Almost midnight. I haven’t stayed up late in a while. I soul is unquiet again, and I am restless and trapped. Went around to the old haunts online, but used a hidden nom-de-plume. I recognized some of the old chatters, even some who had changed their screen names. But I just didn’t want to pick that part of my life up again, and headed to the blogs.
That was a mistake. After several posts by bigoted, intolerant people who were patting themselves on the back for their … *ahem!* … tolerance, I sat back and thought about it for a bit. I don’t think I would have one of these people in my house for an evening. They are way too fragile and I would end up walking the minefield of their correct speech, correct politics, correct education, and smug disdain they have for those who challenge them makes me want to deflate them. Just a little.
I don’t know where to go from here.
Woke early, decided to whip up my signature dish of blueberry waffles. Cheated a bit and used canned berries, but they cook down into such great syrup without all that washing and cleaning. I am very fumble fingered in the mornings.
Made the special batter … stir exactly three times and STOP. The lumps are just fine. Leave ’em alone. Just set the bowl aside for a few minutes while you prepare the iron.
Checked the ‘fridge. No juice … ‘sok … coffee will work.
Went to get the waffle iron out of the cupboard, but Snookums must have found a new place for it. Finally, after checking everywhere, I asked her where her new secret place for appliances was. Was tersly informed that it had died last week, and my one task FOR THE WHOLE STINKIN’ WEEK was to buy a new waffle iron. I was given permission to buy any damned iron I desired.
I did go to WallyWorld … and walked out with an SD card and a thumb drive. But no waffle iron. I got in a snit because they don’t put the size of the iron on the box. What the hell is wrong with telling the buyer what size waffles the stinking iron makes?
So … the upshot is, what do you do with a quart of waffle batter and stewed blueberries? Waffle cakes? Waffle cakes it is. Thick, gooey mess, sort of pancake tasting, but with crisp outsides and doughy insides. Snookums told me they were pretty tasty … but I know a bad breakfast when I see it.
Then into the studio for some me time. Annie Annie, our black something or the other, sleeps in there. And last night she upchucked something very, very smelly. Or perhaps it came out the other end. I didn’t examine it closely enough to tell.
Funny. I can work on plumbing and pretty much keep my lunch down, but a runny pile of doggy do on my carpet makes me retch …
Snookums rides to the rescue, cleans it up, spritzes it with soapy water and vacuums it up, and sprays FreeBreeze® into the air, and my damaged morning once again becomes bearable, if not sooper-dooper-spanking-perfect.
Good morning, late as it is ….
“Hello darkness my old friend, I come to talk with you again!” she said as she sat perched at the usual place on the top of the monitor.
“If that is your best inspiration, I might as well hang up the idea of ever becoming a writer.” I shot back “You’ve put on some weight since your last visit. It is time to retire that tweed skirt.” I continued, noticing that she still wore that too short, too tight, too dated and too shopworn tweed skirt. And that hideous pink Rayon blouse! I wondered if she pillaged a Goodwill store for it.
“As lazy as you are, you would never make the grade anyway. Writers …”
” … write, that’s what they do. Yeah, yeah. You said that before.” I snarled in annoyance.
“It’s my job. And besides, I like this skirt.” she pouted, and crossed her legs, revealing the tops of her hose and the cottage cheese whiteness above the garter bands.
I averted my eyes as I sensed that I was on a roll, and kept going, “Well, you aren’t doing your job very well. Your inspirations are just as dated as you wardrobe. And garter belts went out three generations ago.”
She waved off my assault with a casual wrist. “I see you dug out ‘Shaman in the Sagebrush‘. You plan on doing any work with it?”
“No, not really. I got it out to show an old friend what my life was like during the mid-60’s. I like the story, but I don’t think it is a salable piece, so I keep it parked on a long ignored blog site.”
“What about ‘Akashaic‘?” she asked.
Yeah. Like she didn’t already know. “I lost control of it again. It has become too big and too cumbersome. I think I will move it to the back stack to show people how not to write a tale. How about a new idea?” I asked hopefully.
She stretched and yawned, then answered. “I am too tired right now. I spent the night consoling Carla’s muse after you so rudely dispatched me to her. When did you get the idea that I was your errand fairy?”
“Well, my friend was stuck, and wanted to get back into her poetry, but her first attempt failed. I thought maybe you could jump start her muse. Besides, you haven’t been all that helpful to me lately.”
“Maybe I would be more helpful if you weren’t roaring about with that huge chip on your shoulders! You spend all your time fighting liberals on the newspaper feeds. Perhaps if you spent as much time writing tales as you did attacking care-more-than-thee and feel-more-than-thee crowd, you would get some serious work done!”
She scored a hit on me. “Yeah. That has been bothering me. I am too old for crusades. The will to fight has left, and all I do now is make them bleed a little. Liberals do bleeding very well. And some of the ideas I have in my head right now is too brutal for my tender-hearted audience. Dark have been my dreams, lately.”
“Stealing lines from Tolkien, now? Well, write your dreams for someone else!” she admonished.
I mumbled. “I have a lot of friends who say they would like to see that material. But I don’t think any of them are ready to walk that close to the edge of primal cravings. As I said, dark.”
“Use a lot of metaphors and innuendo’s. You seem to be good at that. Maybe a bit too good.” She sniffed.
