Well, the fog and rains moved on, and Tuesday morning dawns bright and sunshiny. The forecasts report a high of 65° this afternoon with no wind. A good day to prowl the yard and try to fix a couple of minor annoyances on Bucephalus, my aging Dodge Grand Caravan. So far the writing continues, with chirpy reflections in the morning scribbling, and dark, thunderous pieces in the evening.
Don’t know why it is that the time of day effects my thinking so much. Evening is time to consider my frail mortality, and the frailty of all mankind in general. The pieces sort of scare me, but I have made my peace with them and will post them as they are. I have deleted such posts in the past. I am not a fan of darkness and try to not hang out there. But maybe it is time to give the dark thoughts free reign.
But this is a morning coffee post, so I shan’t be about malevolent spirits, sinister plots, and spiritual wickedness abounding.
The rains have made the wildflowers green up, but they haven’t bloomed as of yet, so there is an even green out over the fields that looks like finely mown grass on a golf course. The county has its ditch mowers out early this year, and they offloaded the mower from a truck, and left the truck out on the road to spoil my view of rolling green fields. But that is OK. I want to turn my attention to the world on the other side of the digital screen anyway, sip the morning coffee, and muse on life and love this sunshiny morning.
Another animal lover sent Annie-Annie a bottle of CBD oil, and she seems to be responding to it. That is good. I would like to give her the best of living until the disease finally claims her. I am a skeptic when it comes to patent medicines, and CBD seems to be one of those miracle cures that fixes everything. But the giver owns the CBD company and gifted me with it, and offered more if it runs out. Some people you just love at first sight, and Sanchia is one of them. She works tirelessly for abandoned animals who have no voice of their own, and asks nothing in return.
Kippur da Budgie is happily shrieking, and one of the blessings of hearing loss is that it attenuates her joy, but still lets you share in it. I need to get my hearing aids to the clinic for repairs, but I am sort of enjoying the silence. My family is about to kill me, though. They are getting tired of me saying ‘huh?’ …
Another voice from the past showed up on my blog this morning. It is always good to hear that people are still around, and that they sometimes find my ruminations entertaining, and sometimes even cathartic. My mind goes often to those people, and I mourn the loss of a social platform where we all met.
So the day goes. A strengthening winter sun climbs 10° deosil, the cup needs refilling, and the day needs to be observed.
I, the LORD, also promise you a terrible shortage, but not of food and water. You will hunger and thirst to hear my message. You will search everywhere – from north to south, from east to west. You will go all over the earth, seeking a message from me, the LORD.
But you won’t find one.
I recalled this verse from Amos after my former pastor wrote about the false prophets among us today, and God’s apparent silence to the “church”. There is no King in Israel, so there is no prophet of Israel. And the recent prophets of a great Trump victory were conspicuously wrong. I don’t speak against them, because they obviously are not prophets of God. But they may get something right occasionally, so we leave them be.
We live in a time when there is a dearth of hearing God’s voice to the people. I am not talking about finding His will. His will can be found by diligent seekers, but his voice to the nations and the churches is silent. The standards for that level of Prophet are simple and severe. The prophet is always right, and if he isn’t, you stone him. The prophets thus far have missed it. Therefore, they are not prophets of God.
I also am not talking about that still, small voice that says “This is the way. Walk in it.” That is personal, and individual, and all who walk with him walk with that voice. They know who it is.
I am talking the voice of the prophet who speaks to a people, a church and a nation that is not heard. At one time all three existed. And that is very bad news for a church and a nation. It is a dark time as mysterious unseen forces swirl about us. We do NOT war with people and politicians. Most of ‘em anyway. Some I am not so certain of. But I digress.
So, I am left pondering what to do when the new Antiochus is revealed. If you know the story of Antiochus, good. If not, get some knowledge. He will arise again, at least in his spirit. But he is a very clever man, with seducing words and promises of peace, whereas the first Antiochus was about as subtle as a Democrat in full rut. And people will marvel at him. He will not be a doddering old fool from Delaware, nor a venal old shrew from San Francisco. And I doubt that he is George Soros, as smart of an arbitrager that he is. He is also described in the Holy Books. It is not hidden from seekers, but fools will not bother.
