Some upbeat mystical music on the puck this morning fires up the bird, but me, not so much. I don’t wanna be fired up before breakfast, and especially on Shabbat morning. I think this is also going to be an ibuprofen day before I start breakfast. I am hankering for creamy scrambled eggs this morning, but it is always a one in five chance that they will come out soft and creamy. More likely they’ll come out as salted yellow rubber chunks as I have never mastered the theory of heat on an electric range. But I try.
Other than crowing from the press over a rabid President hater who talked a judge into ordering the Whitehouse to admit the oafish boor into the press room. I can think of half a dozen ways the Whitehouse can turn this ‘victory’ into gravel. One would be to just revoke all press passes and convert the press room into an aviary.
So the day begins. Coffee, music, roughhousing dogs, and braying reportage. Still, it is a holy day. God rests while creation plays out over the æons and we barely comprehend it. Still we try.
It has warmed up to 35° while I was sipping on my coffee, and may get up to 65° later today. We have had our bug killing freeze now, so I am hoping for a warming trend. Predictions are for a low 70’s by Saturday. Not that it matters much now. I sit behind my double-paned, thermal-insulated windows in a nice semi-tropical 74° setting regardless of what is going on the other side of them.
It’s the same with my electronic window. Nice orderly 5-bedroom house on this side of the window, and on the other side, California is burning … or experiencing extreme global warming if you go by California’s premier climatologist, Governor Brown. According to him, the fires are the new normal and you need to adjust to it. But whatever you do, don’t clear the underbrush or remove any vegetation. That would damage woodpecker habitat, or something. And my friends in Northern Texas and Alabama are slip-sliding around on black ice. Can’t say I envy them … but then, when we get our once a decade ¼” skiff of snow, it is a disaster on the interstate.
And for good or evil, the elections are almost over. Except for Florida, of course. The “count every vote when the votes don’t go Democrat” state. But it is nice to get up and not see some damned politicians face on the news-feeds. That will probably end as that other unblinking golem from California, Adam Schiff, warms up to his new status in the House as Grand Inquisitor.
And so the world rotates another 360° 59’ and some odd seconds and I chronicle it, albeit briefly.
Gorgeous sunrise today. Gave up on ever returning to a muscled truck jockey and gentleman farmer and started tossing the old wardrobe this week … now waiting for new offerings to arrive via the big brown van. The new me: unkempt geezer in corduroy shoes and gray jerseys. There is something freeing about surrendering to old Gere, the god of gentle aging.
Unfortunately, the first command to be fruitful doesn’t release its grip on me, however, and visions of slaying dragons mounted from the back of a white mobility scooter interrupt my reverie from time to time. The urge to impregnate anything resembling femininity doesn’t go away with geezerhood. I was hoping it would. The desire to breed has been the cause of much turmoil in my life, and I suspect that I’ll be entertaining thoughts of taking a turn in the cabbage patch on my deathbed.
Arabs are still up and about killing Jews in Israel today even though a cease-fire has been declared. No one wants to talk about the solution, however. One side or the other must lose utterly. There is no negotiated peace that will be lasting. So, the Arabs try this. And the Arabs try that. And the Arabs try the other thing. And the results are always the same. They lose, then cry for a cease fire so that they can rearm.
“I am tired of living among people who hate peace. I search for peace; but when I speak of peace, they want war!”
And so war it is … all while day follows day, and night follows night, and I sip my coffee and watch it go by.
A bright humid sunshine this morning and a comfortable 74°. And the election is done and over, for good or for evil, and I can take my voter card down from the cork board. My side lost the House, the people spoke, and I can turn my thoughts and energy toward more noble things. I’ll not try turn the oppositions political aspirations into gravel, but rather regard them with thinly veiled contempt. And I’ll continue to lie to the pollsters. In fact, it may even be more entertaining now that it was before. I am at my best when I am only marginally engaged. Touch the world lightly …
Still got winter stew on my mind and started assembling the ingredients. Fatty stew meat. No lean here. And ‘taters. Red McClure’s for me. Don’t want mushy spuds in stew, so I cook them separately and add them before serving. Some peas, but not many. Beef broth. The expensive kind. Carrots cut round. White onions. Sliced celery … don’t know why it goes in, it is so tasteless and gets cooked into slurping softness. But it’s traditional. Sometimes one turnip, quartered and sliced, but I don’t feel cheated if the turnip is missing.
It was nice this morning to let my mind run with passages from the holy writs. There is something whole about having a thought, finding the passage that supports it, then leaning back in the chair to see if it gets illuminated. A benefit of an old mind is that the illumination more often comes than not. But at this stage in life, not much changes. We just marvel a lot.
So one day follows another until the day that they don’t. Until that day comes, I am blessed with the gift of coffee and the time to muse while sipping it.
