What kind of blogging are you interested in? Off the cuff? Over the rainbow? Through the cellar door? Do you want sky high, mud in your eye, apple pie blogging? How about the standard fair? Or the lion's share? We can discuss the price of gas or the gas that will pass as intelligent conversation. We'll chat and we'll think what will make good ink, about love and the state of the nation.
Today was the first day in history that the ....
Many were killed; none were saved...
The pope said he needed more time. The faithful held their breath.
The fat lady sang the blues and we knew it was all over.
If you act now... it might be too late.
The old man saved his money in a plastic jar with a screw-top lid. There was a note inside, written on legal paper in a scratchy, thin, handwriting, with misses and skips from the stingy pen: "This money I want donated to Bill Gates for his personal pleasure."
There was good news on Wall Street today. Traders made a fortune.
He was quoted as saying, "If you eat your baloney before noon, there will nothing left for lunch."
Geronimo!!!!!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A man came to inspect the house for mold yesterday. He called the different molds by names, as if he knew them personally. I suppose you get to know a thing intimately when you see it on a regular basis. The names rolled off his tongue with ease, long scientific names sounding like the children of foreigners from strange lands. When a word or name gets beyond four syllables, my mind gives up on it. I must have a storehouse of four syllable, incomplete words in my brain. Its like the one corner of our garage where we keep left-over, little stubs of two by fours that are too short to use, but we hate to just throw them out.
He'll be back today, the mold man. Has to don a sort of space suit and go up in the attic. "Watch out for the raccoon poop!" I told him yesterday. There were five raccoons in the attic last summer, a mom and her four babies. The kids grew up there. It was there playhouse until they were evicted. I borrowed a live trap from Charlie Brown and set it on the ground, close to the downspout they used to climb up and down from ground to roof.
The first night, I caught two babies at one go, using sardines as bait; the second night, a black cat. On the third try, I got mom. She ripped up all the grass under the trap, clawing between the cage floor wires. There was a dry spell after that. No more cats, no more coons. Several days into it, it occurred to me that the other two babies weren't coming down because they were waiting for mom. Maybe she carried them up and down the spouting in her teeth and they couldn't do it on their own.
Since they weren't coming down, I had to go up with the trap. They came out onto the roof from the attic when they heard me with the ladder against the drain spout. One of the babies walked right up to me while I was still on the ladder. They are pretty naive about dangerous animals, including humans, when still very young. I shooed it away. Don't know if the young ones can have rabies or not, but I wasn't taking chances.
After catching one, I waited for the cover of darkness to take it to a nature park and let it loose. My mother went along. Unwittingly, she was about to embark on her first crime, at 84 years of age. Walking back to the car after the stealthy release, we were accosted by a park ranger. He said it was against the law to release raccoons anywhere but the locale in which they were caught. We were supposed to catch the critter, then let him go in the same spot. Its about the same as giving them squatters rights to your attic. And what a fun game it would be to catch and release; catch and release. Race you to the rooftop little buddy! Sure hope you're comfortable up there in my attic. How were the sardines? Enough mustard for you?
So, in addition to old raccoon poop (Emelie called it "antique poop of raccoon". I love it when people who were not born into the English language environment create fresh ways to say what they are thinking.), there just might be some mold up there as well. I learned a lot from our mold man. A fungus only needs moisture and a food source to take hold. And it eats most anything: paper, wood, gypsum board, the dead skin of old people who sit in one spot too long. With three of us senior citizens living under one roof, we try to keep on the move, indoors and out (the buzzards, you know).
Well, I've said my piece for this blog.
Oh! I have to tell you just this one thing more: I read the first paragraph of this to my wife, Emelie. She closed her eyes while I was reading and then told me that I was putting her to sleep, and that all my stories put her to sleep. Its true! When she has insomnia, I tell her an impromptu story and she falls asleep within minutes, no matter what the reason for her inability to nod off; even if she's been awake for hours. I feel pretty proud and indispensible!
Geronimo!!!!!
He'll be back today, the mold man. Has to don a sort of space suit and go up in the attic. "Watch out for the raccoon poop!" I told him yesterday. There were five raccoons in the attic last summer, a mom and her four babies. The kids grew up there. It was there playhouse until they were evicted. I borrowed a live trap from Charlie Brown and set it on the ground, close to the downspout they used to climb up and down from ground to roof.
