197. Whom do you consider wise?
17:50:00, September 24th, 2007

John closes his eyes and leans back. He has learned painfully and eventually that even the best of men are not always wise. He knows that, even if men are good; even if they are forgiven; even if they have never done wrong, that their portions of wisdom are frighteningly transitory. They are nothing on which one may rely at all. He finds, to his surprise, that wisdom is not something that is meaningful to him. It is a result of circumstances, to John's mind. The things he cares about are intent and struggle. He might as well have been asked whom he has known who has possessed the most happiness. Wisdom is a matter of luck. John is a gambler, but he knows luck is really odds. It is tendency in a web of causality tangled beyond comprehension. If one chooses the correct path one has wisdom. That is how it is usually defined. For John, choice is a bargaining - a balance of sacrifice and ethics. The ways in which others make these choices do not let him grant anyone wisdom, exactly. The more he thinks of it, the more he doubts the very existence of wisdom. If a person is responsible for himself and if he is aware rather than merely acting according to the tides of fortune, then choice is a chaos of pain and triumph based on jumbled trades and bargains of need, want, love, loyalty and near-blind striving towards the warm golden light of Right that only shines in one's own conception. This chaos and clash of will makes men beautiful and all that they are. It is what brings out their best and worst. John loves. The feeling and knowledge are music within him - sometimes a full celestial choir, sometimes a plaintive single line of tune, but always haunting and imperative. This has nothing to do with wisdom. Nothing.

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
Word Count: 315
Please comment if you wish.
Nulli Virtute Secundus
affect: defiant defiant
Leadville 1884

cut picture prompt )

John steps out of the saloon into the cold crisp Colorado air. He is 'Doc' here, almost anonymous with the weight of his reputation. There is no one to call him 'John.' It is the twelfth of October but, still thinking of his lost Georgia, he dubs it midwinter. Although he has ostensibly risen from his poker table to take dinner, that is only an excuse. He has often played through until dark morning before dawn, and it is an easy matter to arrange supper at the table. He has been winning gradually from skill rather than any great run of luck, so there is no imperative to remain. There is a feeling drawing him, almost restless, into the night. Outside, he leans against the rail and risks a deep breath. His ragged lungs fill carefully with air
that somehow manages to be both thin and rich, the pine almost reminiscent of metholatum, soothing and cleansing with a slight causticity. He is alone in a motionless town, the noise of the saloon muffled behind him. If he felt less charged and vibrantly alive he would wonder again if he were a ghost. Despite the stillness, there is something wild in the night that inspires John to stand straighter still and to want to search out adventures, though there are none tohand. Everything is touched with silver, like a photograph washed in blue-black ink. The light shines in the threads of his brocade waistcoat and winks from the diamond below his throat. John turns to the full moon and gasps, startled by the presence of the still life it
silhouettes on a bare tree. Crows for death. He counts to ten - one for sorrow. The perched forms exude an almost palpable aura of anger and relentless patience, but something still draws John. Something feels familiar. They have an awareness of him that emanates inexplicably. He is known and recognised. And watched, if not exactly watched over. Out here in the wild silent silvered dark, he is somehow 'John.' He stays a moment, then walks with his cane to the hotel, as he had stated that as his intention. Something feels incomplete, leaving the birds without acknowledgment, but he can think of no reasonable word or gesture.

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
Word Count: 376
Please comment if you wish.
Nulli Virtute Secundus
Aching teeth? Aching soul? Dentist. Experienced.
john_h_holliday: (eyes)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 10:35 pm)
A vision, from John Dreams

A man enters his mind - one of those for whom he watches and in whose existence he takes quiet pleasure. He sees the man's face and eyes open to him as they do not in life. John watches, remote but moved, and feels this as it resolves. When he has seen fully the man begins to become more distinct - more himself. It is not that he is less whole, or less clothed, but John can see inside him.

His skeleton is shaped - carved with figures, scenes and objects. It is something between filigree and bas relief, in black stone, intricate and infinitely complex. It is unmoving, but it has changed if his gaze returns to a humerus after sliding to and from a metacarpal bone. There are faces reflecting agony to reverie, through mourning, guardedness, and pleasure.