Well, well. It’s Woden’s Day again, and I ponder how he got relegated to the 4th day of the week. That makes poor old Woden an also-ran after the Sun, the Moon and Mars. He just got a t-shirt. I had made careful plans to sleep in this morning but neglected to factor in joyful mutts who don’t care what fable the day is named after. Daybreak is good enough for them.
Snook must have rose before me. The blinds are open, fiddle music is on the puck for the budgie, and most glorious of all, the coffee is brewed, so I grabbed a handful of sandwich crème cookies and a coffee mug to head down the hall to my snug studio, aka ‘the pig sty’ by Snookums. The woman has no sense of comfort. Two canine mooches follow me, then sit in a half circle to watch me woof down the dunked cookies with starving eyes.
I made the mistake of getting a bag of mint filled Oreo’s, just for something a little different. I am an off-again on-again mint lover. A little goes a long way. The vanilla cremes that I also put in the jar have taken on a mint flavor. So it’s gonna be a week of mint.
A 100% chance of rain today … I can read it on the local feed, or look out the window. Cool, but a warming trend back up to the 80’s by Shabbat. I am ready for a warm spell now. The reservoirs are all over-filled, the verges will need to be cut down with a machete before mowing, and I didn’t overseed with field rye this year, so I’ll have a good crop of weeds this spring.
All my newsfeeds today are clogged with ads from Beto the ersatz Mexican from El Paso. Apparently, he has that Obama smile that drives liberals wild with desire. They are spending millions on political ads, yet he keeps dropping in the local polls. Think the more tolerant than thee coalition is thinking of running him against Trump in 2020. After he beats the most cheated on woman in the world in the primaries, of course. And the migrant invasion has been halved … funny it is that when people start nosing around to find out who is paying for this parade that the funds dry up, and the mob starts shrinking.
So the day unfolds here in the geographic center of Texas.
This Shabbat morning comes in dark and rainy with the autumn rains. It is a gentle, soaking rain right now, but harder rains are predicted later in the day and on to Sunday. Last night was the first night I didn’t run the big air conditioner, just letting a little portable A/C cool the air in the master bedroom.
Snookums rose a bit before me, brewing the coffee so all I need do is walk into the kitchen, receive the filled cup, grunt some sort of morning greeting, and pad down to the studio to entertain the bird by putting on spiritually uplifting music on the google puck. Yeah, I have become a tool of google. Why fight it? You too will be assimilated.
Kippur da budgie responds to the music with happy clicks chirps and burbles. She just went through a molt and now has pin feathers around her eyes and beak. Usually that makes her crabby, but Snookums has some sort of special feed that cheers her up during her frequent molts. Maybe my bird is an addict.
Saturday is the big brunch day, but I have some turkey sausage and egg croissants that need to be consumed. Maybe I can add some pears on the side … and make Snook drink a little grape juice. It’s good for her even if she isn’t so fond of it, and it gives me a chance to get even in dispensing the good-for-you’s
And hopefully, the heroes of the Senate will vote on Kavanaugh and put to rest the horror that they have inflicted us. The advise and consent provision was never to be a public forum, but it is a grotesque circus now. And I know precisely who to thank for that.
I am in a two-steps forward, one-step back dance with my health. Some weeks I measure victory by mere millimeters.
And so the Shabbat unfolds with a bit of promise of a future time.
Monday dawns a cool and humid 69°, but Snookums was up before me and the chill banishing coffee was brewed and waiting for me. Maryanne posted she was safe in Japan, Darbie e-mails she has been shadowbanned on FB. Dianne, a voluptuous 22-year-old brunette wants to be my friend, but we have no friends in common.
I have returned to writing and gaming again, and I spent Sunday pruning down my saga, Akashaic. It quickly went out of control with supporting characters shooting out in different directions. Parts might be salvageable, but everything needs to be rewritten from scratch. And I masterfully ran two trains on my railroad simulation yesterday, one from Cajon Pass to Barstow, California, and another from Mojave to a siding just over Tehachapi Pass. Old men and their toys, no?
The news is thankfully silent about the Senate’s not-so-finest-hour, but the social sites are still choosing up sides. Predictably, the left believes the girl, and the right feels a terrible injustice is being perpetuated, and the oh-so-reasonable newsies hang with the indefensible believe both. Democrats are now busy crafting the FBI didn’t have enough time gambit when the hearing resumes, and the Republicans are crafting the you ‘you got your investigation, now vote’ response. And I just want to build a wall around DC and only let pundits pundit once a year. I think the country was better off when both parties did their scheming and plotting in darkness rather than proudly displaying their ugliness in a kangaroo court.
And so my morning munching of lemon-wafers and sipping black coffee continues. The sun continues to rise, though hidden by the overcast, the grass is starting to defy me to mow it, and I begin wheezing and sneezing merely thinking of getting out in Pollenville Acres on the mower.
He awakens Me morning by morning;
He awakens My ear to listen as a disciple.