And I still haven’t answered my own question. I don’t know the answer. But frankly, my strategy is to stay away from him. If I can.
Monday comes sans fog this morning as I pad down to my studio to see what is going on with my far-flung family and friends. One friend shares before and after photos of my old bohemian days. What was once dives and honkytonks has gentrified into boutique shops and Caffe latte emporiums. And so, the world moves on without me. Another shares this little jewel of prose. I am in awe!
My coffee was so dark, a demon mistook it for a portal to hell.
Long story short: I need a new mug, a mop and maybe an exorcism.
~ Becky Wiegers
I suppose it must be the same with politics. I am too old and beat up to chase the government varmints off my property with a shotgun these days. Assessors and inspectors drive up and down my neighborhood with impunity. Political types from a party I have grown to completely despise feel free to trumpet their political victory like everyone agrees with them and misread my sullen visage to mean that I somehow share that victory with them.
So, I sip my dark coffee, (thanks, Becky. I’ll never see my coffee cup in quite the same way as I did before!) read the posts, and let the morning unfold naturally.
The morning dawns with a thin winters fog as I pad down to my studio with my fingers gripping a warm coffee cup. The heat feels good on sleep swollen fingers and helps ward off the chill seeping through the windowpanes. I sit in the muted softness for a bit and let the cobwebs dissipate before pushing the start button on the computer.
A feral cat is laying like a plant in one of the flowerpots on the porch railing, all fluffed up against the damp and cold. She is waiting for the breakfast lady. We do feed our feral cats because they keep the rodents at bay. But the breakfast lady is very miserly with the food distribution. We just want to supplement their diets of roof rats and field mice.
I also filch a couple of cookies to dip into the coffee, but now the mutts are on to that. They can hear the faint clink of the cookie jar lid, and no matter how carefully I replace the lid, it is like a clanging gong. So I keep a jar of special kibble. Oddly, they accept one small bite of kibble as a real treat, and go on about their business after getting it.
The newsfeeds are now full of the new governments gaff’s and purges, but I just note the headlines and move on to friends posts and a couple of hobby newsgroups.
I am so done with the government. It is a lummox best avoided when possible, and endured like a boring lecturer when you can’t. And never let one into the house. They are hell to get rid of once you do that.
I need to mow, I need to replace a faulty turn signal. But I don’t know that I will get that done this first day of the week. But the day is still young.
Shabbat morning rolls peacefully around, albeit a bit wet. The winter rains have been frequent, but gentle, causing greenery to thrive, but not flooding the creeks. A quick scan of the newsfeed yields the expected posturing of politicians and fawning pressies, but little in the way of useful information.
A Shabbat breakfast of eggs and turkey sausage muffins, and a cheese danish worked well. Mama feral cats have a new litter, but they haven’t brought them out for viewing yet. We just get little peeks at them under the broken skirting around the house.
So I sit back and muse. An election is won, I can go back to peckish resistance to everything they roll out. It sort of suits my style anyway, and the new administration is an easy one to denigrate. A target rich environment, one might say. But that is fine. I want to return to my banal coffee posts and musings.
I am nearly blind now, and I don’t know when the doc is going to let me go for cataract surgery. I hope it is within my allotted life span. I think next week the gentle inquiries will end and I will go into full jerk mode. It seems to work better than meekness.
So the days roll by. The days are rapidly lengthening, and we may miss a hard freeze this year. I may do a little mowing Sunday if the weather permits.
I hope this is my last politically themed post until 2024. Biden won, the people have chosen unwisely, so now I move on. People of faith have lived under far worse circumstances than this gaggle of low rent elitists can dish out. But it does set the stage for some real horrors down the road. I have read the book and know what lies ahead. I don’t need to be a prophet of doom because that prophet already came, left his words, and left.
So I reluctantly disengage from this morass of confusion and let it run its course. The fools arrogantly think that a Chavez style ‘democracy’ can’t happen to them. They are far too wise for that.
So how does one live when governed by fools? First off, you avoid them when you can, and make the time you spend with them brief and unremarkable when you are forced to deal with them. Shine ‘em on was the 60’s term.
That all presumes you have a life to lead that is beyond their reach, and a wise man will keep develop his life in such a way as to maintain it.
