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Day two of my commitment to write a little each morning. I don’t have to like it, I just have to do it.
So, armed with a fresh cup of coffee, two sugar cookies, and followed by four dogs coveting my cookies, I return to the keyboard with freshened resolve to just not let the days slide by unnoticed. I keep treats by the computer because I don’t share cookies. When I am done, they each get on tiny treat, and they accept it reluctantly. They know it isn’t cookie. I am such a bastard at times.
A quick run through the newsfeeds …
Democrats are disappointed. The much-vaunted impeachment inquiry into the possibility of an impeachment was deemed a flop by both Democrats and ahem! unbiased left wing ‘sources’. Jerry Nadler, the chief inquisitor of this trial by fire was left sputtering whether he was going to charge the witness with Contempt of Congress or not. The witness, Corey Lewandowski, apparently will not participate in an auto-de-fe now, and the left is crushed, and they have let the Democrats on the committee know how displeased they are.
And the President is deciding what he wants to do about gun control, and tweeted that Robert “Beto” O’Rourke’s fiery oath to confiscate all AR-15 and look-alikes if he is elected was not helpful to the determination. Tweeted off a request that the President do NOTHING about gun control.
Yeah. Sure. He saw that tweet and took it to heart. Sure.
On a more significant note, I can tell Snooks is putting on her socks and shoes just by hearing the ruckus down the hall. She and the mutts are going outside for a little morning ball throwing. Now that the weather has cooled a little, they don’t mind staying out a bit longer than usual.
Snooks has turned into the cat lady too. We now have three yellow feral cats that sit on the porch in the morning waiting for the breakfast lady to bring out a little cat kibble and water. They peer into my studio through one window, and into the dining room through the other window, trying to see if she is moving their way. They are out there at sunup, but Snookums is a woman of routine, and they will just have to wait until their turn comes up on the rota. She only gives them half rations because we want them to eat mice and rats as well. I think before long I am going to have to trap them, get them neutered and notched, and bring them home again.
And so goes the days …
It has been awhile since I sat down to write in the morning. I did that religiously for over a year, publishing what I called “coffee posts”. I did notice that my grammar improved, and that began writing clearer sentences, but I sure did get tired of chronicling the banal. You can only write of the morning softness so many times before it becomes overworked.
They usually started out with “The dawn broke softly outside the Armor homestead .. ”, then went on with some musings about religion and news.
I am forever indebted to my online friend Becky Wiegers, who one morning commented “some morning I am going to read ‘All hell broke loose in the Armor household this morning!’”. It caught me up a little short as a writer wannabe. Yeah, there comes a time when you need to mix things up a little. But the problem is these days is that I am indeed blessed with serenity, and only the newsfeeds get me riled up. But liberals are liberals, and you can only huff and puff at their insufferable elitism for so long before you need to move on. I can’t spend my time riled up either.
So writing then became a problem. I spent all my composing capital on making the banal interesting, and didn’t know where to go from there, so I quit writing entirely, and spent most of my time abusing liberal trolls on conservative news sites. I tried using humor, and if I just touched their comments lightly and moved on, I was fine. But ever so often one would try and engage me, and the battle was on. But my heart isn’t in defeating heresy to the Constitution. I love my country, but it can’t last forever, and the people have discovered Thomas Jefferson’s worst fear. They can now write themselves taxes, and call it good. So I opine that it is already too late for us, and we should let the millennial’s have their ‘paradise’. They most certainly will rue it, but who cares? I got mine, and I’ll be gone when the bill arrives.
There … got that out of the way.
So anyway … here I sit in front of the cyclops eye and write. Sometimes I can just put something down, and watch where it goes, and that is what I am doing here. I want to take up the pen again, but I don’t want to write fiction, I don’t want to comment on politics, I don’t want to warn of the end of the world, and I don’t want to write another damned coffee post.
But the coffee is in fact good, and the morning is in fact soft and cottony, and the sugar cookies are safely tuck in my tummy.
And I do need to discipline myself to write again.
“Thou shalt write of it each and every day. The profound, the banal, thou shalt write of it.”
The evil inclination of mankind mars all men, even in his finest hour, and when he abides in abject misery and poverty of soul, it still entices him to choose wrongly. Then a generation arises that doesn’t comprehend it is evil. It calls evil good, and good evil, and sets the stage for a people who even stand before God in all his power and magnificence, and they shake their fists and spit out vile curses at him. The remaining faithful, a remnant, gape at this. How can this be? It is one thing to not know any god, and to act foolishly. But it is a marvel when they finally see God, yet continue to behave spitefully.
The time has come.
I am thinking of getting into the boxed meal business
HOBO JUNGLE BOX
That exciting cookery of yours can be delivered fresh each week
This week is chicken vegetable stew, with stolen chickens and vegetable, and enough of an old tire to cook it over.
Offered as an extra, an original tin-can cookpot, with a bailing wire handle …. just $99 Extra!!!
The second round of Democrat debates have come and gone, and gee willikers, Batman! I missed them. Darn, darn, darn.
But not to worry … our ever vigilant and hyperventilating lap dog press is here this morning with more exhaustive insight.