“I dunno. Some things really are unutterable.”
“Well, give me a little time to work on your libidinousness. Maybe we can hammer out a compromise.” she said encouragingly, albeit a little Tom Swifty.
“You sure you want to go there?”
“I’m a fairy. I go anywhere.”
“Not in that outfit.”
There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven—
A time to give birth and a time to die;
A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.
A time to kill and a time to heal;
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to weep and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn and a time to dance.
A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.
A time to search and a time to give up as lost;
A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear apart and a time to sew together;
A time to be silent and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate;
A time for war and a time for peace.
Another of them mysterious Spring holy days, 50 days after Passover. Jews and some Christians count those days leading up to Shavuot because God commanded people to count the days (49) AND count the weeks (7). Of course, man being the ornery cuss that he is, decided to mess with the counting, so now we have three theories upon which day this is.
But the Torah was received by the Israelites on this day and according to Christian holy writs, this day was the day the Spirit of God was given to the disciples. Pentecost, if you will.
Anyway, many of us hold convocations lasting all night, though at my age, I usually excuse myself around one or two am. Old men don’t do well with lack of sleep …
So here I sit with a background headache from the late hour, and prepare myself for the congregational celebration at 2:00 this afternoon.
I don’t know why I do this to myself, but I do believe the annual rotation of holy days mean something more than a mere annual even to remind us of past things, but more importantly, they remind us of things to come.
Not that many of you will be all that interested in these days, other than mild curiosity.
Did kinda break the rules a little bit today. This day is also considered a Shabbat as well, so the usual rules to not labor are pertinent. The new tractor was delivered Friday, and of course, I had to take it out for a test run … but perhaps since it could not actually be classified as “labor”, I am presuming that I am forgiven. Of course, that puts me head-up in the rule against presumptuous sins. Oh wicked man that I am!
The heat has arrived … this was such a mild spring for us, and the land is not responding as it usually does in spring because of the persistent drought we are in. It would take a week long drizzling rain to get the land to believing the drought was over. But I took this little piece of rural Texas for what it is. We accept the droughts, and we accept the wet years, and adapt to them as they cycle through the years. There is a time for every season.
Deep, so deep in Vogan’s sea
She puts her feet in rotting brie
And rise though the bile green tea
To take another love bite of thee
The pain, the pain, I love so dear
Is not so deep to bleed the rear
But gnaws to bone above the ear
To bare my skull and bring a tear
Oh how I love thy bile green tea
That makes a mush of thee and me
And on thy rotting floors of brie
The soda crackers are smeared with chee
And makes me long for a nice long pee.
THANK YOU! THANK YOU! MORE TO COME! STAY TUNED!
“Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe.
The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled “My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles” when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.
The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.”
― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
I was just going thru the Picassa album and came across a picture of Mu, Sherry’s pit-bull that was a rescue from a street gang. She was a real sweetie among people, but a terror to other dogs. When Sherry came to live with us, it became apparent that I was going to steal her dog.
Mu fell in love with me at the first meeting, and felt that she had to defend me from all other canines, which caused a lot of uncomfortable moments in the house. I could not go anywhere without Mu. The women lost the prized center seat position, and my girl Mu would sit proudly beside me as I made my rounds.
She also was a fireplace dog, and her joy at the prospect of a fire was a real pain in the butt when I was building the fire. She was the only dog I knew that “snorkeled” when she was happy, and the only dog I had that seemed to smile.
I had a daybed that was right by my studio chair, and in the mornings and evenings when I was at the desktop she would lay by my side in happy bliss while I pounded out writing exercises in a vain attempt to master the art of writing.
But one night, four years after she came into my life, she was more clingy than usual. Sometimes things would disturb her, like a new heard in the pasture next door, or a skunk in the neighborhood, so clinginess was not unusual. But this night was different. When I went to bed, she came in and lay by my hand. I knew something was wrong, and I decided to take her into the vet that next morning.
But that morning, I found her by my studio chair, drawing in her last breaths. I think she waited for me before giving up that last breath. There was no time to get her to the vet, and we sat with her until the last death rattle.
Sherry sat down later to write of it, and realized that every story she had of her involved me. I had indeed stolen her dog.
And I sure miss her today as I stumbled on this picture of her has she helped me with my morning exercises a long time ago in a faraway place …
Wednesday come hot and humid, and I have frittered most of my day away on the PC and listening to talk-radio. I am now following four friends as they wend their way through cancer treatments. I sure don’t like that much, but that is the way it is.
They go up one day, and I rejoice.
They go down one day, and I am distressed that I am so powerless to aid them.
They fret, and I give them empty platitudes and hugs.
Puny humans we be. We are born, we live, we die, and Thanatos silently watches our every step while Chronos measures it. All our railings, all our cursings, all of our “positive thoughts” mock our feeble arrogance.
I remember reading once; It is good to rejoice in your youth, but remember to spend time in the house of the dead as well.
Took a quiz today that predicted that I will live another 15 years. Mmm. OK … what do I do with the five years I am too feeble to wipe my butt. I dread the thought that some minimum wage under schooled nursing assistant will clean me and wash me, and wheel me out into the sunshine while I wait to die.
So anyway … I look at the yard. It needs work, and I will probably get out and put my hand to some of it, but that little voice inside asks; Why?