Saturday, November 30, 2013


Thus Was The Tongue Of A Dog Made Useful*

The beggar lay at the rich man's gate.
The rich get richer saving crumbs,
letting beggars hang by their thumbs.
Let the dog's rough tongue grate
the sores on the body of the poor
who lay in pain by a rich man's door.

Safe now calmed by the Heavenly choir
you forget he who left you by his door  
sent his dogs to sooth your sores. 
He burns now in the Devil's fire. 
You don't wet a finger to damp his thirst. 
Who'll say which of you is worst?

  *Cotton Mather: Marginal Christi Americana (1702)

Cotton Mather officiated at the marriage of Thomas Chute

and Mary Curtis in Boston several years before they moved to         

Saturday, November 16, 2013


With the days getting shorter and me getting longer, it's a little boring around here by the pond so I've decided to occupy myself with a business venture:  Invest In Time.
It may sound a bit risky at first, but no more I'm sure, than having your body frozen and stored until sometime in the future the body can be revived and repaired — in fact much more probable, and safer, I'd say.
All my customers will need, and risk, is a few hundred dollars and faith in the future — and it's really no more complicated than compound interest. The customer will deposit their money with the business, Invest In Time, Inc The company, IIT, will guarantee to hold the fund, earning compounded interest, for as long as necessary until a functional system of time travel has been developed. 
It should not worry the investor that the time period would perhaps involve a century or more for two reasons. (1) By that time the original invested fund will be very substantial indeed. (2) At that time the investor will be transported from the time of the investment to the new present, age (of his or choice) and physical health unchanged. Time Transfers, in they chose, can be returned to their original time but no financial refunds will be allowed.
I of course plan to make an initial investment myself. The legal corporative  documents will provide the mechanism for moving the business from generation to generation.The next time I meet with you I may have the necessary papers so that those interested can sign up and join this venture. 
It may have occurred to you that I am assuming our political and economic system will persist for the period of time required.  If I can encourage a large enough number of people to join the venture I am sure they all will try to do their best to make sure our system does persist.

Robert M. Chute  CEO/IIT     

  Celebrating Dr. Who's 50th.

Saturday, November 9, 2013


The poems tells most go the story.  The rest you will be able to read in the book, Excuse For Being Here, which Just Write Books will soon be releasing, a mix of Thoreau inspired poems, prose text on Thoreau, perhaps too much of my own biography. The poem tells the truth: a vision of the room in which my father slept in the summer, in the main house keeping a close eye and hand of The Chute Homestead: that vision of the bed, the pillow, the blod spot did appear as I revised the Emerson poem but I don't think my father died of TB, however real the blood spot was.

            Found Memory
2013: I find, read, consider revision
of a poem written 25 years ago.

Emerson Spends A Restless Night: 1831

He woke to her cough, felt the tense
curve of her back, the sharp contraction
of her chest. The dark was all enveloping.
Curtain open he could not sense separation 
from bed-chamber and moonless space.

He knew at the first cough, knew as if
a  window opened and November's
cemetery chill suddenly swept in. He
could not shut his mind to his mother
saying "use cold water for a blood spot

or the cloth will be forever stained."
But in the morning Ellen folds, hides
her handkerchief, an offering to this
new divinity whose mark she knew 
the coldest water would not wash away,

and in her journal wrote "I am the grave's. 
It's seal is set upon me."— and I,
suddenly, or think I suddenly remember —
the blood spot on my father's  pillow
in one of those 1940 years so long ago.

I know I've told you they didn't tell me
he was ill or what the illness was, that,
brought home, I don't recall the funeral
although I must have been there — and yet —
and yet that blood spot has not washed away

as Emerson's mother says "I told you so!"

and Ellen: "Death will have it's offering."