Friday, March 23, 2012

New Blog Address

I'm writing regularly at:

Monday, November 14, 2011

Monday Afternoon

It's just something to do while I'm waiting to die. I write stuff to pass the time away. Like playing computer card games or solving expert level crossword puzzles in ink. It's a way of giving myself airs. I can go to further extremes than many people because of how obvious it is that I'm either a fool or truly deluded. Why hold back? I only got nothing to lose, and nothing's got plenty of me. It's odd what I find these days in the contemplations of my own past that invokes a sense of shame or regret. Where were these feelings when I needed for them to deter me from behaving so irresponsibly, as if anything could have? When I'm honest with myself, I realize that I am is not in charge of providing insight, only the means by which the vision can be manifested in the specious present. the TV is on behind my computer monitor with the sound muted. I just looked up to see an ideal vision transpire. Some Indian raja was walking along with an umbrella over his shoulder to keep the sun away, and he came to what looked like a concrete paved flat area up against the side of a rocky hill. As he continued along the path went under this huge boulder and behind it was a cave that sported a religious type retreat. The raja went inside to this platform with a sitting lounge on it and took a seat in the lotus position. That's all I saw. I didn't hear the accompanying commentary. I just saw what he had, and I wanted it for myself... momentarily. I hadn't finished writing about it before I knew what I have is much better for me, and if the raja could see of me what I saw of him, he might be envious of me in like kind. You see, I didn't know what I was missing that deprived me of the peace and serenity I so desperately needed to get to where I wanted to be. I know now, and I have this precious object in my possession. Bose Noise-canceling headphones. They are the guru who has changed my life. I might have gone completely insane without them. I actually value them more than the results of my cataract surgery. Well, probably not, but I really like being able to put the earphones on and become one with the Silence. It bothers me that I can see so well these days. I got so used to being blind and having that as an excuse to not perform some obligatory functions that I found distasteful. Now, that's not possible anymore. I still don't do distasteful things, but I feel guilty for lying, even if nobody knows what I can or can't "see" at this age.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Avarice As A Chief Feature

It's been said that my mother wasn't an especially good cook. I've said it myself. The one thing my parents did know about was fresh cow milk, and what to do with before a reliable source of refrigeration came along. I used to milk those Jersey cows. They were famous for the amount of butterfat in their milk. Nothing we did back in my early years had anything to do with pasteurizing cow milk. As the milk got older they did different things to it to keep it useful and not dangerous.

About the only thing I had to do with this process other than milk the cows was to help churn butter. Many an hour has been spent plunging the paddle up and down, up and down. It's the rhythm of life. Like what is indicated by the ringing of a village bell. If it rings at the right time, then everything is cool. But, if that bell rings at some unannounced time, it's "Katy, bar the door!"

When I worked up in Columbus, Nebraska helping to build a corn processing plant I became familiar with tornado sirens. Columbus is located on the northeast side of the Platte River. The locals that worked on the same jobsite had a saying or some sort of belief that the river protected Columbus from tornados.

Maybe so. I only lived and worked there in "tornado alley" for three months, and we worked lots of overtime. The sirens were a fixture. What the locals told me on the job was all I ever got to know about that town. Many times after we got off working twelve hour shifts, we'd stop by the designated road whore construction worker bar.

A smart family man might stop there for a quick one and get on home to momma and the kids. People like that come and go in industrial construction crew. A great majority of them have been divorced, and many of them have divorced several times. It's an addiction. Living among strangers who don't know your history can be told anything, even the truth, and they don't have much choice but to take you at your word.

Living that way usually means that the traveler (who is addicted to creating their own personality as they go along don't hold no truck with the God's own truth). The truth is what's useful or not. Granted, the same information that wasn't available to the strangers I lied to, is quite available over the internet. It doesn't matter. I just hafta be mo' cautious about how I arrange data and facts to come up with believable figures. If you don't understand, just leave a comment. '-)

A first and only event did happen in Columbus, Nebraska. I went to a comedy club. Why would I not? I was working and making good money. Even a dedicated miser can afford a night on the town occasionally. If I enjoyed myself at all at that comedy club, I enjoyed myself too much. I guess I laughed so hard I got embarrassed. The comedians got mad at me. My truly hysterical responses drew more attention than their jokes.