The first night, I caught two babies at one go, using sardines as bait; the second night, a black cat. On the third try, I got mom. She ripped up all the grass under the trap, clawing between the cage floor wires. There was a dry spell after that. No more cats, no more coons. Several days into it, it occurred to me that the other two babies weren't coming down because they were waiting for mom. Maybe she carried them up and down the spouting in her teeth and they couldn't do it on their own.
Since they weren't coming down, I had to go up with the trap. They came out onto the roof from the attic when they heard me with the ladder against the drain spout. One of the babies walked right up to me while I was still on the ladder. They are pretty naive about dangerous animals, including humans, when still very young. I shooed it away. Don't know if the young ones can have rabies or not, but I wasn't taking chances.
After catching one, I waited for the cover of darkness to take it to a nature park and let it loose. My mother went along. Unwittingly, she was about to embark on her first crime, at 84 years of age. Walking back to the car after the stealthy release, we were accosted by a park ranger. He said it was against the law to release raccoons anywhere but the locale in which they were caught. We were supposed to catch the critter, then let him go in the same spot. Its about the same as giving them squatters rights to your attic. And what a fun game it would be to catch and release; catch and release. Race you to the rooftop little buddy! Sure hope you're comfortable up there in my attic. How were the sardines? Enough mustard for you?
So, in addition to old raccoon poop (Emelie called it "antique poop of raccoon". I love it when people who were not born into the English language environment create fresh ways to say what they are thinking.), there just might be some mold up there as well. I learned a lot from our mold man. A fungus only needs moisture and a food source to take hold. And it eats most anything: paper, wood, gypsum board, the dead skin of old people who sit in one spot too long. With three of us senior citizens living under one roof, we try to keep on the move, indoors and out (the buzzards, you know).
Well, I've said my piece for this blog.
Oh! I have to tell you just this one thing more: I read the first paragraph of this to my wife, Emelie. She closed her eyes while I was reading and then told me that I was putting her to sleep, and that all my stories put her to sleep. Its true! When she has insomnia, I tell her an impromptu story and she falls asleep within minutes, no matter what the reason for her inability to nod off; even if she's been awake for hours. I feel pretty proud and indispensible!
Geronimo!!!!!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
My wife just went to the town hall to get a toilet. They're giving out free comodes today. She found out from her cousin, who is also getting one. Seems the mayor is doing his part to help the people of his town. They will keep them at Cora's store until they can get a motorcycle to take them up the mountain road to their homes. I told my wife she should sit hers outside along the street so people can sit down and relax while waiting for the bus. She thought I was serious, which I kind of was - why not?
Emelie and I had some money in a local savings and loan, which they called a "cooperative". It wasn't much money but it was the first joint account we had together. The name of the place was CEPEDECO. Its an acronym for a name that inspires trust and good thoughts. They folded. There was a run on the place as a result of a rumor that they were going to close. Cause and effect traded places.
Turning the misfortune of depositors into an opportunity for themselves, the cooperative's employees continued to collect on debts long after closing the doors to depositors; refusing to give the depositors back their savings. The debt collectors went door to door and filled their pockets.
Well, it's time again. Short one today. Not much to say. But all in good taste!
Geronimo!!!!!
Emelie and I had some money in a local savings and loan, which they called a "cooperative". It wasn't much money but it was the first joint account we had together. The name of the place was CEPEDECO. Its an acronym for a name that inspires trust and good thoughts. They folded. There was a run on the place as a result of a rumor that they were going to close. Cause and effect traded places.
Turning the misfortune of depositors into an opportunity for themselves, the cooperative's employees continued to collect on debts long after closing the doors to depositors; refusing to give the depositors back their savings. The debt collectors went door to door and filled their pockets.
Well, it's time again. Short one today. Not much to say. But all in good taste!
Geronimo!!!!!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Day 4 - L.HoPE
This site puts the latest blog first, which means the first blog is last. So, to read it in chronological order, you have to start at the end, which is really the beginning. I've heard that if you read it with double mirrors it rectifies the situation. I've tried it. Actually, it takes 3 mirrors. You take one and stand it on top of the other, end to end. The two are placed in front of, and parallel to, the computer screen, with the blogs on it. A third mirror is placed at the bottom of the screen and at a 45 degree angle. You can prop the top of that mirror on the bottom edge of the screen. Now you adjust the angle of the other two mirrors. The top mirror points to the bottom half of the mirror on the 45 degree angle. The bottom mirror points to the top of that same mirror. Voila! The first blog is now on the top of the mirror resting at the bottom of the screen and the last one is on the bottom, where, by rights, it should be. Before you try this, I suggest you read the short sentence at the end of the third line down in the first paragraph of my first blog.
