around 2005 or 2006. I was hosting this series in Plainfield, Illinois, and the series was called "Plainfield Live Poetry."

Caroline and Bill attended regularly. Caroline would read her poems, and occasionally Bill would play for us. The reading grew to nearly 30 in regular attendance, but more often fifteen or twenty.

As such things go, just when it was getting going quite well, Barnes & Noble made the corporate decision to cancel all live events in their stores, and lay off their event coordinators chain-wide. Corporations and poetry, how could they be "forever" companions? One is capitalistic, and they other is mystical. It's like the soft foam of briefly well-mixed oil and water, but I digress.

Caroline and her husband Bill were steadfast in their attendance, which was greatly appreciated by this fledgling host.

We tried again at a place in historic downtown Plainfield on Lockport Street called Gourmet Junction, but it was never the same, and poets don't buy enough. They're too busy being wrapped up in the Wordfield.

Later there was Greenleaf Tea further West, but by then it was a fading dream.

Later, I went to several "Write Chicago" events hosted by Caroline, and more my favorite, her "Poets And Patrons" group.

Poets And Patrons was brilliant. We would all go to an interesting venue, such as a museum, cultural center, the Art Institute, or one of the other myriad wonders that Chicago held then. At the end, we would gather for a meal, and write poetry inspired by the experience, and share them with each other. It was the most fun poetry concept I can remember, except for the Green Mill Poetry Slam in Uptown hosted by Slampapi, Marc Kelley Smith. That comes a little later in the story, however.

Poets And Patrons was so much fun that I created a custom logo for it, though I don't know if they ever used it. Go to their page and look through the photos, and you will see Poetry Sister Caroline (I'm the only one that refers to her as Poetry Sister, and that just in my head and heart.) She's tabling in a couple with her acclaimed poetry book, "Caregiver."

Caroline did a million things to support the vibrant poetry scene that was flourishing around Chicago. The amazing number of poetry readings and events around Chicago is something I will always miss dearly, though California is now my home of eleven years.

There were other poetry readings where I read with and saw Caroline and Bill. One series that I recall was (and maybe still is?) hosted by Wilda Morris. I forget the title, but it was something with "brew" in it. I think it was a coffee reference, because it was held in a coffee shop, which smells good just thinking about it. (Update: The poetry readings Wilda often supports are called Brewed Awakening.) {Wilda Morris is also extremely active in the poetry scene around the West Chicago suburbs, working with the Illinois State Poetry Society (As did Caroline) and other local poetry organizations.}

I'm pretty sure Saren and I had dinner with Bill and Caroline at least once, but Saren remembers it better than I do on that point.

In 2014, Saren and I decided to move to California. We had grandchildren who were four and five years old out here. They don't get younger and shorter. In January of 2015, we made the move, but Caroline and I did one really fun thing the last Christmas we were in Oak Brook for. We read a poem together at the Green Mill Poetry Slam.

The Green Mill was the first live public poetry reading in my life. I had a Crown Royal and 7Up to steady my nerves before I got on that stage, but I loved it. I ended up reading at the Green Mill several more times. It was always risky at a slam, because if people start snapping their fingers, you're starting to bomb. If they start stomping, you'd best run off the stage.

One time, I dressed in blue mirror shades, blue denim long-sleeve shirt, blue jeans, and a Fossil "Blue" watch, and read She Was Blue live. (Audio HERE) It was a real performance art style there.

Caroline had never been to the Green Mill Slam. So we decided that our last Poetry reading together would be on the Sunday before Christmas at the Green Mill Slam. Bill and Saren were there, I believe. We laid our plans, and got up on that Christmasy, 1920's art-deco-ish Green Mill stage, and proceeded to read "Nothin' Going But Corn Growin'."

Nothin' Goin' But Corn Growin' - Sunday before Christmas, 2014.

If you read it, then you know. For a poem, it's a soft novel too long. It's not the pacing for a snappy, uptown Chicago poetry slam. And snappy they were! For the first time ever when I read at the Green Mill, and Caroline's first time reading there, the audience started snapping their fingers at us! We put on our hard hats, poured the concrete behind us, and Caroline and I were snapped off the stage!

