Monkey infinitum

I remember a girl in gym class. We were in like 7th or 8th grade. Made us like 12 or 13 yrs old, I guess.

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But before I go on about the girl, let’s talk about gym class when one is in the very early teens.

Terrible place.

We’re always wondering about where hair was (or wasn’t) growing, whether or not an odd odor came from our sweaty pits, socks, musty gym clothes, or someone else’s effects.

Then there were always the kids who were more muscular, fit, quicker on the run, or had the confident air about them so the lack of any of the essential gym class skills wasn’t a problem.

That would be me in the former instance and definitely not in the latter.

Our coach at the time wasn’t particularly bothered about ensuring everyone was toned and fit. He mainly just cared if 1) a given student was dressed for gym class and 2) there were enough kids playing on the floor to make teams. He didn’t need many teams – only two really, and he was happy.

So I learned very early on that a) if I dressed for class and b) walked verrrrrryyyy slowly out of the locker room, all the team spots would be taken and I’d still get credit for class.

Nice.

So that offered many opportunities for me to wander around, visiting and generally not participating in class, but still getting counted as being present.

Well I learned there’s a third element the coach really really liked – c) those who weren’t active in sport had better be sitting quietly on the bleachers. Or else.

We still got pops on the backside in those days. The coach had a paddle with holes drilled in them to provide less air resistance. I learned that the hard way.

Lesson quickly learned was that after walking slowly enough to not be selected for a team one, had to still walk quickly enough to get a good seat on the bleachers. One where one could chat quietly without being noticed by the coach.

It was an art, and I like honing my craft.

---

Within a couple of weeks, we all had the routine down. Jocks vault into play first, those who didn’t want to sit still for 30 – 40 minutes follow after them, and the rest of us fall neatly into file-and rank procession in our unofficial dedicated spots. All’s well with the world.

Then one day I felt something on my arm. Something warm.

I looked down and there it was.

The girl’s hand.

On my forearm.

I looked up at her but she was casually and intently looking at the two teams playing whatever game the coach selected for them. Carefully not looking at me.

“Eh,” I thought, “why not?”

So I reached out and held her hand.

The rest of the session was just us watching the players do their thing. Folks talking smack to each other, celebrating their wins and tripping each other on purpose. We were the spectators, enjoying the entertainment they offered. Holding hands, silently.

Then the buzzer went off and we all went our merry way. Because I wasn’t hot, sweaty, and adrenaline-filled, I could just swap gym clothes with street clothes without having to deal with the showers and towel-snapping that went along with that mess.

---

The next day came and went. Same scene.

And the next, and the same.

And the same.

We did this for weeks.

---

I never presumed she would want to hold my hand; she would always put her hand on my arm as the signal for me to reach out. And we would never chat more than a few words at a time, and then, only about what was taking place on the gym floor.

She never asked for my name. Likewise, I never asked for hers. We were in no other classes together; the school was large enough that we never crossed paths outside of that 4 foot special place on the gym bleachers.

We danced that polite, gentle dance until the semester ended and our schedules tossed every classmate all over the map.

---

Looking back I’ve always thought this to be an odd arrangement.

Odd in may ways – not just those stated, but these as well:

No one EVER teased us for holding hands in the middle of class. I’ve been in the midst of the “Johnny loves Sally” crowds, and have thrown a few shouts out myself from the sidelines before then (and after then I must admit). But this seemed natural to all around – like watching a sparrow leap from a branch into the air. No one stares at shocked amazement for THAT event, and no one did for ours.

We never sought each other out outside of class. That was part of our unspoken understanding; this was a special time where we were safe. There was no pressure to follow up on anything after that. We were free to come back the next day and be in a warm and gentle place.

We calmed each other in the midst of one of the most stressful times in a young (pre)teen’s life without saying anything meaningful. Not because we were “soulmates” or were “destined” to be together. Simply because we were both polite, respectful, and dependable.

---

I often think about that young lady.

Not because I want to find out about her, nor do I long for her hand-holding.

I just think that – and maybe this is a silly, romantic wish – that she’s found her safe place in the adult world, where she can simply BE and be pleased with that.

Not BE AWESOME

Not BE AMAZING

Not BE WITTY, ENTERTAINING, DA BOMB

Not BE EPIC WINNING

Just BE.

BE Happy.

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Photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/jrproductions2012/4629817118/sizes/l/

Some rights reserved by JordanAnthony

The homeless man’s eyes are cloudy blue.

He is a black man.

The cloudy blue mass covering his irises were not natural.

But then, what IS natural, exactly, about being homeless?

The eyes stand out, nonetheless.

I first saw these eyes shortly after he gingerly approached my truck as I was loading groceries into the back seat.  But not at first.

My grandson was playing with a brand-new set of “grabby hands” – inexpensive stretchy rubber hands on long gooey arms – and called out in response to the man’s hesitant but toothy smile and greeting.  “HI I’ve got grrrrabby hands!” was his counter-greeting.

“Oh, you DO,” said the homeless man to him, then gently to me, “Can I have enough to get a sandwich?”, as be pantomimed the action of feeding ones’ self.