I was just thinking about a woman I knew in the mid 1980's. Her name is Valerie. She had no teeth. (Did you notice I said that her name IS Valerie - present tense, but that she HAD no teeth - past tense? I feel pretty secure in the assumption that her name hasn't changed, but I don't know the same thing about her lack of teeth. I've learned something about making assumptions. Read on, you'll see what I mean.) I saw Valerie every day for two months and never heard so much as a peep out of her. She would sit in her chair and stare off into a world of which I was totally ignorant. Sometimes she would scratch herself or cry or shake her head yes or no as if she was answering the questions of some invisible being. After the first couple of days, I just never paid much attention to her, given the fact that she was so easy to ignore and, in truth, a little scary.
So, on this particular day, two months into it, I was busying myself with other people; other duties. I'll never forget it. I was facing away from Valerie when I heard her voice. She said "Mark, there's someone at the window up there!" I knew it was Valerie speaking. No one else was behind me. I felt the goose bumps forming on my back, as if her voice touched my skin with a chill wind. I twitched. I was amazed that she knew my name.
When I turned around, I saw Valerie pointing to the windows high up on the wall. Her eyes were wide open as if she was shocked or afraid. Her mouth was open and her lips were curled over her toothless gums.
I talked to Valerie on a regular basis after that. Sometimes she would shake her head in answer to my questions. Once in a blue moon she would say a couple of words. It was enough.
Today was trick-or-treat in this area. Sunday, October 25th. Lots of kids out roaming the neighborhoods. When I was a kid you were either a witch or a ghost or a pirate. Teenagers would walk around without a costume, maybe put a few marks on their faces and say they were Indians or cowboys or football players. (Superheroes hadn't yet come into vogue.)
Regardless of attire, everyone had a grocery sack, a paper one, for collecting the loot. We stuck to our neighborhoods, to where people knew us and would try to guess who we were before lifting up our masks to see for sure. The neighbors put sweet treats in our sacks, things like homemade cookies, apples and Snickers bars. And sometimes they would hand us a plastic cup with a little sweet apple cider in it, to drink on the spot. Life was good.
My older brother and I would compete to see who could get more goodies. Both volume and weight were taken into consideration. We would eat a quarter of our haul while still making the rounds, and then, when we got home, we'd tear into eating it with a seriousness, and without the slightest consideration of the bellyache to come.
And then there was my sister. Three years younger than me, she was a marvel. All girls pretty much were. I didn't pay them much mind, but when I did, I concluded they were a sorry lot. Dolls, baby buggies and playing house. All that mamby-pamby pretend stuff was enough to make me sick. No spirit in it! Me and the other boys were digging for treasure, living the life of Indians and cowboys, protecting mankind with cap guns and plastic knives, while leading explorations into the wilds of Fasnaught's woods. There was a retarded boy that sat in front of me at school, in the third grade. Everyone knew he was a little slow, but, in my mind, he deserved some respect. At least he had enough of a sense of adventure to spill some battery acid on his fingers and run around screaming like a banshee, two hours later. When I found out he had been digging in a garbage dump with his bare hands, I felt a sense of kinship with him. He was a boy!
You've got the picture, right? Okay. So, my sister goes Halloweening and comes home with a handful of the sorriest candy you ever saw, and she thinks it was a successful night! Ha! How dumb! She spent most of her time yackety yacking with her girlfriends and the old folks who were giving out the candy! Being her older brothers and feeling kind of sorry for her lot as a girl, we tried to school her. It didn't take. Not even. After we told her which houses had the best loot and how to rearrange her costume so she could go back twice, she went her merry way and paid no attention to us. And when she got home with her slim pickins', she threw the sack of goodies in her closet and closed the door.
Three months later, that sack was still there. The candy and cakes and such were getting older by the day. Who knows, maybe they were already moldy or contaminated or hard enough to chip a tooth. I couldn't risk my little sister's health by allowing her to eat something that could poison her or break her teeth. My conscience wouldn't allow it.
