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In the clearing stands a boxer
In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev’ry glove that laid him down
And cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
“I am leaving, I am leaving.”
But the fighter still remains
~Paul Simon, “The Boxer”
So goes the tune as I sit here by the studio window and look out on the unfolding of spring. I don’t know why, but this has been a week of introspection in my headlong rush toward doom. Thanatos’ chill breath is ever felt off my left shoulder, and it colors every effort I make. “Will it matter when I am gone?”
A few miles from where I grew up in the remote areas of the Colorado Rockies is the tiny town of Manassas. A once famous boxer by the name of Jack Dempsey was born and raised there. He was a scrapper, and so was I. It was a tough place grow up back then, but not necessarily a mean one.
He went on to become first a famous athlete, and later, a famous restaurateur in New York City. His restaurant is still there. I was too small framed to become a prizefighter, and though I had a reputation in my hometown as a scrapper, I lost about as many street fights as I won. It did not matter, however. Just having the reputation as one who would instantly resort to fists pretty much kept the bullies away.
However, I have grown weary now, and though the bright sunbeams and soft breezes of spring play around my yard in gay streaks and meanderings, I am down in the dumps. None but me recall the victories. None but me remember the betrayals. None but me remember the long slog toward peace. None but me see Thanatos.
Why plant for the future when another will come along and erase the garden to suit their vision? Few, if any, will see the treasures I hid in the soil, nor even care if they did.
And like today’s patrons who visit Jacks restaurants in New York City and New Orleans, I’ll be a byword, a mildly curious anachronism to generations to come. Will some future gardener be surprised by finding a cats-eye agate in the flowerbed? Will some distant owner marvel at the novel solution I came up with repairing a damaged foundation? Will it matter.
Probably not.
Good morning!
~r
A lament.
“For your hands are defiled with blood and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken falsehood, your tongue mutters wickedness. No one sues righteously and no one pleads honestly. They trust in confusion and speak lies; they conceive mischief and bring forth iniquity. They hatch adders’ eggs and weave the spider’s web; He who eats of their eggs dies, And from that which is crushed a snake breaks forth.…”
Well, the world has come full circle again. Just fifty years from the last bunch of young people who thought they were the salvation of the world, a new crop has now arisen. And like the 1960’s world changers whose simplistic approach brought nothing but chaos, so will this generations.
The tragedy is that they are unaware of it. Philosophy trumps wisdom. In their mind they care and share more than the rest of us mere mortals, and jingoisms trump wisdom. So once again, they tear at the fabric of civilization, and thinking themselves wise, have become fools.
Civilization survived my generation’s hubris, barely. Will it survive this one?
Once again, man proves he cannot live free. He needs strong tyrants standing on his neck.
It was a grand experiment, America. However, your days of freedom are nigh over.
May I die before it happens.
~ r
Sweet Potato Sunday
The first day of the week dawns with cottony softness. I am groggier this morning than usual, but it is a pleasant grogginess. The world is in full leaf here, the migrating birds are back, and I have spotted the second monarch butterfly of the season.
It is odd how each day I arise in a different mood that is out of sync with the reality. Today a soft sadness gently dissipates with the unfolding of day and the slow infusion of coffee. One of the advantages of retirement is that you can afford moods. You can savor them like fine wines, yet not be consumed by them. I find it odd how emotions ruled me in the past when in actuality they are such transitory things.
The new porch is almost complete. New planters for the handrails came by UPS, a new saw to replace the broken one, some sweet potato vines, both green and purple, to drape the handrails, a tomato plant in a three-gallon planter, and a couple of citronellas for the mosquitos came from Lowes.
I forgot to get nicotianas for evening perfume, but another trip to town later in the week will solve that. I have spent many pleasant evenings and mornings on that deck as I heralded the passing of time.
So here in my adopted State, the days flow by seamlessly, each one unique yet each one the same. Still, like an old fire horse, I want to rise to the call of the alarms, but the battle belongs to the young, and always has. So, with rheumy eyes, I watch the young ride off to battle each morning, and a part of me wants to ride off with them. I would, if it didn’t take so much damned effort!
Good morning!
… and the coffee was good.
Preparation day dawns wet, dark and overcast as the latest storm front rolls over us. It just feels good to rise with the sun, even if the sun can’t be seen. Well, ok. For you scientific buzz killers, the sun doesn’t actually rise. It appears.
So’s … a quick diversion to whips Friday Five exercise, a few sips of morning coffee, and my mornings return to the mundane again. I forget the negatives and count the blessings. Usually.
New planting pots have arrived. I purchassed ten 3 – gallon pots for the walkway, and some planters that fit over the top rail of the porch. I’ll visit the flower shops over the next few weeks and load up on posies and such.
So on the agenda this rainy day. Fill the gas tank, go to town and get my new saw and maybe some plants, read a few scriptural passages in preparation for Shabbat.