Shabbat morning arrives damp and gray at Pollen Acres this morning. Started a Paul Wilbur mix on the puck to cheer up the sullen bird and remind me that this day is not lived like the other days. After the ugly hate fest of last week, I need a holy day to remind me that I am just passing through.
Thoughts of our fallen nature follow me around the day, and the mystery of the animal skins that clothed Adam and Eve slowly yields revelations of redemption and choice as I ponder the elemental teachings of my faith. Old men have the luxury of pondering. Perhaps that is why we dream dreams while the youth prophesize.
My abused bod is slowly recovering from the last series of maladies. I am almost up for walking again once we get the first frost. Note the almost. I don’t want to get too carried away. Another online friend goes into hospice as her nephew keeps us up to date with her struggles. Sometimes you just have to say enough, and she did.
I look at my desktop and think maybe it is time for me to simplify too. A small laptop sits on my right, a large laptop to my left, a tablet sits under the desk lamp and the smartphone is somewhere nearby. Not to mention the PC that I normally use for writing and entertainment. And they all are on and are communicating.
And so I ponder between the sips and watch the day unfold out my window.
Well, I tried to not watch the hearings, but clips kept appearing on my news feeds so I finally relented and watched Kavanaugh’s opening statement. I was only going to stay for that but got caught up in the drama. I hate that in me just as I hated what happened to me when I found myself mobs during the 1960’s. Rationality goes out the window and I become impelled by the mob’s emotions.
I resent being controlled and manipulated by outsiders, and in those ‘demonstrations’ I quickly saw there were agitators spread throughout the mob, and those same agitators showed up for all the mobs and effectively steered it. I wanted no part of that charade.
But I was moved by Kavanaugh fighting back. He sure wasn’t getting any support from the Republicans, and it wasn’t until Lindsey Graham blasted the hearing that I saw any real support. John McCain must have returned Lindsey’s balls to him before he died.
However, in the midst of all this inner turmoil, dawn came around again and slowly pushed aside the gossamer threads of sleepiness, and the coffee mug soothed sleep swollen fingers as it released its soothing spell in my innards. I can move on to the more important but less dramatic things in my own little world. Happy dogs greet the day with vigorous chasing and games of tug-o-war. Snooks voice raises in comment above the thumping and growling.
And I am reminded that Washington politics is not for me. Reality for me is the mowing of grass, the preparations for winter, the fallen mantlepiece that I need to re-glue and re-hang. Dirty laundry needs to be taken to the laundry basket, and preparations need to be made for Shabbat so that it is truly a day of rest. That is my role in life. Others can elect a judge and engage in reprehensible acts while doing it. That, thankfully, is not my job.
Thursday dawns dark, damp, cold and overcast here in my little corner retirement paradise. It is 63°, but it supposedly ‘feels like’ 62°. Yeah, my finely tuned instrument can tell the difference of one degree. And I am wheezing like a harmonica as the allergens of a hundred species of misery float by in their fall reproductive cycle. Some trees down here have two growing seasons in Spring and Fall, treating us mouth breathers to two wonderful seasons of clogged nasal passages and bucket loads of phlegm. I kinda knew old age was going to be painful, but I wasn’t ready for unsanitary.
And the nomination three ring circus plays on with those humble stalwarts in congress that just wanna be your leaders because, well, they would be so good to you. If anything proves just how unfit they are for the job, the judicial hearings illustrate it. We don’t draw from the top with public overlords servants, but rather from a vast sea of vain narcissists who survive by giving you bright baubles as they enrich themselves. But I rant. Hang the lot of them in a revolution, and a brand-new crop arises.
Big election heah in Texas is a frat boy from El Paso who is running as the guy you’d like to hang with, and Ted Cruz. Better the devil you know is my assessment. I still hold Ted’s folding like a tent in the Presidential primaries against him, though Trump has turned out to be a better administrator than I thought he would be and would have been the wiser choice.
The mistake I make is in thinking that politicians’ matter. I have really got to learn to become more la-de-dah. Save the whales! Global warming is real! Men are tyrants and rapists! All old white males are bigots! Boycott Israel! Legalize pot! Kill legal opiates!
Well … off my soap box.
Time for my annual has rolled around again. I think I am at an age where the rubber finger is no longer required. There is an upside to aging other than the usual dyspepsia. And my health plan has changed again in response to the failure of political ‘leaders’ to expunge that horror that they created. But at this point in life, I am thinking more along the lines of palliative care. So I become an opiate addict? I’ll merely die in a happy fog, not hurting anybody. But getting back to politics, it seems that they even want to rescue us from that comfort. Not that I am using anything like that right now, but I sure would like that to be an option.
And so tempus fugits a bit more as the morning moves on to its high point of breakfast. I have exceeded my goal of 200+ words for the day. After that, there is nothing else to conquer, so I take a nap.