I snuck into her closet one evening shortly after New Years and inspected each one of her sweets. The wrappers looked okay, but that was no indication of what might be lurking on the inside. I opened up a Snicker's bar and took a bite. Tasted okay to me. Now on to that cherry flavored cream puff with the butter cream icing. Hmmmm...First bite's a little suspicious. Better take another bite. Hmmm... Still can't decide. Better get a glass of milk and wash it down so I can start out fresh again. As you can see, I was being very careful. (My sister's health, remember?)
An hour or so later, I had tried everything in the bag and was feeling pretty confident that it was all still fit for human consumption, so I put it back and left. I never got so much as a thank you for all my trouble and concern. To the contrary: She squealed on me! But that was okay. I got the whole bag of stuff after she through it out!
Geronimo!!!!!
I was just thinking about a woman I knew in the mid 1980's. Her name is Valerie. She had no teeth. (Did you notice I said that her name IS Valerie - present tense, but that she HAD no teeth - past tense? I feel pretty secure in the assumption that her name hasn't changed, but I don't know the same thing about her lack of teeth. I've learned something about making assumptions. Read on, you'll see what I mean.) I saw Valerie every day for two months and never heard so much as a peep out of her. She would sit in her chair and stare off into a world of which I was totally ignorant. Sometimes she would scratch herself or cry or shake her head yes or no as if she was answering the questions of some invisible being. After the first couple of days, I just never paid much attention to her, given the fact that she was so easy to ignore and, in truth, a little scary.
So, on this particular day, two months into it, I was busying myself with other people; other duties. I'll never forget it. I was facing away from Valerie when I heard her voice. She said "Mark, there's someone at the window up there!" I knew it was Valerie speaking. No one else was behind me. I felt the goose bumps forming on my back, as if her voice touched my skin with a chill wind. I twitched. I was amazed that she knew my name.
When I turned around, I saw Valerie pointing to the windows high up on the wall. Her eyes were wide open as if she was shocked or afraid. Her mouth was open and her lips were curled over her toothless gums.
I talked to Valerie on a regular basis after that. Sometimes she would shake her head in answer to my questions. Once in a blue moon she would say a couple of words. It was enough.
Today was trick-or-treat in this area. Sunday, October 25th. Lots of kids out roaming the neighborhoods. When I was a kid you were either a witch or a ghost or a pirate. Teenagers would walk around without a costume, maybe put a few marks on their faces and say they were Indians or cowboys or football players. (Superheroes hadn't yet come into vogue.)
Regardless of attire, everyone had a grocery sack, a paper one, for collecting the loot. We stuck to our neighborhoods, to where people knew us and would try to guess who we were before lifting up our masks to see for sure. The neighbors put sweet treats in our sacks, things like homemade cookies, apples and Snickers bars. And sometimes they would hand us a plastic cup with a little sweet apple cider in it, to drink on the spot. Life was good.
My older brother and I would compete to see who could get more goodies. Both volume and weight were taken into consideration. We would eat a quarter of our haul while still making the rounds, and then, when we got home, we'd tear into eating it with a seriousness, and without the slightest consideration of the bellyache to come.
And then there was my sister. Three years younger than me, she was a marvel. All girls pretty much were. I didn't pay them much mind, but when I did, I concluded they were a sorry lot. Dolls, baby buggies and playing house. All that mamby-pamby pretend stuff was enough to make me sick. No spirit in it! Me and the other boys were digging for treasure, living the life of Indians and cowboys, protecting mankind with cap guns and plastic knives, while leading explorations into the wilds of Fasnaught's woods. There was a retarded boy that sat in front of me at school, in the third grade. Everyone knew he was a little slow, but, in my mind, he deserved some respect. At least he had enough of a sense of adventure to spill some battery acid on his fingers and run around screaming like a banshee, two hours later. When I found out he had been digging in a garbage dump with his bare hands, I felt a sense of kinship with him. He was a boy!
You've got the picture, right? Okay. So, my sister goes Halloweening and comes home with a handful of the sorriest candy you ever saw, and she thinks it was a successful night! Ha! How dumb! She spent most of her time yackety yacking with her girlfriends and the old folks who were giving out the candy! Being her older brothers and feeling kind of sorry for her lot as a girl, we tried to school her. It didn't take. Not even. After we told her which houses had the best loot and how to rearrange her costume so she could go back twice, she went her merry way and paid no attention to us. And when she got home with her slim pickins', she threw the sack of goodies in her closet and closed the door.