Watch what politicians put their hands to, not what they say. The same for the press. It can’t take sides one day, and be objective the next.
If you take the Kings schilling, you must be about the Kings business. Beware of people handing out schillings.
And with those morose reflections … have a good morning!
The King’s shilling, sometimes called the Queen’s shilling when the Sovereign is female, is a historical slang term referring to the earnest payment of one shilling given to recruits to the Armed forces of the United Kingdom in the 18th and 19th centuries, although the practice dates back to the end of the English Civil War. To “take the King’s shilling” was to agree to serve as a sailor or soldier in the Royal Navy or the British Army. It is closely related to the act of impressment.
Shabbat morning has arrived, and I sit on the edge of my bed slowly stretching the cramps and aches out. It was a restless night as the outrages continued simmering in my mind. I am almost totally disconnected from the news now, though I did stop by one of the major sites to see if a repost made by a fellow traveler was true. Unfortunately, it was not.
Our van has been breached, we have no rear to defend and cannot see our flanks in the confusion. Our formations are in disarray as well and our lines of communications have been cut. It is time to let the enemy have this battlefield and retire to safe ground. Safe ground is our silence and prayer closets.
It is a new war for us. Our leaders have been largely bought off. There may be a couple or so left in government, but we have no way of knowing if they have been also been corrupted. Cut them lose and if they float, they float on their own virtue, and if they sink, they sink because of their own depravity. We cannot win a war of attrition.
But we are not without resources. That still small voice leads us along safe pathways. The enemy cannot intercept his messages and would not comprehend them if he did. The Spirit does not speak the enemy’s tongue. Be slow and measured with your words, for the enemy walks among you and calls you friend, and you cannot discern him. Indeed, he doesn’t even know he is your enemy.
Hard times are ahead, but one unseen fights for us. Stay behind his lines where it is safe, and be about the Master’s business.
It was evening, and it is morning of the sixth day.
The blood of outrages has cooled to a mere sullen simmer. I will NOT turn on the news feeds today. I do not care who is outraged about what. I am disenfranchised and silenced, but oddly, it is a blessing. Once again, I am reminded that government is not my boon, but is more akin to living under Caligula. Let the blind lead the blind. I must be about my master’s business.
So goes the musing this morning.
I am reminded today that politics is not something you willingly deal with. It is best avoided like an ill-mannered boor. It isn’t always possible to avoid an oaf, and so on those occasions you smile, offer blandishments, and drift off as quickly as possible.
Near sundown, I will sit with my family at the Shabbat meal and recite ancient blessings, and remember that for all of us, there is a day when we cease from our labors. That is my mantra these days. Hold fast to what little I have in the hope that I am counted worthy.
And this morning, I certainly feel like I have little.
I am too old to join with those who storm the citadel of neoliberal effetism, armed only with assault posters.
Do I have the right to sit on the sidelines and fan the flames of revolt to a pig headed and intransigent government and political party?
This I ponder on this morning of so much huffery and puffery emanating from press and government castles.
Christmas morning dawns with a cool 35° and clear blue skies. A weak sun spreads its light through the bare limbs of the pecan tree with streaks of orange and blue. The coffee pot wheezes and gurgles as it draws out the goodness of the ground coffee beans and puts it into a glass pot. Kippur da budgie clicks and burbles as she flits around her cage. Happy mutts take turns chasing each other through the house. And I, on day five of a new effort to rise above my infirmities, sit down to chronicle the day. And to muse.
Christmas is very much like any other day to me, though this one my niece will prepare a special Christmas dinner. I don’t know what she is preparing, but packages of meat have appeared in the ‘fridge, and miscellaneous packages of other ingredients are scattered throughout the kitchen. Maybe in honor, I’ll make blueberry waffles for breakfast … assuming I have some blueberries.
So does the new me give himself a day off on the treadmill? I only walked on it once the last five days, so I am inclined to say “No Mercy!” and drive myself like a cur to walk on it. Saturday and Sunday I will allow myself to simply moulder. It’s a hard life, but someone has to do it.
So the rota goes … one day follows another, and I write.
Good morning, and if you are so inclined, Merry Christmas!