The end of all things …
Well, after the buildup, the letdown.
The colon tour went well, a couple or three spots of diverticulosis, whatever that is. I think it is pockets where poo collect and get ripe. Joy.
I was a good boy, however, at my wittiest and most charming, and the nurse told me the anesthesiologist gave me the good stuff. Rule number one: Thou shalt not hork off the anesthesiologist. And the nurse found the vein the first stick. ‘Tis a charmed life I lead.
We stopped by McDucks and devastated a whole week of healthy living on the way home, only to find that the water main broke. I didn’t get the “boil water” notice, so it was after a nap that I flushed the toilet.
Ye Gads! The water looked like a full load of diarrhea. I didn’t even remember going, but the did say because of the joy juice, I would not remember much. So another flush, and more heavy brown water flowed into the bowl. I opened the lid of the tank, and it was full of brown water too. I actually was relieved that it wasn’t me, and called the water co-op and talked to Glenda. A real Texas lady, who told me everything that was happening.
So … still brown water … I am hoping that the subdivision down the road starts flushing their toilets when they get home and gets all the brown water flushed out. I got filters to get the brown out, and iodine tabs as well as pots to boil the water, so I am in good shape if it doesn’t clear out.
Tomorrow I will reward myself with a new power tool … life is good!
~r
Florida man bitten while kissing venomous snake
A Florida man is recovering after being bitten in the face by a water moccasin.
To boldly go where men shouldn’t go …
Well, at the suggestion of the GI nurse (not the military kind, however), I finally opened the mysterious package that I ordered for $30.50 from the “Colon Prep Center”. I was reluctant to look inside and left it on the bathroom shelf. But today begins the five day countdown, so I carefully carried to the table, and opened it.
Inside was a big medicine bottle, a stapled sheaf of instructions with the receipt, and odd and ends in a Ziplock® package. But, hallelujah! Nothing was made of rubber.
There was:
1 – 8.3 oz. bottle of Polyethylene Glycol 3350. Also called Miralax. It turns a nice firm stool into a high velocity brown stream.
5 – Bisacodyl tablets (but I am only supposed to take 4. So why did they send five. Hmmm? You call them Ducolax.
3 – Sugar free drink mix packets … to mix into a Polyethylene Glycol cocktail.
5 – individually wrapped aloe flushable wipes by Pure Touch® … called “Tush Wipes” in case there is any confusion as to how to use them.
1 – Complementary box lemon Jello®
3 – Complementary packets of chicken broth
1 – pkt of forms, instructions and receipts.
But, did I mention: Nothing was made of rubber nor designed to be inserted?!
Much of the above is mixed into a quart pitcher of that I will drink half of at four in the afternoon the day before, and get up at three am to finish it off. Somehow, I think I shant need to set an alarm.
In the morning, Snookums will drive me to town and into the hospital parking lot, ride up the elevator to the “laboratory” (it better have a lavatory as well!), I’ll be given a “strong” sedative, and the procedure begins. From their webpage http://www.colonprepcenter.com
Once you are comfortable in the proper position, your doctor will begin by performing a gentle finger examination of your rectum wearing a clean, lubricated glove. Then the flexible endoscope will be lubricated and placed inside. You will feel a little pressure when this happens. The endoscope is then carefully moved up through your rectum and colon.
I was going to include some bowl samples, but Snookums said that I probably gave you enough information already. So there you have it. Another of life’s indignities in the aging process.
Mz Muze Arrives
I had just finished firing off a few parting shots at another ewww liberal * on a Liberal newsblog when I noticed her sitting on the desk lamp yoga style. She was wearing her usual ratty tweed skirt that usually covered the knees, but when she sat in the lotus position, her chubby and dimpled knees greeted you like a boxer’s handshake at the beginning of the bout. Especially when those fish-belly white, nylon covered globules were at eye-level.
“It’s been a long time, champ, since you even tried to write a coherent sentence. Giving up?” She asked while oozing serenity.
“No. I keep thinking about it, but I just can’t seem to write when my soul is unquiet.”
“If your soul gets any more unquiet, the backhoe will be pushing dirt over your casket.” She twerped.
“You haven’t been Ms. Gregarious yourself.” I snarled back.
“You might try romancing me once in a while, Señior Neruda.” She said, placing her hand behind her head and thrusting out her bosom while puckering her red painted lips.
I quickly averted my eyes from the straining gaps between the buttons of her pink rayon blouse and replied, “I started a few times, but you weren’t much help.”
“No, you didn’t start anything. You made a few bad attempts at creating a plausible old man’s sexual fantasy, and it fell flat because it wasn’t very plausible.”
“I didn’t either! I was just trying to do some flashbacks on Shaman in the Sagebrush from the standpoint of an old man.”