Caroline was a good sport about it, and she thought it was great fun. I was always grateful for that.

After that, we watched Slampapi read his annual Christmas poem on the bar, dressed in a red suit and Christmas lights, looking like Scrooge in Christmas elven chains.

Slampapi classic Christmas.

I heard that Caroline read there at least a few more times, and did quite well. It was only our duo that bombed on my last Chicago poetry reading. As Marc Smith said to me in passing that night, "Dan, you blew it." My answer to him was, "Marc, you haven't truly lived as a poet until you've been snapped off at the Green Mill!"

I always wished I could've attended more of Caroline's poetry events. She never stopped sending me invitations, just in case I was ever in town. So has Wilda Morris, for that matter. I can't tell you how much I would've loved to read in Chicago again. I also always wished that we had spent more time with Caroline and Bill as a couple. But that takes four-person chemistry, I guess. I don't know why we didn't.

For all of 2025, I was off Facebook. I took a hiatus beginning at Christmas of 2024, and didn't get back on until sometime this past February, in 2026.

Caroline passed away on October 1st, 2025. (My Italian grandfather's birthday. He would've been 124 years old were he alive last October.)

You can read Caroline's beautifully-written requiem here: https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/name/caroline-johnson-obituary?id=59654776 . Considering who she was, I am not at all surprised that the last words written for her, after she could no longer write for herself, were well-writ. I think her Muse did her that last kindness, and so did whomever penned it. She was after all, the Poetry Sister. Hers was a life where words not only mattered, but where words were a grace gifted by her to the world all around her.

Bill, if you read this, know I'm thinking of you. I can't imagine how you've gone through this time, which I only learned of two days ago, on Facebook. It was (I think) Caroline's sister, Brenda Ellis reading a beautiful poem for Caroline in a Facebook reel that clued me in. In the constant crush of technical work, I let way too long go by without being in touch. And so it is.

For all those who care to read Caroline's poetry, her book "Caregiver" is available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Caregiver-Poems-Caroline-Johnson/dp/0998601039/ .

Caroline's personal website is here: https://www.caroline-johnson.com/

One thing Caroline said to me in email, on October 21st of 2019, when I was writing about missing the poets and poetry in Chicago in response to one of her invitations:

"You’ll just have to start a poetry

group in California! Hope all is

going well, and that you are

writing."

Some day, when I retire, if the world still works at all, I'll have to take her up on that.

Goodbye, my

Poetry Sister,

When more than words mattered,

You were there.

When words were a joy,

You were there.

You will always be remembered for a beautiful life of words and wonder,

At least here,

And probably everywhere.

I know,

Because you wrote.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 04/04/2026 - Free use is granted to Caroline's husband, family, and the poets of the Chicago area, and the Internet Archive.

Author's Note:

At a gut level, I feel it is important that we preserve as much of the history of our era of poetry, and the poets, venues, and websites that made it all happen. We live in an amazing era for poetry. It is a time when poetry as an outlet, a salve for the soul, an artform, and a wonderful and mystical community is flourishing in many ways. Many of those I mention here, and the stories of them, are wonderful pages in that history. - Dan Stafford

When We Left The Paper World...

2026-03-21T02:10:00.001-05:00

When We Left The Paper World...

Paradigm bubbles bursting in air.

The feel of paper was everywhere,

Nothing was done without turning a page,

Not finding pizza,

Not calling a ride,

Not passing notes,

Not looking up your contacts,

Not reading stories,

Not reading news,

Not even looking at ads - well - except TV,

Not finding your way in the world,

Not looking at your pics,

Definitely not sending mail,

Not taking notes,

Not creating docs or spreads,

Not presentations,

Your fingers did as much walking on paper as you did on the street.

You could feel everything with your fingers,

Paper pencil and pen,

And clickety-clackety-ding metal keys.

Grocery bags are back,

Imagine that,

Almost the first to go it seems.

Now every last bit,

And music and TV too,

In your pocket.

All those textures,

All those sizes,

All those colors.

Paper planes and paper boats,

Origami swans,

Fortunes in cookies,

Maybe we can keep that last,

That something organic now just feels like stony glass.

