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So It’s Sunday …
*grump!*
So sunrise came in through the bedroom window since the sun rises more southerly in wintertime. And first light is about ten minutes of 7:00. And Jenna and Tic had their morning game of tag at first light. Mr. Bladder, after having been emptied at 5 am, quickly refilled himself though I had returned to bed for a long winter’s nap. And Mr. Automatic Thermostat turned up the heat so that Snookums didn’t have to rise to a cold house. OK … I am awake and up. But nowhere is it written that I must like it.
But the coffee was ready, and a favorite cup was in the cupboard. I can manage that. Fill the cup, pad down to the studio and click through the morning’s emails and newsbytes. Today, tumblr® begins to protect me from inadvertent exposure to nipples. Good thing, I guess. Them things is dangerous! One friend was back on facebook after being in Zuckerman jail a month for tormenting a Muslim on a Christian/Muslim debate site.
Another friend makes an oblique comment about my lack of diligence on my journal site. It’s OK, though. She has permission. And hence this crabby little missive this morning.
It is an waffle day it is. But then, Sundays are always waffle.
OK … that the best I can do with a waffle pun …
Sunday is the day I make waffles. They are quick, tasty, and special. And best of all, Snook cleans up afterwards …
But now, a little catching up, a little peeping into your world, and coffee!
Good morning!
Old Habits Die Hard
I hate waking up at 5:30 am in winter, and I just go back to bed after taking care of Mr. Bladders urgent request. The only problem is then I sleep ‘til eight. I have tried to live out my retirement ruled by the sun rather than the ticktocker, but I just can’t make myself go to bed at seven in the evening. A century or so back, people lived by the sun, and I wanted to do that, but old habits die hard.
Writers and poets often found their most creative time was that time between the sleeps in winter, when you awoke after five or six hours of sleep, but it was still the middle of the night according to the clock. They would work for an hour or so, then retire again until sunup.
But when I wrote at those hours, the writings were unbelievably morose and dark and people offered to call suicide prevention on my behalf. King David wrote his psalms at that time, and a number of them were glum, so in that I was in good company. But I am neither a prophet or a King, so it is better that such thoughts remain undisturbed in the primal ooze of my subconsciousness. So, the ticktocker is back to ruling my days and nights. Bed at 9, rise at 5, piddle and sleep ‘til 8. Hate it.
Hillbilly corn on the puck today. Really want to get the field mowed down for winter. I don’t like having that much dry stuff around the house, though wild fires aren’t that common in mid-winter here. And waffles today. Not feeling the joy today, so will drink two cups before even starting. On my way to the second cup.
Good morning!
Ailments and Morning Swing
The days go by two steps forward, one step back health wise. It was a miserable night of heartburn as the reflux returned with a vengeance. But the swelling disappeared this morning. I am irked with the medical people, and it seems a common complaint among my peers that docs only hear the first sentence of your recitation of maladies.
But as I sit here sipping my coffee and peering into your world, the old bod is at rest while the last wisps of sleep begin their exit. Snook has swing music on the puck for the bird and I’ll just let it play. I do miss my quiet mornings, though. It will be three months before I can take everything out on the porch.
I killed my RSS reader for putting ads into the news stream. Facebook started some real evil with that tactic. Speaking of facebook, I have begun migrating one of my accounts over to MeWe, a similar service that doesn’t track users or use targeted ads. It is so like facebook that you are up to speed in a very short time if you are agile on facebook.
So the a.m. goes on. No plans for the day.
Good morning!
And Whom Shall I Say is Calling?
Never Trust a Poet
In my newly acquired but eclectic music habits I often stumble across gems that trigger mystical ruminations that haunt me for days afterwards. I have often quipped that I never trust poets and balladeers because they’ll story you. It is a bit of tongue-in-cheek because I have known honest poets and musicians. They do exist.
But one jewel comes from Leonard Cohens last album You want it Darker. It was taken from an ancient prayer said on Kol Nidre (All Vows) where all careless vows are annulled. The prayer is called U’Netaneh Tokef, “Let us Ascribe Power.” Cohens rendition of the prayer is called “Who By Fire or Flame”
There has been some debate over the æons about the theology presented in the prayer, but if you understand the mind of mystics, the theology isn’t all that farfetched. It is believed in both Jewish theology and some Christian theology that there are two books that God recites from. One is the book of Life, and the other is the book of deeds. The meaning of the books is a bit different among the various disciplines, but essentially, they are a record of each life … and the most curious of all to me is the Book of Life. Apparently, it began with names of people slated for life, but those names can be blotted out, assuming for infractions.