The man's heart is carved of alabaster as well as the dark stone and turns as on a spindle. The carvings there are on a larger scale. Sometimes these are crumbled, sometimes obscured by mist, sometimes clear, the edges honed to razor-sharpness.

John touches, in his vision, in tentative wonder and respect, but contact with the heart slices his finger open. It is protected, and the figures turn lithely to watch, in turn, the richly coloured tendrils of his blood drip from rib to rib.

He touches the skeleton and feels life beating through it. Fear, and strength, and longing. It is beautiful, perfect and heart-breaking. John's control is non-existent, drowned in fever, and he weeps. He weeps for the other man, for recognition of this in himself, because it is just a vision, though he will remember.

Cleansed by tears, forced to turn and relax, he comes to sleep, and dream.
First of all, life a serious pursuit. It is such a short time to create ourselves, to balance desire and morality so that we may become rich with character. It is such a short time to create ourselves, through suffering, through error, through love. It is such a short time to develop our distinct souls, if we are concentrated enough to do so. And if we do not - if we take what is given, regard everything we see with blank naive gaze, then we may as well not have been born. It is those of character that create the world and any scant glimmer or all-illuminating searchlight of meaning within it. Is that the winning of the game - discerning meaning? If it is so, then we all win, those of us who discern meaning, and those of us who create meaning, and those of us who embody meaning. And the rest? They can receive and sit without understanding. They can try to buy identity with money, and they can think that they are defined by simple preference sets and entertainments, and they can fool themselves into thinking they deserve love and respect and attention because they simply exist. But they will never win nor know there is a game. Those who play, win. It is a co-operative game.

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
Word Count: 219
Please comment if you wish.
Nulli Virtute Secundus
john_h_holliday: (Default)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 10:57 pm)
Once upon a time, I was a dentist.

It was in a small town, not in Nevada, but in New Mexico. Las Vegas. It was the last time I was a dentist, though I always claimed it as a profession. Dentistry was not as brutal as you think it, even in those days. There were so many ways to lessen and take pain from the patients. Fillings were gold, thin sheets of foil, patiently coiled and smoothed into cleaned cavities with tiny instruments. They were works of art, minute detailed sculptures, designed for comfort, for beauty, with as much perfection as one might offer. I was proud.

For these fillings I needed gold. I needed to melt gold, to mold it, to meld it, to create wires and sheets, and something called gold crystal, which compressed into cavities in some difficult cases. And I needed to make the moulds. There was much I needed to do.

Las Vegas boasted hot springs, to ease my breathing, my bones, to warm me in cold stages of fever, and it attracted others with my malady from across the country. And one of these men was Billy Leonard, a jeweller. He had need of a similar workshop, and we shared that and illness. He was from the South as I was and we shared the war and loss of country. We were both professionals – exiled gentlemen thrown into the violence and chaos of the wild west. And into the dry stark desert from the rich moist warmth of home.

Like me, he believed in his strength of will and morality beyond that of law. Like me, he was dying and we comforted one another through the ebbs and flows of illnesses and despairs. And we drank together, and talked. We played cards. We taught one another the techniques of our metalwork. We visited and saw the shows, we took dinner together. We laughed and coughed and sometimes wept.

Billy Leonard was my friend.
Friendship means more to me than anything. It is the virtue I hold highest. Loyalty.

Ill and so eventually discouraging to patients, I opened the Holliday Saloon, and due to disputes I eventually left Las Vegas. I despised the people I found around me. They despised me, and I was hot-headed enough to give them reason. I drank to excess then, thought to make a reputation, and sought to throw away my life. I had lost Mattie, my childhood love, I had lost my home and family, my profession – everything, and every chance. I thought. And Billy Leonard was my friend. We were of one mind. But it was I who was forced to leave.

I found my way to Fort Griffin and fell in with Wyatt. I saw something better, some chance to live though I was dying, some chance to live for others and for a better world. Right is Might we said, and I resurrected my lost intentions. Wyatt saved me, from myself and from Hell.
cut for length )
Tombstone. If Ed Schieffelin did not find his grave as was predicted when he first prospected for the fabulous silver-strike, there were good men who did, and the town was aptly named.

