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Moiræ

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The sun sinks in the west, on last valiant streak of weak orange lights the hilltop, and down the far side of the road. Again a pensive time as the frenetic world changes, yet doesn’t change. Liquid brown eyes watch me from the door, and I muse that only man measures life.

Clotho has spun my beginnings. Lachesis has woven the tapestry of my live, and Atropos stands at the end ready to snip the last thread.

Paradise gleams across the abyss. I am ready.

Ghosts of Birthdays Past

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… sleepless … ghosts of the past visit me one by one, each one as diffident and uncaring of their impact on me tonight as they were the day the friendship was killed. Each one carries a veiled offer to pick up the friendship again, but the offers are written in changeable script that says one thing now, another thing later.

What do they mean by “friend”? Why would they even want to be friends now after long years of silence? Such friendships are like class reunions, where you meet every ten years or so, make some small talk, and move on, feeling like you had done something worthwhile in reliving the past.

La-de-dah

No. I am not going to do that to myself again.

Three ghosts are standing on the fringes of my world, their hands clasped chastely in front of them. The look so tiny, so small, so vulnerable, so alone. They show up at my old haunts and make small talk with my friends while casting probing glances my way. I shant. I can’t. I am too old and beat up and you are all just too heavy for me to lift again.

Go spook someone else.

Subject: Clues That You’re in Rural Texas

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 You just might be in Rural Texas , if…

 
 



















 
 

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Dawn breaks with high broken clouds this morning, at 76° and the high today be around 96°. That is a bit below our norms for mid-August.

Yesterday I noticed that the school zone lights were lit. Geesh. Poor kids. We didn’t return to school until the second week in September. But then, we didn’t get a Spring break so maybe that evens things out. Schools are now their own community, quite divorced from the ebb and flow of the larger community around them. All that was before we had an educational crisis and the Federal government had to step in to fix it.

Schools tended to be much smaller and local before the educrats sold us on the idea that a bigger school was a better school. It didn’t take them long before the various school districts got busy consolidating schools into mega institutions, and the lib … err … politically correct factions abandoned our boys to Ritalin™. But the damage is done, and I doubt that we will ever return to the days when teachers did have some sway and authority over their charges. The only answer left is a good alternative. Home schooling and private schools are certainly an option, but I feel there has to be a better way, one that strips the power from the current elite and returns it to educators who still have some passion left.

But I dream. We know it can’t get better.

So on the agenda today … mount one new tire on the mower, remove another and change it out to remount it with a new one Sunday. Fill the birdbath, water the containers, go clean our little shul in preparation for this Shabbat. Then a long hot shower late this afternoon, change into special clothes for the most Holy day, and sit down at an evening meal to welcome in the day of rest. Oddly, for us, the day begins at sundown, and ends the following sundown. So Shabbat starts on Friday evening, and ends on Saturday evening. But I am not super observant. I do write some on the day of rest, and read some, and drive to services.

Other than that, my days are ones of unending leisure as I am now officially a golden ager, and spend my days trying to stay a few inches beyond Thanato’s scythe. Someday, probably too soon, he will catch me when I am not looking, and I’ll disappear unheralded from the blog sites and message boards. What’s on the other side? Only fools boast they know. Even the sages admit they only hope.

But Chrono’s marches onwards to his doom with eternity, heedless of the carnage he leaves behind him. And Rusty wonders what it all means.

Good morning!

~r

 

 

 

Maudlin Morning Reflections

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Tewsday Mawnin’ … A little down today.

Sitting here awhile in the early light playing with a CAD program and sipping coffee.  Kippur the Budgie is starting to flirt with me.  I think kipper is turning into a girl. (S)he had all the markings of a male when we got him, but this week we noticed that her cere, the swelling above the beak is decidedly turning tan rather than the blue of a male.

I scold her, and she scold back.  I understand that females don’t mimic speech, so all my work in teaching her how to speak has merely entertained us. Oh well … it is not the first fruitless activity of mine.

The last two days have been mower tire changing days.  I really am getting too frail to do the job, so the next time the chore comes around, I am going to have to haul them to the mechanics.  Growing old is not for wusses, they tell me.

Today is the day Snookums volunteers at the local food bank, so I am on my own foodwise.  Not that I mind all that much. I can forage with the best of them, and her absence helps a lot of deserving people, and a few not-so-deserving ones. It annoys me that one couple gets food from the bank when they could well afford to buy at the store, but are very cleaver at hiding their income.  No understanding people, I guess.

But I don’t regret moving out into the country, even with its inconveniences. I do fret about aging though, and there will come a time when I can’t mow, drive to town for supplies, pick up the yard or do any of the myriad of other tasks required for rural living. I fear dementia, and do what I can to keep the old calculator in fine tune. That means I argue with dissenters, work crossword puzzles, play video games and … write.

But with all the arguments and such exacting its price of people leaving the blogging community, and the slow disappearance of the 40’s and 50’s crowd into new lives and senior citizenry, my circle has grown small of late, and I grieve their loss. Most will never appear on my pages again.

But life goes on, a generation comes, a generation goes, and soon a plaque lost in a vast sea of other plaques will read:

Rusty Armor

1943 – ****
“Sometimes you just got to walk
slowly and drink lots of ice water”

R I P

Good mornin’ ..

How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?

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How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?

Saturday. The day of rest.

And as usual, the tasks that I ignored all week suddenly get first billing in my head today. I need to get the algae out of the bird bath, water the sweet ‘tater vines and mow the west side. But I’ll sit on my hands. Actually, now that I think of it, writing is also proscribed by the Rabbi’s. Oh hell.

Last night was a sleepless night. They happen once in a while, and when they do, I might as well get up and go putter. So I did. And ate half a bag of Cheetos, drank a can of Squirt, nuked a couple of beef dogs dipped in mustard, forked down a couple of spoonfuls of sauerkraut, and downed half a bowl of grapes.

And I wonder why my digestion isn’t so good.

I ditched services today. Snookums called me in time to shower and go, but I just pulled the blanket over my head while she got ready to go. I could feel the disapproval through the blankets, but I persevered until the silence of her absence woke me. So I sit here in my studio, the heat of the dog days glaring at me from the window. It is 100° and still more to come.

I have started these off and on daily journals to jumpstart the old Muse, but I think I have really horked her off with the last go around we had. It was a false start. One feverish flurry of production, followed by ennui and sloth. So she is giving me the old silent treatment, but like Snookums, I can {{{ feel }}} her disapproval.

And the wars on Blogster® continue … it is easy for me to sit outside in smug self-righteousness when it isn’t me doing the bashing. “Oh you silly kids!” I think. When I am involved, it become very
important that I answer every insult. In detail. Carefully thought out and edited for maximum impact.

I wish I could focus that same energy into completing any of the various manuscripts that I have laying about.

But alas … today is a day of rest, so I can’t pick those up either.

Good afternoon!

~r

 

 

 

But all my words come back to me, in shades of mediocrity

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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.

~r