Uncategorized
Zen, and the art of tripe …
I had just sat down at my PC to play with a new CAD program when I caught her stretched out along the top of my monitor in what I suppose was to be a provocative pose. Too white legs stuffed like sausages into too brown nylons, and just a hint at a garter band at the hem of her frayed houndstooth skirt.
“There you are, my man! So how does it feel to write something again? I think that was one of my better collaborations.” She cooed and preened.
“What, that 200 word piece of . . .“
She scowled and warned, “Watch your mouth buster! There are ladies here!”
“ . . . fluff on Oreo cookies? Is that what you are pleased with? I am a bit embarrassed by it.” I continued.
With a pout she swung her legs over the edge of the monitor and sat up while tugging at the hem of her skirt.
I averted my eyes. I am not real choosy, but there are some places I really don’t want to go. When I looked up again, she was sitting upright, all prim and proper, the last of the cottage cheese squeezing out of the tops of her nylons decently covered.
“Well, you are at least writing again.” She said levelly
“It’s tripe, and you know it.” I shot back.
“When life hands you tripe, you make menudo out of it.” she chuckled to herself.
I groaned. This was going to be a long conversation.
“You’ve been compared to Erma Bombeck by a couple of people now.”
“Yeah. That was a little flattering. Erma could keep you wrapped in suspense just telling you how she puts groceries away. But I don’t have the incentive to crank out a five hundred word column each week like she did, even when she was so sick with a wasting cancer.”
“A lot of people like your morning posts. Maybe you just aren’t novelist material. Crank out the mornings three to five hundred words, and post.”
“I just write those damned things because I am an inveterate writer. I can’t stand it when people call or stop by and interrupt my playing with words. Besides. There is that story in my head that one part of me wants to tell, and another part of me wants to hide. It gnaws at my entrails. I want to talk about the pain, the sadness that envelopes me. But the damned words just aren’t there. I write public fluff because it doesn’t lay a glove on my psyche. But every once in awhile a piece of that bleak tale slips out, and I quickly bury it in nonsensical verbiage.”
“So what am I now, your confessor?” She snapped. “Look. If you want to write, I am here for you. I’ll help you find obscure words that say precisely what you want to say. I’ll lay out turns of phrases that will make you gasp in their sublimity. But Sigmund Freud I am not.”
“Here I am gnawing at my own entrails and you mock me?” I surlily growled
“Gnawing my . . . “
“Watch the mouth!” I warned.
“ patootie! That rubbish isn’t gnawing at your entrails. That is maudlin reflection. Back off, buster! You’re making my blouse soggy.”
“I wouldn’t put my . . .”
“Can the personal attack, Plato.”
“ . . . face anywhere near that cheap Rayon® blouse.” I said. “So your suggestion, Doctor?”
“Write your little wake up posts in the morning. Nothing more. Do it slowly and deliberately. Do it completely. Post it on WordPress and blogster, and put your links to it on G+ and face book. Then put a little space between that and your first morning chore.”
That sounds a bit Zenny . . . “
“It IS zen.”
“Oh.”
Goodbye, my love.
Dear Oreos.
I don’t know how to say this in a way that won’t cause pain, but I am leaving you. I am so sorry it has come to this.
It is not you, it is me. Its just that I cant stand the thinness cult. I have discovered a high dollar French thingy that has lots of chocolate in a hard chocolate pastry that just begs me to dip her in milk and eat her.
I wish you all the best, and hope that someday you will forgive me. Maybe we can have coffee some time and laugh over this.
Rusty
Man Dies After Strapping Fireworks Mortar to His Head and Settin – kcentv.com – KCEN HD – Waco, Temple, and Killeen
Drat! I thought that Texas would win the Darwin Award with our guy who swam with alligators at 2 am. But Maine is going to beat us out this year, I think …
Aphorisims in Geezerhood
No matter how long you wait, a hotdog will not cook in the freezer compartment. Some people are born with that knowledge, and some aren’t.
On Canada Day .. A compromise on 54 fourty ….
To my friends in Canada on Canada Day:
We’ll take Alberta if you will take Washington and Oregon back …. 
The not so amusing muse stops by ..
She was already perched on the corner of my computer hutch when I staggered into the studio this morning. She was back in her old pink rayon blouse and ratty tweed skirt, and had her knees crossed, showing more of the chubby pink thighs than I really wanted to see this early in the morning.