Three months later, that sack was still there. The candy and cakes and such were getting older by the day. Who knows, maybe they were already moldy or contaminated or hard enough to chip a tooth. I couldn't risk my little sister's health by allowing her to eat something that could poison her or break her teeth. My conscience wouldn't allow it.
I snuck into her closet one evening shortly after New Years and inspected each one of her sweets. The wrappers looked okay, but that was no indication of what might be lurking on the inside. I opened up a Snicker's bar and took a bite. Tasted okay to me. Now on to that cherry flavored cream puff with the butter cream icing. Hmmmm...First bite's a little suspicious. Better take another bite. Hmmm... Still can't decide. Better get a glass of milk and wash it down so I can start out fresh again. As you can see, I was being very careful. (My sister's health, remember?)
An hour or so later, I had tried everything in the bag and was feeling pretty confident that it was all still fit for human consumption, so I put it back and left. I never got so much as a thank you for all my trouble and concern. To the contrary: She squealed on me! But that was okay. I got the whole bag of stuff after she through it out!
Geronimo!!!!!
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Day two
Yes, its the second day of my love affair with virtual ink and paper. I woke up early this morning thinking about what I would write next. Something about the moon and its attraction to the earth and how that is a metaphor for love and lovers. And how, just because its called gravity, we don't have to take it too seriously. Then I ate some yogurt and went back to sleep.
I like thinking about gravity. I'm sitting here in my chair, in front of the computer and I can feel the weight of myself pushing down and the chair holding its own, squeezed between my butt and the floor. Sounds pretty serious but...not so.
Its overcast here today. No rain. But it looks like the sky is holding its breath, wondering whether it should dump a load or lay back today. The wind is picking up. I'm not sure what it is that it's picking up. It's too wet to pick up dirt. It rained like hell yesterday evening, on into the night.
I got it! Its lifting the leaves and the leaves are lifting the branches; the trunk stays still. Its so well-rooted into the earth.
I listened to a woman read something she had written. She spoke about underwater grasses, swaying to the rhythm of the water; bending this way and that while the roots, hidden, did a wonderful job of keeping the grass from being carried away.
I think I will play today. Its always an option although I forget this most of the time, being a serious adult and all.
I am already playing actually. It started with breakfast: brown rice and buckwheat groats with salt and olive oil sprinkled on the top after cooking. I can't say that I have ever had that combination before. I am not a strict health nut. Supper was pepperoni pizza. But I have noticed that I feel much better with a simple diet that I allow myself to stray from when I so get the desire. I eat rice and beans almost every day. If you put some Parmesan cheese on top, it transforms it into an exotic dish that the taste buds get all wet about, before the first bite.
English is a good language. (I know, I jumped ship on the last subject and started a new one without any kind of tie-in, any transitional phrase that makes for a smooth segue into the new topic. Don't do that, okay? It's disturbing! Ha! If I was going to do this correctly, I would say something like this: "The tongue rolls and slides around the mouth and lolls with the sheer happiness only a wet tongue can relish. Did you ever notice that speaking the English language provides the tongue with the same kind of experience?" And there you have it!)
Mom is asleep. My brother is in the basement chatting with his wife, who just received her visa to come here. Oh my gosh! Is she happy! China is such a damn site far from the U.S. Did you know that the Chinese are a lot like Afro Americans? Yes, its true. And also like Germans, and Irish and Latinos and Italians. They can all be lumped together you know! Its okay. Try it. But don't forget to include yourself.
Well, its that time again. Time to stop posting and get on with other things in my life. I think I will start with a pee. What's that, fingers? Oh, you have something you want to add? Okay! (Jeez! Johnny-come-late!)
"Life goes on."
Huh? That's all?
"Yup"
What's that about?
"Nothing special."
See, that's why my brain doesn't let my fingers be in charge. They always want to type something cryptic or vague or something that makes no sense, no how.
Geronimo!!!!!
I like thinking about gravity. I'm sitting here in my chair, in front of the computer and I can feel the weight of myself pushing down and the chair holding its own, squeezed between my butt and the floor. Sounds pretty serious but...not so.