It was a child's fistfuls of bare board and adobe buildings, along with a few more opulently appointed establishments. These had been tumbled onto the seemingly endless desert that indifferently featured mountains, washes and valleys, punctuated occasionally by vague landmarks and springs, some of which were alkali, and inhabited by rattlesnakes, and the odd itinerant or Apache. It was so dry a whisper would blow dust to coat your cheeks and eyelashes. A whisper. It was frequently windy and one alternately burned and froze, fever aside. In short, it was healthy, even gradually cauterising, though I was grateful for the filter of my mustache.

And with that, the stage has been set and the major players introduced - at least those I care to have you meet; those that shine like stars for me in this drama.
cut for length )
I was generally reviled by both camps.

I worked for peace, order and safety, as always the good citizen, treating ladies gently and men squarely, fighting natural and unnatural emergencies. I worked with Wyatt and indeed Virgil, who were as generally regarded as the town’s salvation. Nevertheless, my presence was considered a blight.

I was an insouciant Southerner with my softer accent, occasionally still marred by a slight hiss from my cleft palate. I was ill, coughing and shaking, taken by fever and weakness at what were often inconvenient times. Though tuberculosis is not contagious, it was mentioned by some that it was unseemly to show myself. I drank for ease, for companionship, for steadiness, or for some small measure of peace. I was a gambler, dealing Faro, sitting for days at poker and, unforgivably, winning. There was Kate, who was apparently my consort but more closely resembled a proverbial millstone. She had saved my life in Fort Griffin and it was thus my duty to humour her, as a gentleman, though she was a perfidious whore, as you will see – not that I would or should condemn anyone for her profession. I was an associate of Billy and his friends. As if all this were not enough, I was unapologetic, proud, courteous and intelligent. I was not to be borne by ‘decent citizens.’ I was not welcome even at church, which ought to have been doing its best to save my soul.

To the cowboys, on the other hand, I was a Southerner who rode with Wyatt against Texans and therefore a traitor. I was a former outlaw associating with present outlaws and thus a probable spy, and though my words and reputation should have told them otherwise, they were suspicious. I had rights they did not have, as a lawman, and because with guns and Wyatt’s protection I was to some degree untouchable, they scorned me as a cheat hiding illegitimately behind the law. I was, again, a successful sporting man and more than competent with guns and knives, which only made them jealous, as did the fact that I was truly a gentleman. And of course anything I had I did not deserve.
cut for length )
john_h_holliday: (eyes)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 11:03 pm)
Tensions ran high that summer. We were always alert. It was a violent time.

Behan was sheriff and the cowboys ran wild. There were countless incidents. Worst of all was their slaughter of an entire mule train of Mexicans transporting silver through Rattlesnake Canyon. They dressed as Apaches, thinking to deflect their shame by further compounding it. Every man was killed, save a boy who escaped back across the border to Mexico. The only ranchers able to hold against them were John Slaughter and John Hooker, who had enough tough and loyal men to protect their ranges from the wholesale rustlers the cowboys had become. The source and sale and price of beef was almost a running joke in the newspapers. And there were the hold-ups still of the silver and payrolls to and from the mines. I cannot begin to enumerate the rate of crime or the legitimate fear that good honest hard-working men held for their lives, livelihoods and families. In addition to such organised crime, they would drink and fight amongst themselves or with others for sport, threatening anyone in the vicinity.

And they hated us because we stood up to them. Even alone, Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan, who were the lawmen, and even Jim, who had the saloon, were constantly faced with jeers and threats of the murder and destruction of all they held dear. And I too. Wyatt bid me stay my hand, or I never would have stood to accept such things. It was a kind of pride – to stand nonchalant and utter bland conversational denials to the increasing menacing confrontations. I would have killed them outright for saying such things, insulting our honour and threatening our lives and the lives of those we loved. But Wyatt was more subtle, more far-seeing, cooler, with plan and purpose. He believed political office would give him power to break the cowboys, and his word was my bond, in that it bound me. I was still and cool. Wyatt was head of the Citizen’s Committee to fight the cowboys. They would not have me.

Still regarded with loathing and suspicion, I walked the streets bearing the malevolence of all. And it harmed Wyatt too, surely for my sake – it outraged him to see me innocent and so vilified – but also now for himself and his brothers. Everyone blamed me for the Philpott murder and botched stage robbery still – Wyatt’s friends and Wyatt’s foes, though some of the latter knew the truth and were concocting the tale, making it worse with each telling, and throwing Bob Paul, Wyatt, Morgan, and even Williams, the Wells Fargo man into the plot to take the stage.