And the glitterats are jetting off to Googles whiz bang 20-million-dollar global warming soiree in Sicily’s Verdura resort, with cheapie rooms going for almost a grand a night, and the pricier ones kept a secret. Not not to worry. Google is picking up the hotel and food bill, and presumably the jet fuel for the 114 or so private jets flying the climate change warriors into the resort. They need the financial help. Really.
Obama is there, DiCaprio, Perry … all A listers … the rest of y’all will have to read about it on the fan sites. But it is for your own good. Go back to your video games now.
And life on a lower level here in the warm pampas of Central Texas, life muddles on, sans jets and celebrity fete’s … other than a few old worn out country singers who manage to straggle in unannounced to the kicker bars that dot the landscape.
The family pages have hints of troubles that go unheralded by the press. My family just isn’t like important. Or anything.
But perhaps that is a blessing. I don’t have to pretend to sound profound while swimming in a sea of banality. Or so I tell myself. Offer me a paid private jet, and I would probably take it. I can be had.
But the coffee is predictably good, the bird is excessively happy this morning, the sun is shining, and I don’t live in poverty or misery. I am blessed.
I awoke just as the coffee maker wheezed its last grunt as it topped off the coffee pot with thick, dark coffee. Snook thankfully poured that first cup for me since my eyes were still blurry and sleep swollen, and I staggered on down to the studio and plopped down in my $49 “Executive” chair that I bought in 1982, and since then repaired many times. But I don’t want to replace it … it fits my bottom now.
Answered a couple of emails, checked on the Democrat hate fest as reported by FoxNews online, made a few snarky comments to leftists who hate Fox, but spend a great deal of waking time making comments about how much they hate it.
Then I was out of things to do while waking up.
For the first time in weeks, I put up a blank page in the word processer to see what would happen. Lately, I have been looking at the page and telling myself “I just can’t do this …”
And like magic, there she was, perched on the right corner of the monitor. She was wearing nuns clothing and idly switching a string of rosary beads back and forth in her lap. Unfortunately, that angle on the monitor also revealed puffy shins and hosiery rolled down just below the knees. I averted my eyes. It was a bit more than I was ready for this early in the morning.
“What’s with the nuns get up? I would be careful if I were you. Them things can become habit forming.” I asked, chuckling at my cleverness.
She looked at me levelly for several seconds before shaking her head and replying. “It is the only legitimate occupation for a spurned woman.”
“You weren’t spurned. I was just … ah … busy.” I replied defensively.
“Yes. With that video game.” She said and pointed her nose in the air.
“It’s not a ‘game’. It is a simulation of a real railroad.” I shot back testily.
“Maybe. But it is a waste of time and it is NOT writing nor paying any attention to me.” She replied shrilly. Maybe a bit too shrilly.
“It isn’t a waste of time! It takes a LOT of skill to bring a train down Tehachapi Pass! And you are just a figment.” I tried explaining to her.
“Figment? Are you sure? And real engineers make about $90 grand a year. How much does an aged geezer sitting at the pc in his underwear make? If you sold just one story you would make more than you do playing engineer.”
I carefully picked that dart out and replied. “They are boxer shorts, not underwear. And it isn’t playing. It is simming!”
“OK. A geezer in lime green boxer shorts, idly ‘simming’ at the computer. Better?” She said, smugly.
I fired back again. “Has anyone ever told you that you have one really nasty streak in you?”
“Why thank you, sweetheart! That is the nicest thing you have said to me this year!” She crooned.
I brushed that off and replied, “Seriously, though, I just have not been able to write anything and follow it through. After two or three paragraphs, I have completely lost all interest in it and can’t seem to generate any new thoughts. I used to love writing 500 word shorts with trick endings. But that love has vanished as well.”
Her face brightened and she asked, “What about spiritual pieces? You have always had peculiar slants on great spiritual themes.”
“I dunno. I am surrounded by spiritual prigs, and just don’t have the patience with them that I used to. If I must tell someone that it is merely a funny story and ask them to not take offense, the joy goes right out of it. It is sad that the more I am around believers, the less I want to be around them. But then, I feel the same way about pagans too, so maybe I am just turning into an old crank.”
“Just turning?” She smirked.
“Back off, woman!” I growled.
“Well, I must go back into the cloister. They will miss me soon and start asking embarrassing questions. I don’t know what to tell you. But I sure hope you find what it is that is blocking you soon. Ta ta!” she said, then turned and walked away.
“Me too, sister. Me too.” But I don’t think she heard me.
So what does this day mean to me now that one half of our population hates the celebration. The one that entire political party hates the duly elected President so much that it steals their joy and they loudly proclaim their disdain for those that do wish to celebrate it in an effort to share their discontent. Yet they call that democracy … I think I’ll have none of it.
They can yammer and pul all they want. I am inured to their surly mewlings. I’ll set the banner on the porch today and remember a god who generously set me in the midst of such wealth and comfort. The poorest among us live in such comfort in comparison to the truly poverty stricken in the world.
Does God love me more than them? I think not. But I’ll wager any of them would trade places with me in less time than it takes to say “We hates that Trumpses, we does, my precious!” *gollum!*
Carp away, my grumbling compatriots, if I can call them my compatriots. Maybe prisoners of unwarranted wealth would be a better description of this society of pampered malcontents. Fie on them, I say!
Good morning, and Happy 4th, if you are so inclined.
If not, enjoy a perfectly miserable day …