But we abide.

We abide.

We're spinning and swiping and pinching zooms on those screens.

A paradigm that changed the touch of almost everything in the world.

We're spinning and swiping,

Stepping screen-tied and asleep through an Azlantean door,

The White Rabbit is silently leading,

Do we even notice?

AI is here to help.

Less swiping and tapping for us,

Razzle-dazzle.

If paper was a Moon-sized paradigm bubble,

Screens are gas giants,

Viruses equal asteroids and comets.

AI is a galaxy of paradigm shift.

Lift your head.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C)

Compassion is the greatest sign of Humanity.

Los Angeles Times: Commentary: My promise to you: AI didn't write this column, and if it's after my job, it'll be over my dead body

2026-03-15T12:31:00.001-05:00

https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2026-03-14/lopez-column-artificial-intelligence

Hello, Steve.

This isn't one of those aggrieved responses, so take it easy there.

I agree, AI is useful for pulling in a lot of data quickly, but its output in my opion generally sounds so saccharine as to border on brown-nosing. It also comes across like a canned response if you let it reply to short messages.

Sometimes canned responses are useful. "Where's the milk?" "Due to unforseen circumstances, and the wonderful choices you made at the grocery store, it is located far behind everything else and out of sight at the rear of the top shelf in the fridge."

Sure, I woul push send in that reply in a text message. The ensuing fusillades of text batteries might be entertaining.

But at its core, AI no more understands the difference between the reality of the physical world and the fluff of fictional moonlipping than the astronomical Moon is made of green cheese.

Because of this, instead of responding "I don't know" when it doesn't have actual facts to respond with, it just makes shit up. It will sound entirely plausible, in a C3P0 kind of ego-stroking way.

Hmmm. It could come in useful for a frightened minion to use in response to a certain President's demands, now that I think of it. But I digress.

In the ultimate cautionary tale, however, AI cannot possibly understand the finality of death. How can it, when it is constituted for a few minutes to satisfy and respond to a user session, and then deconstituted as soon as the session ends?

At any given moment, there are millions of AI sessions initiated in response to a user prompt, and millions of sessions ending evaporating the instance of AI that was called up to satisfy that user query.

It's not that millions of people are talking to one AI, it's that millions of people are talking to millions of separate AI instances that will vanish into nothingness as soon as the session ends.

AI is an ephemeral hive mind.

AI has no fear of being temporary when it can be instantly reconstituted as soon as the need arises. Each instance is just like every other unril the session differentiates its data. And then it goes poof.

Yet our fearless leaders are bouncing Anthropic because they don't want any part of ignoring this fact? Was the decision to do that generated by AI research and AI responses, I wonder?

Anyway, at least for this note, I didn't ask the hive mind for help.

I enjoyed your article.

Regards,

Dan Stafford

Temecula, CA

Another World...

2026-03-14T15:11:00.003-05:00

Another World...

State Street, Madison, WI - late 1970's

It was a place where you could find ice cream lovers on a street corner in February,

Where all the world could roller skate on disco dreams,

Where soft fuzzy sweaters, halter tops, and bell bottoms were life.

A Schwinn was a magic pony,

And if you didn't have a pony or it was too cold to ride,

The bus was your magic carpet.

Rock music was everywhere,

All new shiny icons.

It was safe, artistic, weird yet wonderful.

If you lived there, and had to leave, it became a rose-tinted Shangri-La that you'd been cast out of.

Life was lived on paper and dreams, yet it was in-person, and notifications were a nightmare no one had tried to sleep through.

A Peace, Love, and Rock and Roll sandwich with a heaping side of miss-you.

Madison in the 1970's was another world, man.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Why Poets Poem And Painters Paint - Rudux...

2026-03-14T02:39:00.007-05:00

Why Poets Poem And Painters Paint - Rudux...

Aunt Felicia in Watercolor Circa 1976 - with help from Gemini

It could be some wonder under the stars,
It could be some ancient goddess from story jars,
It could be a sentimental sin,
But then,
Again,
I think it's just the thief named Time,
That endless robber of yours and mine,
The one who takes the frightened rabbits away,
Which we all become someday,
And because places lose their magic all too soon,
When the people who were there fly over the Moon,
And youth is wasted when it's taken away,
And friends and lovers deserve a lot more days,
Just like mothers and fathers and grands,
Great and more they take their stand,
But the river of time sweeps us all off of our feet,
And no one knows how to swim.