Out of years of practice, I responded with a firm but gentle, “No.” and a shake of the head.

I’ve put myself in danger before, giving rides to strangers in parking lots.  I’ve also decided it’s cruel to pay someone to stay on the street.  Here in the 4th largest city in the USA, we have many shelters and many churches to help those who find their way to the places of shelter.  Paying folks on street corners simply keeps them from going to the shelters, and keeps them in danger on the exposed outdoor environments.  So I say, “No” as a rule.

“Ok,” said the man with the cloudy blue eyes.

At that time I hadn’t a clue about those eyes.  We weren’t close enough to see each other well.

“I can pick up THINGS with my grabby hands!” shouted the grandson as the man wandered away and approached another person putting groceries into his vehicle.

---

I finished loading the items into the truck and corralled the grandboy into the back seat as well.

I looked up and over at the man, who was now standing near a grocery trolley collection stall.  His forearms rested on the sun-baked, hot metal pipe of the stall as he seemed to wait to see what the world would send his way.  My heart tugged as it always does, but there was a weariness from him I’d not seen – really seen – in a long time.  I felt like recognised it. I’d felt before as he looked then.

“Gwumpa, I’m thirsty.” came a commanding voice from the back seat.

Thirsty.

I suddenly felt that man’s thirst.

Felt the physical and emotional thirst the man experienced.

Felt the spiritual yearning in that God-sized hole in his heart.

“Hang on, we’ll be back to my place soon,” I said to the grandboy in the back, “but first I need to talk to that fella.”

“Ok gwumpa,” came the response as I got out of the truck and headed over to the ageless man who also somehow seemed as old as time at that moment.

Sometimes the litteun knows my moods well enough to not kick up a fuss when something important is brewing.

---

“Sir?” I said as I approached the man.

He turned to me and that’s when I saw his eyes, those cloudy blue eyes.

Those cloudy blue eyes that had no business on a dark black man who’d spent a very long time in the Southeastern Texas heat.

“Sir, I know it’s hard out here.” I started, and shook his hand with mine; mine that had a small amount of cash folded up in it.  “Would you be ok if I prayed with you?”

He looked at the money in his hand and nodded.  We held the handshake and extended it into the “standard” prayer stance that I knew from decades of church-going.  He seemed to know it as well.  Right hands clasped in handshake, left hands on the other’s shoulder.  It may be just a Southern USA thing, but I’m glad to have it.

---

I couldn’t get two words out before busting into tears.

That’s one of the reasons I don’t go out in pubic – that “gift” of empathy is overwhelming.  I can read people’s body language as clearly as if everyone was wearing billboards and flashing neon signs.  I can see stories laid out in malls, airports, elevators, you name it – and the emotions in those stories can drain an empath as quickly and sometimes as violently as placing a copper wire between the poles of a 9-volt battery.

I powered through the imagined mental images I saw in front of us, and prayed.

---

Home.

That’s the word and place that clamped my throat shut.

I “saw” his need to be “home” – wherever that may be – and we prayed for it.

Not in those words, mind you.  This is a powerful word, and I believe that folks can be nudged “home” to a place that caused them to be homeless in the first place.  It may be a silly belief but I know that some “homes” aren’t healthy.  I don’t want to be emotionally responsible for sending people to an unsafe place.

So instead of praying for him to find his way “home”, God’s guidance nudged me instead to pray that he finds his way to where God wants him to be.

God knows where this man’s home is.  In a million years of personal interaction, I’d never know this place as well as this man’s Creator would know it.

We prayed for God to help him find the place where God wants him to be.

Silently, I prayed that the God-shaped hole in this man’s heart pulls him to a place where he can see where he fits in God’s plan for things.

---

The grandboy and I manoeuvred our way around the busy car park afterwards.  Plenty of people were around, and between cars and foot traffic, it was a while before we made our way to one of the entrance/exits.

And by seeming coincidence (psst – there are no coincidences in this world, especially where people are involved) at the same entrance/exit was that cloudy-blue-eyed ancient black man, stepping forward in what seemed to be a determined walk.

Where is he going?

What is his story now?

Where does God want him to be?

Will he make it to that place?

So many questions.

So many people.

Today in the USA we celebrate a day of thankfulness.  Granted, not all celebrate the aftershock of newcomers to North America (then and now), but the idea of recognising our thankfulness as a group is generally a good thing.

Ideally we’d each be in a constant state of thankfulness, but that’s a different blog post entirely.

I’ll share two items of thankfulness and then will let you be on your way.

1. Family texts

A small portion of our family (my siblings and father) have had a shared text chat going on for over a year now.  At first it was our of necessity, to notify us all at once of mother’s declining health and to offer reassurance in prayer and in other ways.

But over time it has become a home away from home.

We don’t contribute to it often, but when I see that group chat pop up, I know I’m getting a long-distance hug across the miles.  This morning, the first ‘ping’ my phone was a ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ greeting from one of the siblings, followed by an ‘ack’ by the others.