The same thing has happened to me at clubs where I used to go to dance. I got more attention from my dancing than the band did from their playing. They hated me. Some of them I knew personally. As a result of my fancy footwork, in modern-day terms, they de-friended me.

No blame. Why would they not? Their best was not enough. People with a natural gift for rabble rousing are as rare as hen's teeth. That's why when they come along and the people start feeling it, their natural response is the proof of the pudding, the crowd goes wild!

Some bitter, spiteful people do their dead-level best to rid the world of people like me. They know what I'm like at first sight, and start plotting and getting the tar hot and the down mattresses out of the attic. They wanna shame me before my sheer presence reveals their mundane inauthenticity. The well has run dry. I just run away and hide. I am is hiding now. I'm hoarding my poetry.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Myself As An Example Of What Not To Be

I've used browsing the news sites on the internet as an excuse to get outta writing something this morning as long as I could stand it. I don't have "writer's block". I never have. That's probably because I don't try to tell the truth or deliberately lie. I ought to. It's the thing to do I suppose, but since I project my idea of what the world is like upon other people, as long as there are people, then I've got something to write about.

My youngest brother, who is also my next door neighbor who lives even further back in the woods than me, came over to see what the hell I was doing over here banging around with a hammer. It's hardly unusual for either of us to be curious about the other's projects. Sometime we can be useful as an extra pair of hands.

I explained how I was erecting the two double-paned sliding doors to see if they would shield me from all the noise I get from the shopping center a couple of miles away as the crow flies. Like me he seemed a little nebulous, but agreed that if something could be done, then it should be done. Nobody is making any noise just to piss me off, it's a serious matter of where I located my house.

When I first started my house the airport was just starting to grow and expand. They got money from the FAA, they had to spend it or lose it. My family's farm just got in the way. There was no shopping center to draw traffic and make the noise that's completely unreasonable. Since I don't rule the world (Dammit!!), it's me that's gotta make the adjustments.

He acted like the reason he came over here was to find out what I was doing, but I suspect the real reason was to tell me that he had talked it over with his wife, and they had decided to go on a two-week trip to India under the auspices of the international branch of the Rotary Club.

Both of my younger brothers belong to the Rotary Club. They're both businessmen. Businessmen find it useful to network. Rotary, I suppose, is a good enough way to do it. Particularly if it provides an opportunity to traipse around India under favorable conditions for a while. My ex-wife should have married one of them, and probably would have if it hadn't been for me. Life is complicated.

The strange thing is (or at least to me it is strange) that as we get some age on us, the more they remind me of my father. They didn't rebel against our parents the way I did. They swear they learned better than to do that from witnessing the murderous relationship my father and I had as I became a teenager and attempted mightily to discover my true identity apart from the authority of our parents. They might also swear that the only real thing they learned from their oldest brother was what not to do. No blame.

As I sat and listened to my brother enthuse over him and his wife's upcoming trip to India I saw him as my father saying the same thing he said just before he and my mother made a belated "grand tour" of Europe, Russia before it's fall, and Australia and New Zealand. The only grand tours I made was in the Navy, paid for by the government, and as a penniless bum.

All my siblings might be considered well-to-do except me. My children hate me for it. Sometime I hate me for it too, and then hate myself FOR them in addition to my self-hatred, and my ex-wive's hatred for me too. Well, they would hate me for being what it is that I am and am not if they knew me well enough to aim their dislike of me. I guess I'm lucky they don't know me that well. They left me, not the other way around.

Sometime I think I must represent what every member of my various families hate about themselves. It's like I am is the scapegoat for all the ills of their subjective worlds. My ex-wife's mother was said to have told my children at every opportunity how much she hated me, and that she hated me even before we ever met.

I've wondered about this situation a lot. Maybe people love to hate me because I'm so talented for carrying the weight of their dislike of themselves. I should deny it and let them find another home for it, but I'm pretty strong, and somebody gotta do it, and I've dumped enough of my own self-hatred to understand what it's like to be free of hatred, so why would I not be there for them in their hour of need?