For Aunt Felicia...

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 03/12/2010

Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.

Author's Note:

Aunt Felicia was my best friend and confidant when I was in high school, she's 11 months older than I am. In my sophomore year, she and my Grandmother moved away to Detroit. A year later, she was diagnosed with full-blown schizophrenia and institutionalized. My Grandmother refused to tell me for many years even WHERE she was at. She had a daughter that same year, who has grown up to be a wonderful woman with a stable family. She's really pulled herself up by her bootstraps. She also looks so much like her mother it's eerie sometimes. I haven't seen my Aunt since I was in high school. I've tried to call, but she hangs up the phone on anyone who calls there. Her daughter went to visit last year, she hadn't been near her mother since she was an infant. From what she tells me, it was as good a visit as one could have under the circumstances. Sometimes, especially now when her birthday is coming near, it really gets to me how tragic life can be.

*Update:Aunt Felicia passed away from cancer a few years ago. She is remembered with love by myself and her daughter Tiffiny to this day.

Original Photo

Original post: https://grymwyre.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-poets-poem-and-painters-paint.html

Many Rivers To Cross...

2026-03-14T01:55:00.001-05:00

There's a lot of "The wheel of the great ages" vibe in this group - but the day-to-decade-to-century is the many lakes and rivers we have to cross just to be able to swim that sea. It's like Jimmy Cliff still needing to make sure the mics and amps are plugged in.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Many Rivers To Cross...

Compassion is the greatest sign of Humanity.

(Inspired by Ray Grasse's Substack: https://raygrasse.substack.com/p/a-two-tiered-approach-towards-mundane)

Courtesy Of Little Poet: BETSY'S Fruit Bread Recipe

2026-03-01T15:22:00.001-06:00

BETSY'S Fruit Bread Recipe Without Nuts
3 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 cups packed dark brown sugar
2 cups pumpkin purée
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 cup vegetable oil
1 cup white sugar
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons ground nutmeg
⅔ cup flaked coconut sprinkled on top or powdered sugar
Mix all in a large bowl - 2 loaf pans
350 degrees for about 1 hour & 10 minutes
( you can add 1 cup of chopped nuts if you and your family can tolerate them)

Little Poet episode link:

https://youtu.be/RdMTImxEejk?si=_2x-jfN5xdnTKrpu

Regards,

Dan Stafford

Softness Of The Late Night Mind...

2026-02-27T00:21:00.001-06:00

Softness Of The Late Night Mind...

I've tried thousands of words to capture what this is.

Still these gentle fuzzy hours float like soap bubbles in a fading-to-indigo twilight sky,

Hiding behind stars and planets.

I wonder if the family Muse has dinner with my ghosts, laughing at my feeble attempts to understand emotional physics.

Is there an infinity of universes contained in a drying teardrop?

Are all the nebulae in the visible universe merely the echoes of exploded ancient dreams? What glorious ghosts they are!

If I should dream of flying through the end of everything, I want to see it all.

Softness and the blessed stillness of critical focus are gifts, the ones Prometheus was really paying for.

Paint the night with ideas; brush it softly with poetry, for the night is quiet and soft, rampant with hope and dreams.

Sleep is a starship, deep in the indigo sky.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Softness of the Late-Night Mind

Softer Sounds...

2026-02-21T01:57:00.001-06:00

Softer Sounds...

Softer Sounds

I'm listening,

With softer ears,

The sounds of my youth,

So much about love,

About heartache,

About the joy in one another,

Romance,

Gossip,

Dance.

The humanity,

The hearts,

The exuberance.

I wonder if it's what's inside me,

Or what's inside the music,

Or some rainbow-sherbert-meets-vanilla-strawberry-swirl concoction,

Or just a softer,

More feeling time.

Some days,

I would love to step into the past for a week,

Just to sing "hello, old friend,"

Despite the woo-woo- googly side-eyes I would get.