I’m thankful that my family thought to do this.  It’s a regular affirmation that no matter what the winds of change may bring, we have a lifeline that spans distance and time.  When I tease my little sister or brothers on the chat, it’s like time has melted away.  Simply magic.

2. Family tradition

Today was the first thanksgiving dinner presented by daughter, with great assistance by her big brother. The apartment was decorated already for Christmas and it was so comforting.  It was also so nice to hear the prayers of thankfulness (led by the grandboy) each of us offered before eating.

Shortly afterwards I received Happy Thanksgiving messages from my son and daughter-in-law in another town. We exchanged nice chats about our plans for the day and went on to our own business.  It’s always a pleasure to get messages that just say, “Hi” with no drama or hidden messages to decipher behind them.

My daughter’s mother nor I were big on holiday pomp and circumstance as they grew up in our household, so I don’t know from where she inherited the drive for holiday .  My sister has it too, so it’s definitely a genetic disposition + environmental setup thing. These are they who forge and carry on our future family traditions.

I’m thankful there’s hope for our next lines of lineage that the holiday spirit will not die with us olduns who say, “meh” on holiday gatherings.

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Photo credit: Some rights reserved by Pictoscribe

Mothers are amazing.

They are our first friends in this big, scary world.

They are the ones who teach young ladies how to become young ladies, and the ones who teach young gentlemen how to become young gentlemen.

They are also the ones who teach little boys what happens when the boys start digging in a lady’s purse.  That can be a noisy lesson.

---

My mother was definitely a teacher.  Anyone who knew her for more than ten minutes found this out.

She taught me about the Internet before we had services like Pinterest, Instagram, Wikpedia, blogging, or YouTube.  Even before we had personal computers, even.

Our home – when I was growing up – had all of this.  Well, not globally-connected, but we had this nonetheless.

Our home overflowed with books, music albums, arts & crafts materials, writing materials, you name it.  Poor Dad – he probably felt like he was living in a mix of art museum and public library most of the time.

And in the home, at the centre, was Mom. If we couldn’t find the answer in her library or on the crafting tables, we’d ask her for guidance.

The best part was that Mom was never afraid to say when she didn’t know something.  In these cases, she’d say,

“You know, that’s a good question.  Let’s find out together.”

I can see her now, as folks are being assigned duties up in Heaven.  She’d likely take on the role of a “greeter”, meeting folks as they arrived. I can also see a new, nervous entrant into the Pearly Gates coming up to her to ask what he or she could expect.  And as she’s said so many times here, she’d assure them by saying,

“You know, that’s a good question.  Let’s find out together.”

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One last thing and I’ll let you back to your day.

This is an old, cliched concept but I’ll subject you to it anyway.

If you take a candle and use it to light other candles, and then blow out the first candle, the room is a bit dimmer.  But the original light is still there.  We can experience how much brighter is the room for having had the original candle there to start this process off.

Such is my mother.

She’s said many times she’s just a vessel passing on the light.  The light is the knowledge that God loves each of is uniquely and deeply, no matter our deeds or misdeeds.

Those who’ve spent time with my mother have been given the amazing gift of this light, as well as the awe-inspiring responsibility that comes with that gift.

I challenge each of us here, as she has regularly challenged me:

What will you do with this gift, now that you are aware of it?

How will you use this gift make this world better for having been here?

She has indeed made this world a bit brighter, a bit better, a bit more loving, for having been here.

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Photo credit: Some rights reserved by QueenNomad

This is a truck.  A Ford, to be more precise.  An F150, to be even more precise.  A 1997 F150, V8, automatic in a regular cab, short bed chassis with add-on camper top, to be bordering on motorhead precision here.

But that’s not all it is.

It’s a place where stories have been told, and secrets shared which have never left the cab.

It’s a place where hours of meaningful solitude have been racked up, and are still rolling along with the 364,000+ miles on the odometer as daily commutes to and from work are driven.

It’s a place of shelter when I’m in the wild of West Texas, sleeping under the endless stars and thanking my Creator for sights unseen by man for possibly centuries of time.

It’s been the rescue vehicle for many a family member in need, when I’ve been roused from deep slumber or pulled away from work activities due to issues elsewhere.

It’s a place where many a podcast has educated, inspired, and encouraged me to keep on keepin on, even when things were looking bleak.

It’s the place where over 2,200 individual songs on my music-on-demand player have been “liked” during hours and hours of driving.  I only really listen to on-demand music when driving.

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But mostly, it’s a symbol of rebirth.  Of renewal.  Of maintaining that which can be saved.

A little over 8 years ago I arrived in this place from overseas, penniless, in unspeakable debt, having had family torn asunder and only a hope of income to sustain me.

This was my first tangible purchase meant to get me through the day and off the public transport system.  Walking a mile to and from the home-based bus stop, then another quarter mile or so to and from the downtown work location stop to work in the steamy, sometimes torrential southeastern Texas climate wasn’t helping me to present the case of me being a successful software developer.  And in the post-recession financial climate, presentation was EVERYTHING.

It wasn’t just a work thing I was resolving.  I was beat.  I won’t go into detail about what was happening, but I needed desperately to fix something and keep it fixed.