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Time's A'wasting!

Thank God it's Sunday. Last night was another noisy night. With the Moose hall a quarter mile down the road Saturday nights are never quiet. Besides that, the next door neighbor (around 500 meters away) must have had visitors today. Visitors with loud children and guns they kept shooting. The world is moving in on me. I better win the lottery soon so I can find a quieter place to live or I'm gonna go broke from wearing ear plugs.

I may be in a situation where I'm a'fixin' to go completely deaf. There are a lot of old sayings about how things look brightest just before the fall. It seems almost a shame to actually say it, but the way the ambient noise around my house has been driving me batty, I might actually like it. At least for a little while.

It's not the noise around me that's driving me nuts, but rather, my reaction to the noise around me that's driving me gaga. Lots of sounds that never made no difference to me just a short time back now drive me to distraction. I'm supposed to be in charge of what I let drive me to distraction. At least that's the plan. The world can do whatever it likes, but how I react to what the world does is up to me.

When I first started building my house I didn't have any sort of a plan, much less a set of blueprints. I imitated. I mimicked. I did what I am has always done. It gathered a bunch of building materials, bought some nails, and started putting things together catch as catch can.

As a result, it's not very well designed (I'd mimicked workmen, not architects), and since nothing measurable is standard by any means, every rework I perform is tailor-made to fit existing situations of some part of the house. My clumsy adaptions to it's haphazardness only makes it more… errr… hap-hazardous.

I waxed a little romantic at first by deciding I wanted a quarter of the second story of the loosely proposed house-to-be to be a balcony. A balcony that adjoined my bathroom (foolishly located on the second floor) so that I could walk outside from taking a shower and let the breeze on the balcony dry me off au natural. I wasted my youth when I was young.

Furthermore, without the slightest reflection about whether making it so was a well-thought out strategy, I decided to put an aluminum-framed sliding glass doors leading from my bathroom onto my romantic balcony. Big, heavy sliding doors, even when they're constructed from aluminum can be a real hassle to open and close over time. I began to dread using the unromantic energy it took to open and close that sliding door.

This entire arrangement was a bad idea, and when I remodeled the house specifically because of this romantic, but stupid balcony I put a roof over it and and enclosed the whole area which gave me a highly needed extra room, but now put the sliding glass doors inside my house.

A couple of days ago I took the double-paned sliding glass door outside of my house to the second-floor deck just outside my computer station. This is where the noise I complain about drives me craziest. I leaned the glass doors on their sides up against the deck railing, and then tied them down with some telephone wire to keep the wind from blowing them over.

This afternoon the notion popped in my head to take those double-paned doors and set them upright side-by-side against the rail to find out if they would block off some of the noise. I figured if the air space between the double panes insulate again changes in temperature it might do the same thing to insulate sound.

I may be deluding myself because I want this to work, but I sorta think it does work. Perhaps noticeably. As if maybe it takes the edge of the children screeching in play. the results I'm getting or pretending to get is encouraging.

The world is not going to change the way it is to suit my needs in this case. It's my problem. I'm the one who built my house unintentionally as an echo chamber that picks up noises from miles away. As if living next to the local airport were not enough.

If I came into some sort of windfall that provided me with the option of remaining here and going to considerable expense to sound-proof my house to more tolerable levels or moving to another location. I'm pretty sure I would move.

Hopefully the windfall would be large enough to allow me to be picky about choosing a new location. I don't think it's the nearness of the airport that bothers me here. With my imaginary deep pockets I could construct the necessary baffles to shunt the ambient sounds away from my comfort zone.

The main reason I would move is the unalterable fact that the airport authority has carte blanc through an act of eminent domain to take whatever I contracted for any reason they please. I hate being at their mercy. It's fighting city hall all over again. The individuals on the airport authority board may change, but not the type of people who like airplanes.

I've contemplated the dynamics of this situation many times before. Ideally, the only real solution is the modern day version of a teepee called a motor home. Just unhook the faucets and the toilet utilities, crank up the finely-tuned diesel engine, and drag ass.