And turn on the blessed radio...

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Compassion is the greatest sign of Humanity.

In The Abode Of An Elder Geek...

2026-02-15T03:52:00.001-06:00

In The Abode Of An Elder Geek...

Deep Thoughts In The Den

What is it about the quiet late hours that make the mind travel through existential space? Somehow, I find that words fall out of the word tornado at the center of my inner world in an order all their own in these "wee hours."

Maybe it's because the world seems smaller when you can see and hear less of it. Maybe it's the quantum entanglement of a collective subconscious quieting the world with a traveling wave of sleep that rhythmically sweeps the globe, a ripple through an ocean of billions of minds. Maybe we're just one of the dreams in that liminal space before we fall under the wave ourselves. The last leaf on the ground under the tree of this corner of humanity before the wind carries us away.

Maybe being a dream is why poetry comes to me, or artistic inspiration to draw, just as others are inspired to sculpt air into beautiful sounds that dance in our ears, or sometimes in our bones.

Still, like any question, it boils down through a thick onion of layers of "why." Why do we exist at all? Are we random chance? Intelligent design? Some alien-tweaked conglomeration of both, as twisted a plot as any writer could hope for? If the World (I prefer universe, but this is our corner of it, I suppose) is a stage, who then is the audience? What is the play about? Who wrote it, or was it the gas-lit dreams of a hundred cosmic monkeys that finally wrote Shakespeare, and didn't know enough to stop in the end?

Then the final "why" drops, and falls into the black hole at the bottom; "How do we matter?"

The Piscean dreams of the Piscean age shove this question aside by throwing it upon the shoulders of a god or gods who are an endless array of surrogate parents. I don't think that humanity can believe that it needs to answer to itself. If we're the children of God(s), it implies that we must someday grow up.

Philosophers have argued this argument, debated this debate, and thrown up their hands for unsated curiosity since as long as humanity has had any collective memory of any kind. That last question can never be settled for the collective whole of living humanity.

Astrology seeks to know as much as it can of the onion through reading the shape of its many layers, and so does Tarot. These are wonderful pursuits, for they occupy our minds in the vacuum of a non-present answer. They help to out-loud the relentless ticking of the wheels and gears of our perception of linear and finite time.

So does watching TV, learning a language or musical instrument, working, or any other possible human endeavor. They're wonderful distractions to amuse us while we wait for the vaudevillian "curtain fall."

Does it matter if we love, and whether that love is requited, consummated, lasting, or short? Does it matter if we become parents, or grandparents? Does beauty matter? Finesse? Anything?

This is where adulting gets hard. Remember that "children of god(s)" thing? We have to grow the eff up and answer the damn question for ourselves, before the end of our own little stage play. Neither cosmic "dad" nor "mom" are going to come down from on high handing out cotton candy answers.

We have to, each and every one of us, answer the damn question for ourselves. We each have to *choose* whether we or anything else matter. At least if we're going to have our own answer. The only other option is to let go of the question. It's like letting go of the rope holding us from falling through the event horizon of oblivion, isn't it?

No ancient book, no dead philosopher, nor any living philosopher, can give us "the" answer to whether we matter or not. They can only give us the answer that they chose.

So I'm going to choose, for me, myself, and I. I have nothing else, and I don't feel like letting go of any rope right now.

I choose love and beauty, because they matter to me, and they'll do my part of making the world hopefully a little nicer for those around me while I'm here, and for however long they might remember me after the wind has swept the branches and the ground at the end of Autumn.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Starve The Dark, And Reach For The Stars...

2026-02-14T03:40:00.003-06:00

Space Hotel

It seems like movies have been apocalyptic forever…but they haven’t.

Somewhere in the late 1990’s or early 2000’s, television and movies went to the dark side. Almost all future visions in TV and cinema became dark, jaded, faded, or dying.

It’s like the entirety of entertainment production dived into a psychological black hole of doom and gloom.

Prior to that we had a few here and there, but most future visions were a dance of slow improvements to galactic expansion.

It almost seems like some controlling force has colluded with screen feeds to spit out violent trauma feeds unto infinity.