---

 

So here we are, some 8 years later.

The truck is still running – as am I.

It has its days where things stop working well due to old age or daily wear, and need attention – as do I.

It hopefully has many more days of adventures, of untold stories, of sights to behold – as do I, I pray.

You must of course play this video as you read my lyrics.  The beautiful irony is too sweet to pass up.

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I saw you on the screen in nineteen eighty one
I’d watch the videos and just stare at everyone
If I was young it didn’t stop you having fun
Oh a oh

They take an image whenever they step in a room
Rewrite some words and sing them all in autotune
And now I understand your problems all too soon
Oh a oh

I met your grand-children
Oh a oh
What did you tell them?

On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar

Streaming came and broke your heart
Oh, a, a, a, oh

And now we meet in an abandoned studio
We watch the playback and it seems so long ago
And you remember the jingles used to go
Oh-a oh

You were the first one
Oh-a oh
You were the last one

On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar

In my mind and on my phone,
they’re always there; i’m never alone

Oh-a-aho oh
Oh-a-aho oh

On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar

In my mind and on my phone,
they’re always there; i’m never alone

The Internet came and stole your bae
You can’t compete when they mash ‘replay’

Oh, you are an internet star
You are an internet star

On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar

On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar
On-demand killed the video czar

---

Photo credits:

Some rights reserved by gaspaston (https://www.flickr.com/photos/gaspaston/33095628194/)

Some rights reserved by AdamCohn (https://www.flickr.com/photos/adamcohn/26342532773)

Video backstory:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Video_Killed_the_Radio_Star

Ice cube.

Ice cube wrapped in a towel.

Ice cube wrapped in a towel, held by a grubby toddler hand.

I remember that.

That is one of the earliest memories of my childhood.

The crunch of the cube is still strong, as is the scent of clean towel used to keep my hand from going numb.

Why do I remember this?

Well, why not?

Gen X.  Gen Y*.  Gen Z.

Before that, there were labels for Gens “Baby Boomer”, “Silent”, “G.I”, and “Lost”.

Before then? Who knows.  Apparently we in the Western world didn’t publicise gen labels for folks born before 1883. (See Wiki for more info about these.)

In any case, it seems the folks coming up with generation labels weren’t very forward-thinking when they came up with “Generation X”.

So now, here we are, sending Gen-Z kids to elementary school and now we’ve used up all the letters of the alphabet.

I propose we use double-letters now for kids born after 2023. like AA, AB, AC, etc.  That’ll last for 676 “Generations” (averaging 18 years, not the classical 30-year definition of “generation”), or the next 12,168 years.  That should cover our bases for awhile.  And after that we’ll just Y2K** it.

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349.15.34 NAD (New A. D)

Alice’s face was hard to see.

She was in a deep crouch, hair like a deep and thick auburn veil over her face. Her fingers traced outlines in the dirt in front of her.

“Oi!” I called out, waving my bag of goodies over my head.

She looked up and smiled that lost and dazzling smile.  “‘Oi’ yourself, mister.”  Pushing herself back to her feet, she was at once as graceful as a kitten but somehow also as clumsy as a newborn fawn.  It never ceased to amaze me that she’d made it this far.

“Not much luck today,” I offered as I held out the bag, “The pickin’s are getting slim.”

“We’ll make do, we always do.”  Alice play-nudged my shoulder with hers as she peered into the bag I held open for her.

---

349.15.35 NAD (New A. D)

It was another dry, dusty day. Hot.

The seasons had changed since The Event. No more separation of seasons; instead, just one long, murky spell that seemed to have lasted forever.

I don’t know what happened, but it seemed like the number of full moons had increased in a year’s time. Weird but true.

The days and nights both seemed longer as well.

Or maybe we’re slowing down. Haha. Wouldn’t that be clever?

Alice never laughs when I joke about that.

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349.15.40 NAD (New A. D)

Alice greeted me as I came back to the camp, excited and flushed.

“Hey guess what?” I heard drifting over the gritty wind.

As i came closer I feigned surprise, “Uhhh, chickenbutt?”

“O stop, you…” she fake punched at me in her playful way, then continued, “I got a message from my parents today. They’re stopping by.”

O froze.

“What did you say?” I asked quietly.

“You heard me, so we’ve got a lot to do!” She chirped at me.

“How…” I started to ask.

“I don’t know what they’ll think of us though, shacking up like this…” her voice trailed off as she gestured to the sand-blown hulks of wood and stone that used to be proper houses.

My mind could scarcely take it all in. A message, after all this time? We had been maintaining our communications equipment, but honestly I hadn’t expected to get any response.

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350.1.15 NAD (New A. D)

It’s been fifteen days since the New Year. Or at least what we think is the new year. Hard to tell.

We ran across this shelter ages ago. The calendar and timepieces were already in place, already intact. Just no one home to explain what they represented.

I guessed ‘350’ is the number of years since something happened, but it can’t be from The Event. That had happened in our own lifetimes. And we aren’t 350 years old. Or at least we don’t think we are.