I did not know it then, but Wyatt had a plan to arrest the true robbers and clear our names, especially mine, which was in most jeopardy. Even before the trial, he had set what he believed would be a trap. Billy Leonard was my friend and still at large. He would need to be captured and Wyatt left me from his plan for the sake of my loyalty.

He made a deal with a cowboy named Ike Clanton to betray them and bring them in. Ike was a near-cretin, as far as I was concerned, treacherous and if he had been even slightly cleverer he would have been villainous. As it was, he was essentially a worm, albeit one with a bullhorn. I despised him. He was both stupid and uncontrollable, and unjustifiably swaggering and boastful at the same time. His father had the largest spread of the outlaws, and they were a lawless and relatively powerful family, in their way.

Wyatt made a deal with Ike Clanton for the head of my friend.
cut for still more length )
Why do I say ‘Sacrifice?’
It is an equation.
Everyone has something they hold highest – something for which they will do anything. Aware or not, everyone has a hierarchy within him. For most, the pinnacle position is held by their lives. Thus the old hold-up equation Your money or your life. Most would hand over the money. It is sacrifice of one thing for another. This is the reason that Wells Fargo employs men like Wyatt, like Morgan and like Bob Paul. They hold loyalty and pride higher than threatened loss of life. They calculate equations second by second as shotgun barrels near or turn infinitesimally away; as fingers move from triggers or tense around them; as an eye looks aside or narrows to aim. Such men are weighing the moment when duty becomes folly and threat becomes probable death. No stage was ever successfully robbed with Wyatt riding shotgun, so that turning moment never arrived because he would, even at that point, have gambled on the faulty aim of any highwayman. But if he had died that way, it would have been a sacrifice of life for duty.

I had lost my life already. But there was something I still held highest. Even such as Bat Masterson and Fred Dodge, who essentially despised me, could see it as clearly as if I shouted it to everyone I met. To quote them both: Sterling loyalty to his friends was the single tenet of his perverted creed. And perhaps it was at this that they were looking in hindsight: I sacrificed, in that tension-filled and dangerous time, the peace, safety and reputations of Wyatt and his brothers for the memory of Billy Leonard. My friend. It was not vengeance, but my holding above everything else my own honour - my duty to stand by Billy, even deceased, even desperate as he had been in life.

Causality is a complex web beyond our ken. The simple action of goading Ike and heaping proverbial burning coals upon his pathetic head over his betrayal of Billy cost me everything. Yet I could have done nothing else. Is that why Bat called me selfish? Because I had no regret? Though Morgan lost his life and we lost the infinitely precious wisdom, companionship and joie de vivre that was Morgan; though Virgil lost his arm; though Jim’s Hattie lost her sweetheart, even unworthy as he was; though Wyatt lost his good name and the solid surety of his feet set on the path of law; though I, even I who had who had so little, lost my friend, my latter family, my freedom and any lingering hopes I had of a sense of home. Did Bat call me that because I still kept my head erect; still averred I had done my best? Because I refused to lose that tiny grain of virtue by refraining from a single action; because I would not sacrifice that but held it in balance against all else?

Ultimately, we cleansed the territory. And the murders and hold-ups, the rustling and thieving were over. And the fear that paralysed and brought low the genuinely honest ranchers was broken.

We killed and killed, and Morgan died, and what we lost was incalculable.

I still do not apologise. I still do not regret my actions. Even looking back at everything I wrought, I cannot see that, given what I knew at the time, I could have honestly done anything else. I do not regret. But I mourn.
Fremont Street Factoids - the Famous Gunfight
I don't really wish to give a sequential account of that day. It has been done and done again. I am told it is re-enacted each year. To glorify sorrow, I suppose. To cast blame upon us over and over. Nevertheless, it needs to be addressed, so here are a series of facts to the best of my memory. Thirty seconds move very quickly. And they changed everything