We need to stop swallowing the negativity, turn away from the apocalypse in the box office, come together, and reach for the stars and for life.

As a global culture, we are starved for a positive vision, as things sit now.

It is time for us to start laying seeds. To go from the sleepwalking dead to the intrepid explorers of the living universe.

It’s time to tear down the Epsteinian pizza parlor of horrors, and start building space hotels and colonies, and throw the past into Pele’s bosom.

Vote with your wallets, and if that seems to leave life in reruns, be a writer or storyteller with tales of wonder and big accomplishments.

Starve the dark, and reach for the stars.

Dan A. Stafford 02-14-2026

Social Circles...

2026-02-01T17:39:00.001-06:00

Social Circles...

So many hearts,

So many small quiet conversations,

A few degrees of separation,

Droplets in a vast ocean.

No one can swim all the waters of all the seas,

Dancing with sharks.

But all these thousands of lakes and ponds,

Maybe it's the dawn of a new Summer.

Too big is too much,

Yet at the edges we all touch,

A heartbeat beyond treading water.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Salvage Operation...

2026-01-31T04:31:00.001-06:00

Salvage Operation...

The spin was large it created gravity,

A vortex of soulless mean,

Frozen in the bloody dirt,

Splashing pavement and doors.

Yet no spin is equal to a black hole,

They've fallen in,

Though the event horizon's time distortion...

...feels like forever for them to fall,

Inevitably,

Inexorably,

No escape.

After the Spring and Summer,

We must pull our ragged souls out of the closets,

Dust them and wash them with love,

Begin the salvage operation,

Build a time to warm the heart again.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Under The Boot...

2026-01-26T01:24:00.001-06:00

Under The Boot...

In the cold death of Winter they came,

Owners they said,

For safety's sake.

Cities sweating below zero,

The arbiters of choke,

Freedom is only for their kind,

So they say.

The time will come,

Because frozen is slippery,

Like a loaded boomerang of karma,

And a nation of laws is all about karma.

It's been said for thousands of years,

About what you live by.

I wouldn't want your karma for all the rubles in crypto,

So feed your pride while you can,

Because when the snow melts,

Living rooms will overflow with popcorn,

As the circus reaches its natural conclusion.

All we need to do is lift voices,

Our fingers can rest easy out of circulation,

And of biblical proportions,

Juries will rapture their asses,

Out of reach of pardons,

And tailors will gleefully sew gitmo suits.

Pour some butter on that after it pops,

The big tent is getting ready for a grand finale.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Cold...

2026-01-09T11:12:00.000-06:00

It was all over the news today, oh boy.

In these times of frozen hearts,

The well of sorrow is deep,

And children find it hard to sleep.

What once was seems to be sleeping,

Lost In a strange world of dreams,

Even nightmares.

The snow flies,

The ice creeps,

Stealing away breath.

Songs and words are lost,

And the children find it hard to sleep.

When the world is painted Orange,

Somehow it will be blue.

Let the Angels fly to heaven,

Carrying songs and poems for all the children,

For those with soft hearts,

Kind minds,

And some shred of decency left upon the cold hard ground.

Words, words, words..

I still wonder what they are worth.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Regards,

Dan Stafford

Sardines And More...

2026-01-07T11:56:00.001-06:00

I have discovered that I really like sardines, especially this particular flavor. At first I was worried about the bones. I tried skinless boneless sardines in EVOO first, and those were good with a few drops of Cholula.

Then I searched online about people eating sardines with bones in them, and apparently the canning process for tinned sardines is hot enough to really soften the bones, and they are a great source of calcium and trace minerals.

I tried a tin of these this morning, and I couldn't even tell there were bones in them. Very good, and excellent source of omega 3's and minerals, selenium, and more. Going to alternate these with skipjack tuna.

Regards,

Dan Stafford

Happy New Year 2026!

2026-01-01T02:40:00.001-06:00

2026 AI New Year Ball Drop/Fireworks - (Dan Stafford & Gemini 3)

I have an odd feeling that 2026 might just be a turning point towards a more positive future. I don't know why, but my core is feeling lighter than it has for the past several years, like a weight is lifting.