Time is odd for us. But still, it seems it’s been a long time to have had no word back from Alice’s parents, after her initial contact with them.

“Are you sure they’re ok?” I asked nervously.

“They’ll reach out again,” came her answer, calm as the lazy summer wind.

---

350.2.17 NAD (New A. D)

I returned, bloodied and bruised from the excursion out in the City.

It wasn’t people I ran across – Lord, I wished to see people again! But it was the wolf-hounds that caused such pain.

We battled over the scraps of food containers and creatures that found homes in the metal and plastic shells of my peoples’ monuments. Those things were built to last. Well, parts of them were, at least.

“Ah! You missed them!” Alice exclaimed, completely ignoring my battered state.

“Missed what? And help me with this please.” I grumbled at her, wondering what could have gripped her interest to the point where she didn’t notice the bloody scrapes along my arms.

“My PARENTS.” Alice stomped her foot. Ah. I’d forgotten about that.

“They contacted you again?” I wondered aloud.

“YES! Of course! Come quickly!” Like a schoolgirl she grabbed my forearm, ignoring the dust and dirt that caked over the wounds I had acquired just recently. Damn that hurt, but her enthusiasm was catching.

She led me to the equipment bay, slapped on the headset, pushed the transmitter button and began chattering away.

“Yes, I’m back…” she was quiet for a bit, them cut in suddenly, “no, no it’s not like that – yes, we’re fine. We escaped it by being underground, then found some places to live. You’ll like it here, really you will.”

Quiet again as she listened intently. Her mouth curled upwards and she laughed that room-filling laugh. “Yes, he’s taking care of me. Actually we’re looking out for EACH OTHER.” She made wide, silly eyes at me with the last two words and I couldn’t help but snicker in response.

“Yes, he’s older… but don’t worry about that, he’s nice. You’ll like him when you two meet.”

She went on, and I started to look around as I saw I wasn’t the focus of attention.

Then I saw something that froze my blood.

---

350.2.18 NAD (New A. D)

The next morning, as I was preparing to head out again, I checked in on Alice.

She was observing the trail again, head down, intense as she frequently was.

“Hey,” I called out.

“Hey” came the playful reply.  She didn’t look up.

“I’m heading out. Will be back soon.”

“”K, be careful.”

I headed out as usual, but doubled back. I HAD to be certain I was right.

She’d left the trail, and had made her inside to the communicator again – headset on, chattering away, happily visiting with family.

I could hear her voice chirping away as I quietly headed to the power station area. A quiet click, and I was inside the door.

The place was silent inside, silent as a tomb. Dust and grit had formed on the coils and relays.

This was Alice’s domain and I felt like an intruder. But I needed to see this for myself.

This place was dead. Un-maintained.

I wasn’t into electronics much – outdoors is what appealed to me, and what kept me alive after The Event. But even I know this room that used to be humming with activity and purpose was only a shell now, filling with muffled sound and dirt. And spiders, and things that scurried as I made my way out of there.

That visit also confirmed something for me as well.

“Alice?” I called out as I headed back inside the shelter.

“O hey what are you doing back so soon?” came the wide-eyed reply.

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the communicator and the equipment surrounding it. Pointing to the unlit power indicator.

“Silly. It’s our equipment.” She smiled, but not as deeply as before.

“Alice.”

Her smile stayed painted on.

“Alice, there’s no POWER. No power for the equipment.”

She looked away.

“Alice, who are you talking to?”

Still looking away, she rubbed her right forearm gently, as she often did when she was frightened. I’ve seen her do that often.

“I..” she started to speak, then stopped speaking.

“Alice, they’re not REAL. I know it’s hard. I know.” The last bit gripped my heart as I went to her.  She comforted herself in my chest, sobbing and gently grabbing my shirt for comfort.

How to console her? I wondered. How do you counsel someone who’s slowly going insane?

She ceased crying, then groaned, “I can’t do this. They’re gone. Everyone’s gone.”

I gently rubbed her back as I knew it soothed her in times of stress. “We’ll get through this.”

She continued, her voice piercing in an accusatory tone, “Even YOU. I almost died when you died.”

I halted, froze. What?

She continued, louder this time, with anger flaring in her voice husky with tears, as she started to strike my chest, “What were you THINKING, going into the city?” Her pounding became weaker as her crying increased.

I had no response. I couldn’t respond, even if I wished.

That wouldn’t be proper, what with me being just a figment in the imagination of a woman slowly and surely going mad in isolation.

---

352.8.27 NAD (New A. D)

Alice was excited. She was going to have visitors today. Not many people came to visit the last person alive on the planet.

She started to prepare the dinner table while humming her favourite tune. It was going to be a delightful evening.

---

Photo credit: Some rights reserved by jbdodane

It’s been a dog’s age since anything and everything has taken place.

Sounds metaphysical but really, things are happening unbelievably fast.  And also unbelievably slow.  I’ve actually a post about this phenomenon here, written aeons ago.  Or it seems like it.  Hard to tell.

But this post is about my pups.  It’s a continuation of my previous post about what I think they think when they are just sitting around, being standard-issue doggies.

