Well, it has arrived. Christmas Eve.
Sunshiny day, much like every other sunshiny day in winter. Green mistletoe clumps on the pecan tree outside are slowly killing the tree, making the tree look like it isn’t fully dormant. I will miss it when it finally goes. The wildflowers are starting to push up greenery through the dead bermudagrass, making the yard look like it still has green grass growing. I find it metaphorical. Sort of.
So’s on life goes. Day follows day, night follows night. Talk radio will be a mishmash of “the best of’s” and pre-recordings. The stores close early. TV is a wasteland of saccharine morality plays and media agnostics are wishing me a Merry and Happy.
And I marvel at those who can make some sort of connection between Santa Clause and the birth of a Messiah. The meaning is lost on most of us.
But it marks the hump between my annual depression that starts around Thanksgiving and ends with planting day. The last few years the depression has moderated, and I seem to easily carry its weight on my shoulders, albeit with much groaning and moaning as I rise up and lay down.
And the coffee is good and complements the giant sugar cookies. I can’t be a slave to diabetes every waking hour.
Merry Christmas to those of you who find meaning in the greeting, and good morning to everyone!
So the day unfolds like most other days, with some unusual unease at blithe and careless politicians and their activities. Despite my efforts to touch the world with only the lightest of touches, they manage to intrude on my reverie and so I prowl the newsfeeds trying to gauge the temper of the body politic.
I know that over time people’s greed causes them to devolve into misery and oppression, and perhaps the dissolution in our nation is inevitable. Still, we tried, and I really hate to see the nation so easily lose focus. It takes a very moral people to self-govern, and I don’t think we have the chops for it. Like Eve, circling the tree, listening to the snake as she marvels at the beauty hanging off the branches, we demand the right to be as god. Which is funny in an ironic sort of way. God’s who grow old and die, and can’t add one inch to our height without some sort of artifice.
So once again, I pick up my figurative marbles and exit the game. I really suck at being God and find my happiness is the ability to munch on breakfast cookies, sip coffee and ponder this miracle called life. Someday, old Thanatos will tap me on the shoulder, and all my musing will end, and the world’s supply of cookies and coffee will fractionally increase.
And another old man will arrive on the scene to chronicle the passing of days. Then another. And another. Then it will end.
Monday dawns gray and overcast, and it is a bit brisk outside with a “Moderate Breeze” from the northwest that chills to the bone. But central heat, toe warmer and hot coffee pushes all that outside my window where it belongs.
Still have the writing don’wannas, but the news was thin this morning, and I can only irritate the bird for so long before I tire of the game. I tire before the bird does, though, and she taunts me with yeeps and scolds for more abuse. Yeah. My bird is one of those perverts who thrive on abuse.
The year is quickly passing and we note the birthdays of far off friends passing. I do enjoy the internet as it keeps me up to speed with the chronicling of individual days. But this miracle of ‘knowledge greatly increasing’ brings on its own woes. We are choosing up sides, it seems, and all will choose a side whether they like it or not. If you don’t choose, it will choose for you.
But that is all I am going to write on that topic. Watch and pray.
Back into the morning, the growling at thumping of happy dogs wrasslin’ in the front room intrudes into my musing. Snookums must be putting her socks on a soon they all squeeze thought the back door at the same time to get some ball chasin’ in.
I finally retired my $49 Office Max Executive chair that I bought almost 30 years ago. Things just don’t last these days. My new chair is a $59 Amazon dot com special with nice soft foam and micro sued to pamper my ample bottom. I’ll miss the old chair, though. We’ve been through a lot, and the new chair has some breaking in to do. For certain, it won’t need to last 30 years ….
So the rotation of days goes by, then the years, then the ages.
So it’s Sunday.
Don’t wanna talk about my many ailments.
Don’t wanna talk about the bird.
Don’t wanna talk about the weather.
Don’t wanna talk about politicians.
Don’t wanna talk about breakfast.
But I sure ’nuff do like talkin’ …
“You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”
As if I am God who decides what is evil and what is good. That is often a very subtle part of my makeup. A friend of mine was chiding about my piety in reaction to me belittling my accomplishments in life. I often did what I damned well pleased in my time. I have very little self-discipline. But I was blessed/cursed with the bane of knowing moral perfection.
I did as I damned well pleased, but I knew to a fraction of a millimeter how far I veered off the straight and narrow. I could not justify what I did as good. A tramp who knew stealing was wrong but since he was hungry, he took what wasn’t his … my need rose above my moral perfections.
Still does, but my need has diminished with age.
So a tacit moral platitude sprang from that. It is OK to be a thief IF you feel bad about it afterwards and admit it to someone.
It is OK to be a sot IF you feel bad about it afterwards and admit it to someone.
It is OK to be a liar IF you feel bad about it afterwards and admit it to someone.
And so it went.
Perhaps that is the value of old age. It is safer to go back over your life when the penalty for wrongdoing is removed. It takes on an air of modesty and becomes somewhat virtuous, and very neatly hides venality …
Still can’t figure out how I bruised my neck muscles while I slept last Friday, but I am still in pain this morning. It does seem to be easing a bit, but I still walk around without turning my head. But I have come to expect things like this. I think the calf cramps are the worst effect of aging, though I have found a large measure of relief in the consumption of pickles.
Yeah. Pickles. My doctor specializes in sports medicine, and when I told him that the cramping vanished when I gave in to a craving for pickle juice, he said that some athletes had discovered that too. They don’t know what it is because the relief in instantaneous, so the experts think it isn’t because of some missing ingredient in diet. But it works, so who am I to argue. I am starting to listen to my body. But as I mentioned in an earlier post, I also began craving Spam. Don’t think I am going to yield to that one, though.
So the week unfolds.
Thanksgiving is upon us, which opens up another dietary trial of aging. We can only consume so much turkey, dressing, spuds, gravy, jellied cranberries and pie. I was a notable trencherman in my day, and people wondered how at 130 lbs how I could put away so much food and still be skinny. But one day that ended, and in very short order I put on 60 lbs that I have never been able to shed. Today, I own that 60 lbs like a boss. It is MINE!
So with that, I groan and sit back in the chair, sip coffee, read the news, and try to keep you informed.