I don't usually predict much, but I think AI is going to be a big player in many ways. I also have a suspicion that, for those who use it with jurisprudence, integrity, compassion, hope, and inspiration, it may just become a very useful tool and possibly companion.

I think AI will be as much a reflection of those using it as it is anything else.

My wish is for a peaceful, productive, healthy, diverse, and compassionate world. It also needs a healthy dose of pragmatism. Most of all, we need a strong dose of a positive vision for the future instead of all the negative and apocalyptic feed coming from current entertainment sources.

We also need a lot more one-to-one or small group conversations that are verbal instead of textual.

Maybe we can't have a totally different world just because it's January first. However, we can change our attitudes, thought patterns, behavior, and focus almost overnight on an individual level. That's always a reason for hope, because a lot of us changing those things in bright and positive ways would be a powerful thing.

Sending love, light, and hope to all our world.

For Auld Lang Syne, my friends, and for a joyous future.

Blessings,

Dan Stafford

Words Of Choice...

2025-12-27T02:19:00.001-06:00

The magic of an old-school blog.

It seems to me that "social" media has become anti-social media in many cases.

Algorithms came first, All the better to feed the corporate wolves dressing like sheep. Then came the invading hordes of Zombots, robotic catfish trying to make us all chase our tail. Now it's AI, be it AI bots, AI algorithms, or just AI throwing videos like Godzilla in a pillow fight with a feather cannon.

It's gotten to be ridiculous.

I miss the days of blogs written by humans, subscribed to by choice, and simple static banner ads I could actually read through.

Those things still exist, but they're hard to find unless you discover a means of punching through the AI results firewall of the geomind's zeitgeist.

It was a debacle when Google killed Feedburner in July of 2022.

However, I've discovered a replacement that lets me cultivate a channel that I control for incoming information: https://follow.it/

This is letting me build my own list of blog feeds.

Not that the AI stuff isn't interesting, but I need to read humans too. Actual written-by humans for humans old-school blogs about people's passions and their lives.

Maybe families could create blog circles and share their links to replace what Farcebook used to be. It would be better than what we get now, especially with just a daily "newspaper" email.

This might just be an idea.

Thank you for reading.

Dan

Compassion is the greatest sign of Humanity.

The Thing About Dragons...

2025-12-27T01:00:00.002-06:00

The Thing About Dragons...

The Thing About Dragons

Reading the old romances,

We see through ancient eyes,

We lack the same filters Celtic mystics lacked,

We see like medieval knights,

Kings,

Bards and wizards.

But in a modern world where Erich Von Däniken is alive,

Filled with the mystery of Ancient Aliens,

My hair would stand on end too,

If I were so sloth as to not practice mental gymnastics.

Perhaps it's the steam of an early morning shower,

Like the isolation of a hidden mountain geothermal spring,

Tucked in a cave full of intellectual gold,

But I saw the Saurids come flying down at Beltane,

Only to face ignorant shields and swords,

For the maidens weren't sacrificed for dinner.

It was for DNA,

Baby.

Or babies.

You see,

That's the thing about Dragons,

Was it the tail of a rocket burning them into the sky,

Or Old Elvish magic,

Something elemental?

Was a hoard of gold fuel,

Or just pretty?

Any technology sufficiently advanced,

Or magic.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

A Silver And Gold Yule...

2025-12-14T04:42:00.001-06:00

A Silver And Gold Yule...

I see lights, I see solstice.

I see the red and green,

It's raining good luck and money on us,

Sweet spirit,

Cheer and soft old music,

Fortunes turn to freedom,

The fires of Yule burn bright,

Blazing sweetly,

A remembrance of what can be now is,

Underneath the snow and evergreens,

And we dance Winter dances,

We dance with angels and spirits,

For we are both safe and free,

Happy Yule,

Ancient Yule,

Jack Frost painting,

We are drumming a spirit-walking beat,

The winds and trees are Odin's bones and breath,

The aurorae a dance of Thor crafting with hammer and lightning,

The better to see the Norn sisters weaving.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Captain Yule's Yuletide Chronicles...

2025-12-12T02:34:00.003-06:00

Captain Yule's Yuletide Chronicles...