These fellas are both strays, who have managed to find their way here in my home.

They are more than just family members; they are also beacons and steady pulses of welcoming light in a home that has seen a lot of action.

They weren’t meant to be here; I was actually a devout anti-pet person until recently.

The first came at the prompting of my father, who sagely suggested that a pet in the home would help calm the anxieties of children who have been through emotional trauma.  I thought he was speaking of my children, but understand now that includes one of his own as well.

The second came as a result of one mistaken identity.  My daughter, who has re-established connections with me, thought doggie #1 has managed to escape and brought #2 home.  Imagine her surprise when the original pup was home and well, and wondering who was this new contender he would be dealing with.

These bundles of energy and odd smells are part of my home now.  I am still not a pet-fan but we happily occupy the same space with peaceful enjoyment.  It’s a synergistic blend of life these days.  I provide shelter, food/water, and the occasional petting, and they in turn are always here, always eager to greet the family when family shows up.  They also are part of my home defence system which is very much appreciated.  I don’t want to know how many intruders they’ve kept at bay.

And they are growing older, as am I.  One day one of the three of us won’t wake from slumber.  That’s ok.  They, in all likelihood, won’t really know enough to plan for the eventuality, and I am quite content with the possibility.  But still, I ensure their potential survival by making sure they have ample food in the hopper and  leave at least one toilet seat up to allow for a steady stream of water in case the tub they use runs dry.  And there’s always the kids to check in on me, so pups will be ok.

It’s a ruff life, but someone’s gotta enjoy it 🙂

 

 

I’ve been chewing through old boxes of papers untouched in ages.  Literally chewing through them.  With a paper shredder.

Why do I have old boxes of papers lurking around the musty, dusty corners of my residence?

Delegation of authority, mainly.  Most of the paperwork I’m uncovering is old receipts, bank statements, etc.  Things my ex-wife was managing while I was at work in our home city or abroad.

Part of the reason I still have the paperwork is lack of time due to decisions made in a rush. Never really sat down and actually LOOKED at what we were moving from place to place.  As a result, some items just got stuffed in boxes labelled “office papers” with the intent of sorting through them once we got “there”…

Well, “There” came and went.  Repeatedly.  Eventually, I became the only one “there”.

So here at last are we.  Me, to be precise.

And what do we find?

I find loads of junk mail issued to a younger me, unopened, from thirteen to seventeen years ago.  And even more unopened bank statements, utility bills, various offers for credit and etc.  For every one piece of paper that has actual relevant content that may have been worth saving, there is easily 5 or 6 times the weight of things that could have been recycled over a decade ago.

Things like:

the mailing envelope itself

the return envelope (for mailing back payments)

adverts

accompanying pages of info

etc.

I also find little treasures like love notes from the kids, from the pre-ex-wife, from the parents.  So, simply tossing everything in a pile and setting fire to it isn’t the best option.

I also find things that are better left undisturbed, like the receipt for the $900 black evening dress I’ve never seen in my life.  One of a few shockers.

All in all, I’m guessing we’ve carried – and paid for carriage of – about 200 pounds of paper weight we didn’t need to drag along with us.  From our home in the States, to storage for months while the fam was overseas with me, back to a new place in the States, back in storage for a few more months, across the Atlantic to some city called London (two moves), back to the States for about two MORE moves until it made its way to my compost bin and the local recycle bin.

It’ll be a long time – if not ever – before I’ll delegate the paperwork review to anyone again.

This is a bit of a different post.  Actually this was an unfinished tale of beasts and men, bold and fools alike.

I’d started drafting this ‘tween classes, in study hall, while the teachers were settling down the problem classmates, and during the doldrums in high school when my imagination was bursting.

What stands out are these things:

1. I was strongly influenced by Lewis Carroll (and nothing else!)
2. I fit this into 19 lines of wide-ruled paper.  So roughly 8 hand-written lines per 1 line of 3-hole punch paper.  I’ve linked to a scanned copy for those who want to see this in action.
3. There was no erasing or re-writing the lines (save for one line).  So I had to really think about what it was I wanted to put on paper before I wrote.
4. This is to be read only out loud, and in one’s best Shakespearean Voice (Not BBC – or Received Pronunciation).  If you haven’t yet developed a Shakespearean Voice, I’ve linked to a good resource on how to do so: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hi-rejaoP7U
5. The rhythm needs to be cleaned up a bit as the lyrical bounce doesn’t always flow well.  But, given that this was drafted in fits and starts of 3 – 20 mins of work, spread out sporadically over weeks, I’m not overly critical.
6. I added separator lines between “stanzas” but these are my modern, best-guess efforts to delineate my younger self’s lines of thought.  I’ll probably go back and re-arrange these over time.
7. This needs to be finished.  Maybe I’ll put very sharpened pencil to paper and finish what I started three decades ago.  But I’d better hurry because my eyesight is fading quickly…!

---

---

In the orange-covered forest
by the purple-hazed frog
the green golly goober
ate the jolly dolly dog.