In the rite, the names were in the book at Rosh Hashanah, and sealed at Yom Kippur for the upcoming year. I’ll leave the debate up to the theologians, but I know what the rite, the prayer and Master Cohens rendition mean to me.
Hear is the prayer from the prayer book:
On Rosh Hashanah it is written
and on Yom Kippur it is sealed –
Who will live and who will die;
Who (will die) at the end of his days and who (before) the end of his days;
Who by fire and who by water;
Who by sword and who by beast;
Who by hunger and who by thirst;
Who by earthquake and who by plague
Who by strangling and who by stoning…
But repentance, prayer and charity cancel the harsh decree.
בְּראשׁ הַשָּׁנָה יִכָּתֵבוּן
וּבְיום צום כִּפּוּר יֵחָתֵמוּן
כַּמָּה יַעַבְרוּן וְכַמָּה יִבָּרֵאוּן
מִי יִחְיֶה וּמִי יָמוּת.
מִי בְקִצּו וּמִי לא בְקִצּו
מִי בַמַּיִם. וּמִי בָאֵשׁ
מִי בַחֶרֶב. וּמִי בַחַיָּה
מִי בָרָעָב. וּמִי בַצָּמָא
מִי בָרַעַשׁ. וּמִי בַמַּגֵּפָה
מִי בַחֲנִיקָה וּמִי בַסְּקִילָה…
וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה
מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רעַ הַגְּזֵרָה
And who by fire, who by water,
Who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
Who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
Who in your merry merry month of may,
Who by very slow decay,
And who shall I say is calling?
And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
And who by avalanche, who by powder,
Who for his greed, who for his hunger,
And who shall I say is calling?
And who by brave assent, who by accident,
Who in solitude, who in this mirror,
Who by his lady’s command, who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains, who in power,
And who shall I say is calling?
The Pain is Over, but the Malady Lingers On
Well, it is some kind of GI problem tormenting me now. Perhaps ulcers, but since I am not a doctor, I have a pain in the back and chest when I lie down that isn’t helped by the pink stuff. Almost went to Urgent Care, but it settled down this morning, so perhaps I can call the doc or NP in the morning. I’m pouring coffee over the belly fire this morning, and it seems to quench the flames a little. Maybe I can hang some bungees from the ceiling and tie my body to them so I can sleep vertically.
Snookums was up early today, so the bird music was playing as I stumbled down the hall to the studio. Sometimes I get a little peep in greeting from her, but more often I am just ignored as I plop down into my oft repaired $49 Office Depot Executive Chair. I would buy another, but my butt is molded into the shape of this one.
Belinda wants to be my facebook friend this morning. Buxom, and luvs Jesus. She has about six assorted male friends, two pictures of her in a low-cut striped tank top, and she joined FB last week. She’s 26 and lives near the beach. Think I’ll probably ignore this budding friendship. My wimmen wear flannel.
Bits and pieces of the border story on my newsfeeds today, and some odds and end on the Camp Fire fire, but little else of any note. I like getting my news from the newsfeeds rather than let the TV news direct my information. It is likely I still get steered around by their narrative, but I can skip over the uninteresting items, like political peccadillos …
So the first day of the week starts a bit late, but still with coffee and cookies while the day slowly reveal itself.
Good morning!
Happy Thanksgiving Day!
For those of you whose life hasn’t been destroyed by anti-nationalist huffery and puffery, have a very Happy Thanksgiving Day.
For the rest of you, get back to work …
Aphorisms for Booboosoo
Aphorisms for Booboosoo (click)
Peace is the beauty of life. It is sunshine. It is the smile of a child, the love of a mother, the joy of a father, the togetherness of a family. It is the advancement of man, the victory of a just cause, the triumph of truth.
~Menachem Begin
Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.
~Bob Marley
******************
Some days you just got to walk slowly and drink lots of ice water
~Dell Heckendorff, mentor, oft married ex-jock, low rent sage
Yeah, we’ll get it fixed, but first we are going to screw with you
~My Insurance Agent
Eggs, Music and Press Boors
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.
Good morning!
Unblinking Golems and Windows
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.
Good morning!
Fighting the Imperious Urge …
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.
Good morning!
Rusty's Armory 