1. I whistled as we walked down the street. Dixie. I am proud I can whistle.
2. I walked next to Morgan. Morgan told me, "Let them have it." I answered, "All right."
3. I traded my cane to Virgil for a shotgun, so he wouldn’t look so threatening.
4. When I shot Tom McLaury with the shotgun pointblank I thought it had not worked and threw it away in disgust.
5. I did not shoot or draw first. I did not even take out the revolver until I had thrown away the shotgun.
6. Addie Bourland recognised me but not the Earps. I had helped her in the town-site war. She was Josie’s friend.
7. Billy Clanton and Frank McLaury fired first. Then Wyatt.
8. Frank Clanton’s bullet grazed my hip.
9. It was only thirty seconds and it is all people remember of my life.
10. Afterwards Josie came to Wyatt on a wagon so hurried she had forgotten to wear a bonnet.
11. I was sleeping during all the events of the morning and only rose in time for the gunfight itself.
12. Wyatt said, “This is our fight. There’s no call for you to mix in.” I answered, “That’s a Hell of a thing to say to me.” But he was trying to protect me.
13. Frank said before he shot me, “I’ve got you, you son of a bitch.” I said, “You’re a Daisy if you have.” And I killed him. Morgan killed him at the same time.
14. Morgan was hit high in the back, very near his spine. Virgil was hit in the leg.
15. Behan or Claibourne was shooting at us from the photography studio. I fired at them and whichever of them was firing ceased. Cowards.
16. Ike behaved in typical Ike fashion – starting everything then running away. I tried to shoot him but I was too late.
17. At the end of the fight, our guns were all empty.
19. The vigilante committee, led by Wyatt’s friend Clum, was coming up the street afterwards and we all thought it was the outlaws, for nerves and dust. And our guns were empty.
john_h_holliday: (cartoon)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 11:19 pm)
Sometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane.

That is ridiculous. Sanity defines us. It is sanity that determines who we are. It is absurd to want to lose one's power to act as one sees fit, to give up control. I could possibly have been insane for some brief seconds in my life, with jealousy, with despair, with anger, with fear, and perhaps with love, albeit in a different way. Those seconds have bred catastrophe. Insanity is when you act not as you think best, but as you cannot help acting. Some would seek to relinquish responsibility, but such people rarely think carefully enough to orchestrate the complete surrender of control necessary. And I do not hold with it. All I am is tied to what I believe best. My very identity lies in my perpetually making decisions to use of the time I have left in the very best way possible. Every hour spent in an activity is an hour not spent doing something else. Every word I speak is an opportunity lost if it is without purpose. The appropriate response to reality is to throw oneself upon it before it disappears and wring from it whatever it may offer. And then the appropriate response to reality, after one has done that enough to have gained awareness of its nature, is to uphold what one finds true and worthwhile, and to discard the dross. And to transform and heal the broken if one may. I am a dentist. Anything less is undignified and thoughtless. To wish to lose reality to insanity is to show contempt and disrespect for all the universe. Do you think any true beauty comes from blandness? Do you think any joy comes without pain and tempering? I will take it all, to recognise and honour strength, diligence and sacrifice, and the value of even a single spark of light in the darkness. I will take it all for company in my own depths. To offer. To receive. For my wonder, and for the wonder of those I value. Sanity. It is the core of all potential and thus fulfillment. It is at the core of all good that can come to be.

And each for the joy of the working
And each in his separate star
Shall draw the thing as he sees it
For the God of things as they are.

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
Word Count: 360
Please comment if you wish.
Nulli Virtute Secundus
john_h_holliday: (me - Denzil)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 11:37 pm)
You all know by now that I have given up my other journal for all practical purposes. There is very little I need to say about my actual life.

I went to a brilliant magic show last night in Washington.
It's Magic!
This was the 50th annual show put on under this title by Milt Larsen, who co-founded the fantastic Magic Castle in Los Angeles.

It was brilliant. This was the last show of the tour for this year, but as it is annual I would highly recommend it to anyone interested in proficient and quality magic performance or possessing a nostalgic fondness for the old days of vaudeville, or anything of that sort. Here is the website which lacks general function, but you can see the fine poster for this year. Posters for It's Magic are beautifully designed and quite prized.

cut for long magic descriptions )

Woody Pittman. Aw, come on and click. I'm impressed and proud and amused and all. )
Nine Questions I Love to Ask

1. How are you?
2. How are your teeth?
3. What quality do you most wish for yourself?
4. What causes you pain?
5. What have you sacrificed, and for what have you sacrificed it?
6. May I offer you some whiskey?
7. Might you talk with me awhile?
8. What do you see as the best of yourself?
9. What moved you enough that you did that?