And the knight of all the Daze
drank up all the milky ways
while the catastrophic egg
saw the way, saw the way

---

If the flypper flopped the folly
and the giant weren't so jolly
while the president was calling
all the men, all the men
would the ants of Christmas folly
jump the manager named Polly
and the older brother Wally
while they feasted on the floor?

---

"I say not!" said Campton Hampton,
the general of the allied force
as the disembodied spirit
of Napoleon changed his course.

Nelly Kelly, jelly belly
ate a stubborn horse named Telly
'cause he thought it was quite selly
to see the Frenchman fly around.

So he belched up all the pieces
then ate up a flock of golden geeses
that flew 'round the aged moor.

To protest, the ugly duckling
tossed a hand grenade at Nel.

"An egg" he would have sworn
but quickly found his innards torn
by the prickly, prickly thorn
born of war, born of war.

Antikillers marched around
showing God the blessed crown
but to us in London Town
we're fifteen yards until first down

---

Twas the rain that caused the Master
to speed closer to Disaster
so the oil made of caster
would release its deadly waste.

"Cannot see!" said Ivan V.,
the game show host from Tennessee
so we ran to see the sight
that had given him such fright.

Beside a man in black and gold
doing not was it was told
was a doggie who had sold
his doggie soul for rock & roll.

---

We turned back and could not look
for the munchkin-eating cook
gazed at us with such distaste
that we found ourselves to blame.

And the airplane in the breeze
did not hear the birdie sneeze
and gasp and choke and cough and wheeze
and finally ask, "if you please,
give me something good to drink."

So the Frog, who did hear hymn,
followed every thought and whim -
found a man named Gorgeous Gym
who was sleek, and strong, and slim -
took this man and his friend Tim...

took them both away

---

It was no shock to see the spock
of captain kirkan fame
materialise from inner space
to say we all were tame
compared to men from alpha cent
who came and gone, who gone and went.

"Illogical", you'd hear him say
about the way we live today.

---

But the purple-hazed frog
returning from the boogie bog
grabbed a folly-flopping flipper
and slaughtered all the Christmas ants,
Happy's Ghost and Nelly Kelly,
floated inside the vision telly,
scaring antikillers all round
the freakin' blessed bloody crown.

---

"STOP!" cried the spock, his pointed ears
raised up all our hidden fears.

So we stopped and listened all day
to hear what this dude had to say.

He shot the cook to start the meeting,
offered us a hearty greeting
sat us down and started to eat
the jolly dolly dog.

He stuffed his mouth and stuffed his ears,
and quickly downed fifteen beers.

"Folks," he said when he was done
"it's been real and it's been fun
but we're really getting nothing done
for a shilling and a pound.

I suggest we do our best
to capture all the inner worlds."

"But that's dirty!" cried the birdie
who found himself amazed
for the spock pulled out his phaser
and had the birdie phased.

---

He turned about, "Join him, anyone?"
To no one's surprise, there were none.

"Well, then, men, we're on our way!"

and they left that very day
to attack the inner planets
of Globbis, Sworthk, and Bel-antis.

---

The journey took a million years -
actually a million beers.
The drunken crew of man and beast
started on this planet-feast.

They hyperspaced to Globbis first - 
the Globbis-people faced the worst
from a crew of drunken men.

The president and hazed-frog,
Ivan V. and rockin dog,
Golly Goober and dazed knight
gave the people freakin' fright.

Campton Hampton led the fray
but no one knew that he was gay.

The Elven people of the land
fought the stinkin', drunken band
for they knew their lives depended
on the slaughter of the beasts.

Fighting bravely, teeth and claws,
broken limbs and broken jaws
showed the toll both sides would take
as they battled through the night.

---

The jolly jelly giant
took a breadknife through the knee.
If the giant weren't so giant
he would have been a she.

---

In the thirteenth hour of war
when both sides began to tire
the Elvin King began a fire
he said, "Gloddit bagnog ballin bid"
which means, "Bring me magic liquid"

(he was talking 'bout the Horsh)

The Horsh is magic liquid
led by Elvin Kings
to destroy enemy Raiders
and change the Scheme of Things.

The Elves brought the stuff
but brought more than enough.

All over the floor
they spilled the Horsh!

It was all over the floor
[unfinished ode sits, unfinished yet]

A colleague and I were comparing notes on our separate and different experiences when visiting Stonehenge. It’s amazing how two different sets of eyes and hearts can see the same thing so differently.

He’d taken a rented car there, and as it was his first time driving UK-side on the road (with a manual stick shift, no less!) his focus was on much different things than me on my route.

I’d taken a train to get to a bus and then walked about a quarter of a mile with my fellow busmates to the spot.  So for me there were many alternating bouts of introspection and interaction with others as our joined experiences shifted about.

For my colleague, his was a battle from the start, cursing the roundabouts, bewildered by signage, and unsettled by the horrible noises coming from the gearbox as he (re)learned how to shift gears.

What did I expect when I arrived?  Nothing.

Not that I find this incredible monument to be of little value – on the contrary, this was one of the most eagerly-anticipated visits of anyplace I’ve been.  Spending summer solstice evening and then morning inside one of the world’s most fascinating mysteries?  Are you kidding me?  This is magical.

