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.
❦
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.
❦