“Well, if you aren’t my ray of sunshine this morning.” She chirped.
“ *grumphh* ”. I answered back inarticulately.
“So. Are you going to do another one of those inane coffee posts today?”
“I am thinking of giving up blogging entirely. And lose that pencil skirt. You need to dress more age appropriately.”
“Ah, this from the sartorial maven who parades around the house in flimsy eight-dollar a pair athletic shorts, and who proudly wears scrubs with black socks and sandals to town, now lectures me on my outfit? So why do you want to give up blogging?”
“I don’t know. I grow more discontented with blogging every day. There’s a hole in my belly that just isn’t filled by daily writing like their used to be, and I am not sure where the discontent with writing is.”
“So you expect me to be your therapist? I can only help with ideas when your fingertips are on the QWERTY board. I flunked fairy psychology and God only knows what you mortals think. You wanna write, I am here for you. You wanna talk, go hire a therapist.”
“Thank you for your kindness and compassion, Nurse Ratched.”
“You’re welcome, R.P.[1]”
The day is starting out badly.
[1] Main character from the book and movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Randle Patrick McMurphy, or simply R.P., is frequently on the wrong side of the law. Arrested for battery and gambling, McMurphy dodges a short prison sentence to a work camp by feigning insanity. He is transferred to a mental institution, run by Nurse Ratched. McMurphy often speaks of his sexual exploits to get under the skin of the sterile Ratched.
O Bury Me Out On The Lone Prairie
Shabbat sort of snuck up on me today. There six periods of labor between Shabbats, but they have disappeared in my dotage. Not that I miss them all that much, put it does speed up the passage of time. The day speed by in a frightening blur of anniversaries and holy days.
I do like my transition into a lark, however. I have been an owl most of my life, and chose careers that required night work. Sitting here sipping my coffee and watching the sun burn off the condensation on the window panes is a special time for me. Even Kippur da budgie gives me a little peace at that time. I hope it dries out soon enough to do some communing on the porch.
Today is my cooking day. I am thinking of hash brown potatoes with onions, biscuits, eggs, sausage and grapefruit this morning. Lunch will be an every man for himself affair, and Snooks Shabbat matzah ball soup for dinner.
[Delete paragraph on how this generation will be the last peaceful one in the US]
[Delete rant on how we have abandoned boys, emasculated men, and how women are decrying the loss of ‘real’ men in a world they created]
[Delete a couple other thoughts … ]
But for the moment, there is coffee, a cloudy sun, warm weather, and green as far as the eye can see. Life is good out here in the once untamed Texas prairie.
Good morning!
Alexander the Lesser
A sunshiny morning returns to Texas. It is a bit too soggy to be comfortable on the stoop or back deck, and the high humidity has the windows fogged up, so we content ourselves with the gorgeous yellows, golds and green hues of light streaming in.
I am not too certain what is on the docket today. For sure, I have to gas up and prepare Bucephalus[1][2] for a dog run tomorrow. 40 minutes down to Round Rock, Texas, an hour and 15 minutes back up to Waco, Texas, and another 50 minutes back home. With the stops, it should be around two and a half hours. Not bad, and it has become the standard run for me.
I might add a trip to the feed store to my gas run today. They have some really good wasp spray, and some red wasps have taken up residence in my hose reel. Not that I have needed the hose for awhile, but I suspect that things will soon enough dry out, and I’ll return to mowing and watering. I love the smell of feed stores. It takes me back to my early years in the remote reaches of the Sangre-de-Christo Mountains in New Mexico.
My new WiFi internet provider left a message on the recorder this morning with an “emergency” call. I was curious as to what kind of emergency an internet provider could have other than un-throttled access, so when my eyes were finally opened fully, I called them. Seems that Snook dated their monthly cheque “2013” instead of “2015” and they need a new one. Good, I guess. I was thinking they had to go to the hospital or something.
A tragedy occurred in our little village because of the rains. A young boy was idly watching the raging water in a drainage canal and was sucked into a flooded culvert. What a ghastly way to end your life. That was a true emergency, but alas, a heartbreaking one.
And our search for a spiritual home continues. The hour commute to the latest one became such a burden. I am not certain how I am going to solve that one unless I am willing to bend a little in my theology.
So … the cup needs refilling. The sun climbs another 15° in the summer sky. The mist burns off the windowpanes, and the day moves inexorably into late morning.