Nine Questions I Would Never Ask

1. What is the matter with you?
2. May I have some drugs?
3. What do you think of my reputation?
4. Am I insane?
5. Is it dangerous?
6. What will it cost me?
7. Don't you think you have had enough?
9. Are you alright?

It is unlikely that I shall be joining tenspot, but I may occasionally make lists of nine (or more or fewer) things that parallel their prompts, or do not parallel their prompts.
john_h_holliday: (Default)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 11:51 pm)
Little has been given to me. Or rather, what was given to me has slowly been taken away, piece by piece. So I give – my life, my effort, my care, my thoughts, my beliefs, my trust, my love. Perhaps this is why I talk so much. I give not to receive, but that there might be giving in the world. I do not look or hope or ask but give. Because if there were no giving in the world, if it was dark not just from lack of light, but a lack of light from myself, I could not bear it. I’ve thought at times that it was example I was trying to set, but that is just trying to justify myself, though I need no justification. If I want something in the world, if I need it, if it would break my heart not to see it, I must put it there. Because that is what I can control. I cannot trust that somehow love will exist if I do not love. I cannot trust that giving will exist if I do not give. I cannot trust that anyone will remember if I do not. So I control the existence of love, giving, memory. Even if I may not claim them, the world is not dark. I am honourable for the sake of honour, am courteous and hold to virtue as best I may. Lately, only lately, I find I have given trust, that it may exist for you, if you doubt and need as I do. A gift. And in that I can ask, lately, only lately, for small things, for companionship, for conversation. I am trying to want, to enjoy pleasure. Bravely easing control. For what is enjoyed may be taken. If one receives love, rather than giving it, that too may be taken. If I dare to want the pleasure of your companionship, your thoughts, insight into your soul, I may be denied. I bravely ease control, leaving some of the world to you. And I find that I truly trust, and it is peaceful, and there is pleasure, and there is love.

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
Word Count: 350
Please comment if you wish.
Nulli Virtute Secundus
john_h_holliday: (nitrous oxide)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 11:52 pm)
Listed in order of posting, and cut for your viewing pleasure. Responding to this meme required a great deal of consideration - always a pleasure for which I hope. If you wish to participate in the meme, It is here.

[insanejournal.com profile] magic_and_music: One of the things I like most about you, whenever a question comes to mind, I feel comfortable asking it. That said, have you ever been in love, John?

I am always in love. )

[insanejournal.com profile] the_iscariot: Why do you try so hard?

If the value I see in you and appreciation are not enough: )

[insanejournal.com profile] ynez_castillo: Are you afraid of dying at all?

Well, this is the key to many things. I am not afraid of dying. )

[insanejournal.com profile] the_real_peace: Is there anything you could never forgive a man for doing?

Ah, now we come to it. On contemplating this at length, I have to say, honestly, that it depends on the man. )
john_h_holliday: (Default)
( Mar. 19th, 2008 11:57 pm)
Random review qualities, from all and sundry:

1. loyalty. everyone said this. I do my very best.
2. courage. everyone said this as well. Is it courage when one is not afraid?
2. selfishness. Bat said this. I measure every action to guard against this.
3. regretfulness. Gillie said this. I once did something for which I am sorry. I was thinking about it this week, being sorry.
4. poor citizenship. John Clum said this. He was wrong, and I proved it again and again and again.
5. gentility. Virgil said this. Again, I do my very best, indeed have done so since infancy and I can scarcely do otherwise. though I can also be scurrilous.
6. perversity. Bat said this too. I still resent it and everything for which it stands.
7. ill-health. Everyone said this. It was obvious.
8. caustic. Wyatt said this, but others said it in other ways. I feel less caustic now in these times.
9. temper. Many said this. It still flairs, but I have less reason in civilised society.
10. haunting. Wyatt said this. He missed me. I've nothing to say of this myself.
11. shaky. Several said that of me. Well, I will admit it. Illness and social displacement. But I was never shaky when it counted.
12. deft. Eddie Foy said this. agile, though others said stiff. I suppose that I can be agile when need calls, despite my natural stiffness.

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
List Items: 12
Please comment if you wish.
Nulli Virtute Secundus