But I expected nothing – the journey was the experience unto itself.  The fact that some kid, growing up in a variety of cities scattered across a vast country thousands of miles from the place, slowly absorbing the English culture book by book, would end up here, on one of the most mystical nights of the year, was stunning.  We’ve already passed any expectation point my mind could achieve.

Making the short pilgrimage from the bus station to the Stones was so pleasant.  Families, couples, large and small groups of friends, single wanderers, all tracing a path through fields to the place we all could make out very well.  There were small, unobtrusive signs marking the way but they weren’t really needed.  Our voices carried well in the cool, slightly breezy air; various brands of English language mixed with voices speaking other languages created a quiet tapestry of sound that we rode on the way to our shared destination.

When we arrived, we joined others who’d been there long before us.  No one really made a big announcement of the new folks; we simply blended into the growing stew of humanity which was becoming more and more lively as evening set in.

Of course the first thing I did was to slowly and respectfully place my palm against one of the Stones.  I’d love to say that any reaction occurred – a spark of awareness, a humming of energy or a feeling of Oneness with the place.  No, for me it was just touching a cold, hard stone.  But that didn’t mean it wasn’t special to me.  I’d touched stones like this before on my many outdoor adventures – stones that were in places where people may have never been, where others may have slept upon, and some that had not been touched by a human hand in centuries.  Each left a mark on me as firmly as if they had been the ones touching me instead of the other way round.

These stones, it turned out, were in the company of about 30,000 of us that night.

We (the collective) chatted, sang, shared wine from flasks, slept propped up against the Stones, visited the temporary loos nearby, and generally had one of the most peaceful assemblies I’ve ever known, given that we numbered the size of a small town.

As the morning sun struggled to be seen through the dense cloudcover, we knew we weren’t going to personally see the alignment of the sunrise through the vantage point of the Heel Stone.  Not a problem – I knew the likelihood was low anyway, given that England is often cloudy.  I’d been given an opportunity to be part of this experience, and took it.  Actually witnessing the alignment of the sunrise through the Stones would have been awesome, but not essential for this.

An item of note: I suffer from an issue where I feel very claustrophobic in crowds of people (a “crowd” for me is 5 or more, including myself).  It’s like drowning at times, and the urge to break away into a run to an open space is almost unbearable.  I’d love to say that spending the night being bumped, pressed upon, guided by swirling waves of people through this experience has cured me.  Nope, it’s still there, grinning like a demon.  But I wasn’t going to let that guy stop me from doing this.

Our way back was a rewinding of the afternoon before.  I laughed to myself quietly, imagining a movie being played in reverse.

What did my colleague expect?

After going in great detail about how stressful the drive to the place was, he said simply this:

“After all that driving, can you believe it was just a bunch of rocks in a field?  No souvenirs, nothing to even say you got there.  I was so mad.  I left.”

I’m so very glad my eyes and heart saw much more than this.  These filters have helped get me through some very rough patches (some even documented on this diary) and they work as well now as they did eight years ago last week.

God’s placed magic all around us – even through man-made crafts such as this; we just need open eyes and hearts attuned to the vibration these gifts give off.

Photo Credit: Me 🙂

 

I had a three-mile slog ahead of me.  My companion was a backpack the weight of a small child.

As slogs go however, it wasn’t a bad one at all.  Temp was nice, windy enough to keep any sunlight heat off me, and indeed it was sunny.  So not bad really.

It had rained somewhat heavily the night before so the air was fresh.

I’ve done this walk before, and know how to walk long distances, so I set my mental sight to the destination and started moving along.  That’s a strategy that’s worked for decades for me, and actually something I picked up during cross-country running as a youngun.  Breathe one step at a time, think about the end goal.  Everything in between melts away.

Well, there was one thing I hadn’t considered.  Given that the previous night had presented a heavy rainfall, the path ahead of me had been covered with wet Texas mud.  For those who aren’t familiar with the stuff, it’s a mix of dead vegetation, animal droppings, and clay.  Get that wet and you’ve a heavy, slimy substance that presents many moments of excitement for the unwary traveler.

And so, at this moment, this path had found an unwary traveler.

So after two messy slips – one leading to a fall – I realised my strategy for long-distance walking wasn’t going to work.  I needed to adjust my focus.  So I did.

No more long-term thinking; it was all about getting through another muddy step, planning strategy for a few feet ahead and not miles ahead.

It was then the thought hit me…

It’s like that with life goals, life plans.

We sometimes have a dream which starts off as some fuzzy idea or inspiration, which becomes a goal when shared with others, and which then becomes a plan when put on a calendar.  We put that plan into action, one step at a time, but focus on the end game, our goal, our dream.

But sometimes when storms hit, our paths become messy and our steps may falter.  We may fall and receive damage.  Doesn’t mean the dream is dead.  It just means we need to shift focus to get through the slippery path until we get to a clearer area.  Then we pick up our heads and get to stepping on towards that goal.

---

I made it home just fine.

Looks like rain again.

That’s ok.

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