Once, back when I made as much take home money in a week as I do a month now, I even went so far as to purchase a used motor home to fix up just to see if I might like it. It didn't happen. I got ripped off in that deal by some people who were supposed to be my friends. I didn't even realize it until after they both died.

It's unusual for me to know somebody fairly well who goes and dies on me. I've always figured that's because I moved around so much I didn't get a chance to make many people's acquaintance for very long. Both of those men were from up North and were truly what's called around hyah "Damn Yankees", because they came to visit and stayed.

Not so unusual was the fact that they both seemed troubled by what must have happened before they came here. By that I mean that they brought their troubles they had at home down here even though they sort of claimed moving here made them scot-free. It didn't.

I am is not a good janitor of it's own stuff. It doesn't have enough ambition. If something is good enough to get by until tomorrow, why bother with making it better than it has to be today. Shit happens. Things change. Death is always unexpected.

I am seems totally unreasonable in this regard. Things, objects de art, seem trivial to it that don't to me, and thats not a recent development.

To I-am-is it seems like all it asks is just to have a body that works pretty good for as long as it does, and a chance to play the game of life for as long as the body keeps going. There will always be more bodies to wear out. Bodies are like money. They'll make more.

I was impressed by the sight of the hiding place the Army found Saddam Hussein on television. It reminded me of how I live here and have always lived except during the sixteen years I was married. I was lousy at being married. Why am I always the last to know?

The only practical difference between his hootch and mine is that I don't have a rabbit hole to hide in if the invaders come looking for me. He had all those palaces as Iraq's dictator, but all he needed for himself was a place to stay out of the weather and a few pots and pans to cook with. I find myself wondering if he had a refrigerator. Oh well, he don't need one now.

Sunday, October 04, 2009

Pollyanna And Her Sisters

The property I currently own is my place in the world to be allone. Metaphorically, it's the temple in which I-am-is represents the capitalists the Christos tossed out in order to take over the whole religious operation itself. The I am is wot it yam, but only when it eats it's spinach. A spiritual lurker waiting in the shadows?

Will the real Gretchen please stand up? The real Gretchen died of natural causes, I suppose (if you consider a wooden stake through her heart a natural way to die, but it's natural if that's the only way she can die). Her death left a daughter named Gretchen who didn't deserve to be the real Gretchen's naymesake, and Pollyanna, the middle daughter, who did. It's about "Look who won in the end!"

This never bode well for me, and I didn't even know it was that strong a hate game until the very end. Even then it was years before my daughter told me that the real Gretchen who died reminded her every time she passed her deathbed how much the real Gretchen hated me. If she only knew.

The real Gretchen hated me the first time over the phone. She already hated me before we spoke on the phone, but afterward she knew it, and she hated me before we met face-to-face, and that eventual encounter only made her hate me worse. She meant to get her daughter back from me, and each daughter her daughter had made her want her daughter back even more.

I married the middle daughter who wanted the real Gretchen to love her more than her sister named Gretchen. She tried to out-Gretchen her sister by be-co-me-ing her mother instead of her self. She won, but by becoming the real Gretchen by proxy she gainsaid her sister and adopted her mother's hatred for me.

In a lotta ways I'm glad I'm not involved in this Medusian struggle any more, but it seems like my own children have inadvertently pulled me back into it despite the apparent fact that they'd rather not. I'd rather they not too.

I foresee a knockdown dragon fight between two sisters. One is slick and supremely detached and the other plain vicious and an emotional cyclone. I'm glad I live several states away from both of them. I wouldn't wanna be the duty-bound older brother either.

It would be nice if it didn't happen around my children, but I got no say so and haven't had for three decades. For understandable reasons or no that woman took our children and jumped and run. I hate it for all of us.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Just call me nuts. This is the first time I've attempted to post a photo of any sort using the Blog This! feature of If it works I'll probably post more.
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I like the colors in this shot. I swapped my heritage of some antique glass with my older sister to get that peach colored chair with the embossing. It's old and the upholstery is worn out. Sorta like me. '-)