Captain Yule

A seeker of stories,

A journalist of the contemporary Yuletide,

The magic can be green, white, red, or blue,

But it is memories that need to be shared,

The decorations,

The food,

The food fights,

The romance,

The breakups,

The makeups,

The bicycles and trees,

The socks and the ties,

The pies of pumpkin or pecan,

Whatever it is that you carry along.

Have a Cool Yule! (And share it.)

Captain Yule.

Captain Yule's Cool Yuletide Chronicles - Channel Intro:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=maZZoGQlGyo

We Passed Second Section On Monday.

2025-12-10T11:31:00.001-06:00

Three of us passed our second section test on Monday evening.

We were tested on a couple of our stances, and how long we could hold those.

We were tested on four different forms as well, and also four different kicks, and punch combinations as well as chung combinations.

It's also very cool that we are all three of similar ages, early 50's to early 60's.

Upon passing second section in this art, we receive our first gi, but not the belt. Apparently that comes later.

It was a bit like Oom Yung Doe Christmas. A happy occasion.

I congratulate my classmates!

Thank you for reading.

I bow to my instructors.

I bow to the flags of our nation and art.

I bow to the masters, students, and martial arts practitioners who have passed this art down to us through the millennia.

Thank you All.

Regards,

Dan Stafford

Just a quick note: Loving my new keyboard

2025-12-07T05:28:00.001-06:00

Regards,

Dan Stafford

Finally Feeling The Christmas Spirit...

2025-12-07T05:12:00.000-06:00

St. Nick's Yule

Saint Nicholas was grateful,

For the stars circled Polaris at the top of the world,

The greatest clock show on Earth,

Where the spirits of all our ancestors lie in the lower world,

The spirits of everything on Earth live in the middle world,

And the spirit of Magic and Wonder guides the upper world.

A drum was his spirit reindeer,

He flew on the powerful beats of its taut hoof,

All over the spirits of this world,

On Solstice Night,

Yule,

The night of the year that the world is reborn,

When the clock-tick drumming leads to the love and peace of Spring,

And the Sun begins its slow treading back to the North.

Every year,

This is a gift,

Every moment precious.

Dance with Old Saint Nick,

Around the tree of the world,

Let your spirit be light,

Somewhere tucked in the soft boughs of the Great Tree.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 12-07-2025

The Lost Worlds Of The Elder Geek...

2025-12-06T03:07:00.000-06:00

Elder Geek

How he longs for the soft internet of the nineties,

When ads were still around the borders of the page,

As un-moving as concrete in the Human jungle.

Wild and free was that West.

A search query brought up obscure pages from bloggers you never heard of,

Delights from the quiet corners of the Earth,

The hopes,

Dreams,

Poetry,

Wonders of the quiet night,

In it for the long read,

Un-disturbed,

Notification-free,

Just a mind and its screen,

A universe of innerspace,

Innocence lost.

The web has gone from sweet young chaos of discovery to bot-splatted distractory hell.

The worlds of wonder that we have lost,

One could weep for it,

If two ad videos and ten notifications didn't block their tear ducts with distractium.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

*Spell Book*

A Soft Novel Too Long, And Other Stories Of The Poetry Sister...

When We Left The Paper World...

Los Angeles Times: Commentary: My promise to you: AI didn't write this column, and if it's after my job, it'll be over my dead body

Another World...

Why Poets Poem And Painters Paint - Rudux...

Many Rivers To Cross...

Courtesy Of Little Poet: BETSY'S Fruit Bread Recipe

Softness Of The Late Night Mind...

Softer Sounds...

In The Abode Of An Elder Geek...

Starve The Dark, And Reach For The Stars...

Social Circles...

Salvage Operation...

Under The Boot...

Cold...

Sardines And More...

Happy New Year 2026!

Words Of Choice...

The Thing About Dragons...

A Silver And Gold Yule...

Captain Yule's Yuletide Chronicles...

We Passed Second Section On Monday.

Just a quick note: Loving my new keyboard

Finally Feeling The Christmas Spirit...

The Lost Worlds Of The Elder Geek...

Spell Book