Good morning!
[1] Alexander the Great’s favorite horse, from Greek Boukephalos, literally “Ox-head,” from bous “ox” (see cow (n.)) + kephale “head” (see cephalo- ). Men called [him] Bucephalus … of the marke or brand of a buls head,which was imprinted vpon his shoulder. [Pliny, I.220, tr. Holland,1601]
[2] Bucepalus, or sometimes Blue Bucephalus: Bucephalus is a venerable ten-year-old Dodge Grand Caravan, with two kennels in the back, and a barrier behind the driver’s seat. I add kennels or take them out as needed. At 20/22 mpg, she is quite the gas hog, but a comfortable one.
Tropical Storm Bill
Wednesday arrives gloomy, wet and windy. My favorite weather if I can enjoy it indoors. Water off the eaves beats an irregular tattoo on my front porch, and Jenna the big white moose of a mutt helps me type this morning. She was such a cute little puppy … who knew I was going to get a saddle dog then?
It is a classical music day, but since I beat Snook out of bed this morning, I’ll have to wait until she rises before putting it on.
As the day lightens, it reveals a long dormant green succulence. Texas plants are very hardy, and even after a severe drought, can spring to life seemingly in an instant after the rain bands pass over on their way north.
It is a bit breezy and the pecan and acacia trees outside my studio window are heaving billows of greenery. Tropical storm Bill and a couple of numbered tropical disturbances are all working to make us the soggiest State in the US. Nevertheless, I am not ready to complain yet, though there are a few spots running from Houston to Dallas who have certainly had enough.
I am not ready for the news or heavy reading yet. I am just sitting here in the gloom, sipping coffee, and going through the posts of friends. I don’t have many enemies left online. The few I do have are squelched. And that works for me. Some days I just want fluff mixed with a modicum of personal pain. I’ll save the hard hitting stuff for the newsfeeds.
Well, it is mostly blather from me today. The soft fogginess of sleep still lingers even though the coffee gently pushes against it. Oddly, it is a pleasant sensation, and maybe I’ll savor it for a little bit.
Good morning!
Dripping Drivel
Monday dawns wet and drippy from last night’s rains. I arose early today, staggered into the kitchen to flip on the coffee maker that Snook set up yesterday, and staggered on down the long hall to the studio and await the fruit of the coffee pots wheezing and gurgling labor.
There will be no stoop setting today. It is way too damp on the lawn chairs for my delicate bottom. The weatherman says about three days of rain as tropical storm Carlos and Invest 91L pump huge rain bands into the area.
We don’t care what makes ‘em. We are just glad to get the late moisture, although those to the south of me in Austin and San Antonio are probably not so happy. More flooding is in store for them.
Not much on the newsfeeds today. Muslims are killing Muslims. Muslims are killing Christians. Muslims are bellyaching about the bias against them. Obama isn’t killing Muslims in Syria or Iraq.
I see that the deadly little tin-pot dictator in North Korea executed a general for napping while he lectured. Such disrespect deserves the harshest penalty! I wonder how he was executed. Perhaps he was eaten alive by dogs or fed alive into a wood chipper. Bleah! Maybe I won’t wonder about that after all.
Among the blogs that I follow: Life in an elephant sanctuary, a son who used to play with military toys now graduates from advanced infantry training with honors, and one is deleting and making pages in a flurry of creative re-arrangement. I’ll try to catch up with her when the smoke clears …
I have had to thin back some of my animal feeds. There is so much pain, cruelty and suffering there that I can do so little about. I deal with one canine at a time. I can’t save ‘em all.
*sip!* >refill
I have started writing a little, but no grand plots are firming up yet. Maybe I’ll go to a formula format. Boy finds girl. Boy loses girl. Boy saves girl. Boy ruins it all by marrying girl.
Kipper da budgie keeps trying to get me to entertain her this morning. However, on rainy mornings I just like to listen to the dripping of the water running off the roof. Maybe a bit later, I’ll play some classical or Celtic tunes to amuse her. She accepts them, but her favorite is still 50’s rock ‘n roll. Jerry Lee Lewis is her favorite, followed by Little Richard. Nevertheless, they are a little too raucous to me to listen to on serene rainy mornings.
Out the window, the skies are lightening, the tempus is fugiting, and I must be about my daily routine.
Good morning!
Rusty's Armory 