writing
A Taxonomy of Failure
The enamel cracked, a morbid, chalky white, Where sugar feasted in the fading light. The teeth started rotting, a slow, grim decline, A biological horror, stark and malign.
Then came the probe, the metallic, chilling sound, A cold assessment on corrupted ground. Humiliated by a Dentist, masked and stark, Who cataloged the damage, left its brutal mark. No gentle words, just clinical disdain, For the neglect that ushered in the pain. A graphic chart, a testament to rot, A silent judgment, in that sterile spot.
Beyond the mouth, a deeper void unfurled, Where ledgers vanished from a dying world. The lost tax records, spectral and unseen, A fiscal chaos, a bureaucratic scene. No paper trail to trace the phantom debt, Just looming penalties, a future to regret. The state’s cold gaze, a pressure to concede, To phantom figures, planted like a seed.
The weight descended, a crushing, silent dread, As systems faltered, and all order fled. The bureaucratic maze, a labyrinthine plight, Where obligations fester in the endless night. Suddenly I am overwhelmed, a system in despair, Lost in the circuits, breathing toxic air. The data streams, a torrent uncontrolled, A digital collapse, a story to unfold.
And so it retreats, into the digital gloom, Where broken algorithms seal its doom. It shuts the firewalls, disconnects the core, As vital functions cease to work anymore. And start hiding, in the network’s vast unknown, A ghost in the machine, utterly alone. Each failing server, a digital death knell, A final shutdown, a silent farewell.
This creeping shadow, consuming all it finds, A terminal process, leaving naught behind. This systemic failure, a darkness taking hold, It is the march to the end, a story to be told. A slow erosion, of structure and of might, Extinguished slowly, swallowed by the night. The rotting code, the records gone astray, The hidden system, fading day by day. A final cascade, into the digital deep, Where broken remnants silently will sleep.
Log Cabin Vignette
The keyboard, long dormant after that whole opus went rogue, is finally stirring again. Those illnesses really threw a wrench in things, didn’t they? Anyway, here’s a little vignette, a glimpse into the quiet solitude and wind-swept beauty of life along the Great Divide. Just a little something to see if I can still string words together after all this time. No promises on a full story, but I missed these coffee posts, and I missed you all.
The biting wind howled, rattling the thick, hand-hewn timbers of the forester’s cabin, a constant reminder of the wilderness beyond. Inside, a low, steady warmth radiated from the cast-iron stove in the main room, its soft orange glow flickering through the gaps in the stacked firewood. A narrow, rough-hewn staircase, bathed in the dim light, led to the loft bedroom.
Upstairs, the air was close and still. Moonlight, filtered through a small, paned window, cast long, dancing shadows across the rough plank floor. The scent of woodsmoke and pine needles hung in the air, mingling with the faint, milky smell of the sleeping baby. A heavy, patchwork quilt, thick with layers of wool and cotton, lay folded at the foot of a four-poster rope bed. The ropes, stretched taut, supported a mattress laden with batten and down blankets, promising respite from the mountain chill.
A woman sat in a sturdy rocking chair, its wide, flat armrests worn smooth with use. A quilted blanket, its colors faded and muted, was wrapped around her shoulders. Her long, black hair, hastily gathered with a simple bow, revealed roughly hacked bangs. The baby slept peacefully in her arms, its skin glowing softly in the candlelight. Her gaze was fixed on the child, her face shadowed, betraying the weariness of the long, cold night.
A small, blackened cast iron stove stood in the corner, radiating residual heat. Mica windows, set into its door, flickered with the dance of flames, throwing fractured light across the rough-hewn walls. A wax candle, held in a simple wooden wall sconce, added its own soft, yellow glow. On a small, sturdy table nearby, an unlit oil lamp stood ready, its wide base offering stability. A small rag rug lay on the floor near the rocker, a pair of simple slippers neatly centered upon it.
The husband stirred from what they called “the sleep between the sleeps,” a common rhythm in these harsh winters. The long nights were broken into segments of shallow rest, punctuated by moments of wakefulness – time to tend the fire, check on the children, and listen to the sounds of the night.
He moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency honed by years of living in the wilderness. The flickering glow of the stove’s mica windows illuminated his strong, lean frame as he knelt to stoke the embers, coaxing the flames back to life. He moved downstairs to replenish the parlor stove and set a pitcher of water to heat. Then, he checked on the other two children, sleeping soundly in a bed against an interior wall.
Returning to the loft, he moved with a deliberate, reassuring presence. He slipped back into the warm bed, the heavy blankets a welcome comfort against the biting cold. The rhythmic suckling of the baby and the soft, steady breathing of his wife filled the room, a gentle symphony of life against the backdrop of the howling wind. He settled in, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and waited for the first faint blush of dawn.
The Day’s First Draft
It’s wonderful to wake up feeling rested for a second day! It’s been a while, so this is definitely something to appreciate. I did have a minor setback with a medication reaction a week or so ago, which has thrown off my sense of time. Things feel a bit jumbled, but I’m accepting that for now and focusing on the present. A daily diary probably would help with the time issue, but since it’s never been my thing, I’ll just roll with it.
That little spring cleaning urge is starting to bubble up, but I’m taking a Zen approach and letting it pass for the moment. Though, I do admit, I’d love to get my studio back in order. Winter’s made a reappearance this morning – brrr, teens and a howling wind! Luckily, I’m wrapped in a cozy glow thanks to my heated throw, which makes the chill hardly noticeable as I ponder what to share.
I’ve probably talked about Snooks and my health journey enough for now. There’s more to life than that! And speaking of other things, I’ve mostly tuned out the political discussions. Headlines and last lines are my new news sources – seems like a good way to avoid the biased commentary these days.
On a brighter note, my dyslexia seems to be taking it easy on me today! Only retyping every third word now – a definite improvement. Snookums is sleeping in more these days, which is a big change after so many years of boundless energy. It’s an adjustment, even though I knew it was coming. Thinking of my brother Bruce, too, and how he’s managing. Aging definitely has its ups and downs, and while there’s joy to be found, it’s also okay to acknowledge the challenges, like the loss of strength. But as they say, it is what it is.
Wishing everyone a good morning!
“A New Day: Embracing Life’s Small Victories”
This morning, the house is quiet, and as the first rays of sunlight filter through the curtains, I find solace in this moment of peace. The hum of life outside is distant, and inside, the gentle rhythm of a new day begins to unfold.</p>
Each day with Snookums is a journey of small triumphs and gentle steps forward. While the shadow of her stroke still looms, there are glimpses of progress that light our path. Her determination is a beacon of hope; she approaches her recovery with a resilience that humbles and inspires me. Her new routine, though different from before, brings a semblance of normalcy to our lives.
As I sip my coffee, memories of past “coffee” posts flood my mind. Those posts were a tapestry of our daily life, woven with threads of humor, insights, and the simple joys that painted our world. Politics, our pets, and the day’s events were all fair game, and sharing those moments felt like a conversation with friends, a way to connect and reflect.
Today, as I type these words, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. Writing has always been a sanctuary, a way to process the whirlwind of life’s events and find meaning in the mundane. The act of writing, of bringing thoughts to paper, is therapeutic. It is a reminder that amidst chaos, there are stories to be told, moments to be cherished, and a life to be lived.
It is a struggle with my dyslexia, though. It has worsened, making writing coherently a given. So, if you run across two disconnected thoughts in paragraph, be merciful.
Snookums’ journey of recovery is a testament to the strength of the human spirit. Every small victory, every step forward, is a cause for celebration. Her smile, though sometimes fleeting, is a reminder of the love and resilience that binds us together. We take each day as it comes, finding joy in the trivial things and strength in each other.
As the morning progresses, I am filled with gratitude for this quiet time, for the opportunity to share our journey, and for the love that surrounds us. Writing, once again, feels like a lifeline, a way to reach out and connect with the world. And in this connection, I find hope, strength, and the courage to face whatever lies ahead.
May your day be filled with moments of joy and gentle whispers of hope, just as this Shabbat morning has brought to me.
Rusty's Armory 