“It was a chopped up bio and you know it. You will never finish the tale because you don’t want people to know the scary parts, and are afraid that people will accuse you of plagiarizing Carlos Castenada.”
“Well, there is that. It does come a little too close to his tales of Don Juan, the Yaqui medicine man.”
“You are going to have to resolve it somehow. And you know what that entails.” She stated self-righteously
“Yeah, yeah. Write it. Waste two or three thousand words on something that will never see the light of day.”
“So how many words are you saving by not writing?” She asked pointedly.
She had me.
“I did do some rethinking on Akashaic, the saga. It had grown from a simple idea into a full blown saga, more vast than Wagner’s The Ring Cycle.”
“You did let that one get away from you!” She said, condescendingly.
“It was your fault. I just sat down to write a story.”
“You sat down to impress people.” She cackled.
“Well, you certainly made sure that didn’t happen!” I impolitely shot back.
“You could have reined me in at any time, lover. I like it when you’re my boss!” she cooed.
“Bullpucky. You’d dominate me at any chance you got!”
“It would take more imagination than you possess, Hemmingway.”
“The thought of you in leather and fishnets takes more imagination than an army of men has!”
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror, lately, Adonis? A mottled pink blob of old flesh, with kinky gray hairs coming out of your huge pair of ears. Paint you gray and you’d look like a hairy elephant.”
And so the conversation wound down. But a new vision appeared. A magician, a young blond, two Semitic female slaves, and a tale of revenge works around the periphery of my mind. I was tired of that pink rayon blouse anyway. She would look good in a slave collar and leash.
* An Ewww Liberal is a left winger who runs out of debating material and resorts to trying to censor people with a “Ewww. You belong to the IN ARE AYE? Ewww!“
Free Floating Anexiety, Evil Budgies and Warm!
Æons ago, I went into an 18 month depression. Not the down-in-the-dumps sort of depression, but a true body shutdown that almost killed me. As near as I can determine, it was a body chemistry issue, not an emotional one, though the malady most certainly created emotional problems.
The biochemical malady is much harder to diagnose and treat. Usually the first thing that counselors and psychiatrists tried to do then was try and treat the symptoms, which really made the malady worse. Fortunately, I never went into the drug therapies, though. I have a couple of siblings who also suffer from the disease and were treated with medications, and the results weren’t pretty
In my more normal state, the imbalance shows up as “Free Floating Anxiety”, where a chore that I put off because of sloth later becomes an insurmountable burden. Often, the task I begin avoiding is one that I have done many times before without any difficulty. I never know where it is going to land, hence the term free floating.
I just caught myself today in one of those oddball manifestations. I need to get my pick-up inspected. It was due in Feb, and it is still sitting in the carport with expired safety and registration stickers. However, I need to sort some tools in the bed, repair an armrest, and clean it up a little before I go. The poor old truck hardly gets a thousand miles a year on it nowadays …
Exercise seems to be the best cure for the malady, and if I set the worrisome project aside and go to another pressing project, that often is all I need to get me moving in the right direction. Another helpful thing is to recognize that it is the disorder itself that puts me in an anxious mode.
Anyhoos .. on my third cup this morning. We skip breakfast on Tuesdays and have an early lunch. I have installed fencing on an open deck to contain the dogs, but still need to build a swinging gate on the steps and replace the top handrails.
I sure like the warm weather … it also helps me ‘get out’ of the morass. The concrete birdbath is up, the cheap plastic one I use in winter is stowed. Grass seed is planted under a shade tree, window boxes are cleaned up and ready for planting.
And Kippur da budgie is scolding me. I haven’t played any music for her today, and she wants to know why we can’t have a little noise in this damned mausoleum. Twice she has spoken her name, and now she torments us with silence as we try to get her to speak more. She has learned to mimic that little *dink!* that the computer gives when it is given an improper command, and to do the facebook *ding!* when a message comes in on it. Yeah. It would be something that evil little avian would pick up on.
So a good Tuesday to y’all …
~r
Drunken Passover Grilled Cheese
Ah! Here it is for Pesach. Normally we have a light meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup on Sunday evenings. A couple of minor modifications, and I have a passover week meal!
I love Passover and all of the symbolism and stories and the special foods the holiday carries. Passover meant huge dinners with family and friends, somehow managing to squeeze in one or two more chairs for last-minute guests who could not bear to miss the fun. From the days of being the giggling children at the table impatient for the meal to begin; to teens snickering about wicked sons and stealing sips of wine; to joyfully watching the next generation hunt for the afikomen-Pesach has always filled my heart with delights.
Since I will eat matzoh anytime and consider it a treat, the main food of Passover is not a boring burden for me. For many however, anything that can help break the monotony is welcome. So when I saw that Cabot was making a Kosher for Passover cheddar, I knew that I needed to try to make a Passover acceptable version of my favorite sandwich, the humble grilled cheese. Since…
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