Its overcast here today. No rain. But it looks like the sky is holding its breath, wondering whether it should dump a load or lay back today. The wind is picking up. I'm not sure what it is that it's picking up. It's too wet to pick up dirt. It rained like hell yesterday evening, on into the night.
I got it! Its lifting the leaves and the leaves are lifting the branches; the trunk stays still. Its so well-rooted into the earth.
I listened to a woman read something she had written. She spoke about underwater grasses, swaying to the rhythm of the water; bending this way and that while the roots, hidden, did a wonderful job of keeping the grass from being carried away.
I think I will play today. Its always an option although I forget this most of the time, being a serious adult and all.
I am already playing actually. It started with breakfast: brown rice and buckwheat groats with salt and olive oil sprinkled on the top after cooking. I can't say that I have ever had that combination before. I am not a strict health nut. Supper was pepperoni pizza. But I have noticed that I feel much better with a simple diet that I allow myself to stray from when I so get the desire. I eat rice and beans almost every day. If you put some Parmesan cheese on top, it transforms it into an exotic dish that the taste buds get all wet about, before the first bite.
English is a good language. (I know, I jumped ship on the last subject and started a new one without any kind of tie-in, any transitional phrase that makes for a smooth segue into the new topic. Don't do that, okay? It's disturbing! Ha! If I was going to do this correctly, I would say something like this: "The tongue rolls and slides around the mouth and lolls with the sheer happiness only a wet tongue can relish. Did you ever notice that speaking the English language provides the tongue with the same kind of experience?" And there you have it!)
Mom is asleep. My brother is in the basement chatting with his wife, who just received her visa to come here. Oh my gosh! Is she happy! China is such a damn site far from the U.S. Did you know that the Chinese are a lot like Afro Americans? Yes, its true. And also like Germans, and Irish and Latinos and Italians. They can all be lumped together you know! Its okay. Try it. But don't forget to include yourself.
Well, its that time again. Time to stop posting and get on with other things in my life. I think I will start with a pee. What's that, fingers? Oh, you have something you want to add? Okay! (Jeez! Johnny-come-late!)
"Life goes on."
Huh? That's all?
"Yup"
What's that about?
"Nothing special."
See, that's why my brain doesn't let my fingers be in charge. They always want to type something cryptic or vague or something that makes no sense, no how.
Geronimo!!!!!
Friday, October 23, 2009
The first day of all that remain.
hello to all!
This is my very first post on my very first blog. I decided to start blogging because I haven't written a story in a long time and I want to keep my writing muscles toned and ready. I write lies - fiction mostly. The truth is always there somewhere, but knowing it, deciphering it, can only be done if you sift out the chaff. And that could be my first lie because, you see, you don't have to sift out anything: its all chaff and its all truth. Can letters be anything but truth? Can you call the letter "A" a lie? How about the other 25? Any lies there? How about when you combine them together to form words? If the letters are not lies, how can the words be anything but the truth? And if the individual words don't lie, can you throw a bunch of words together on a page and call the combination a lie? I think not! So, if you put down a series of these combinations (words) in some sort of way, random or otherwise, can we form a lie? In other words, can a bunch of little truths be put together in such a way as to create a lie?
Never mind!
I will just continue to write. That is what I like to do. if I write fast enough, without any forethought, then I am not conscious of what I am doing and I am, therefore, not responsible for the result.
Today I went to chair yoga. I go there for mom's benefit. She goes too. She's 84. Its just a number. She's old. That is the truth of it. And old people's bodies seem to rebel against continual use. Its as if they say "Hey! Quit it! I have had years of this moving around stuff and I'm tired of it." My body hasn't come to that conclusion yet but I am afraid if I keep hanging around old people, I might start getting old too.
Not today, however. Today I feel my age, whatever that means. I can't narrow it to a specific age of course. No one knows exactly how it feels to be 59, or 46, or 3. They can only assess the current moment and extrapolate from a number of such moments to come to a conclusion of what it feels like to be (blank) years old. The problem with this way of doing things is that it is not very scientific. The conclusion is weighted heavily by the current moment when the decision is made, and secondly by the more recent moments and so on down the line and into the past. This is an inescapable bias. The past just doesn't carry as much weight as the present. If I feel like shit right now, those current feelings color greatly my perception of how I think I felt a short a time ago, and how I have been feeling overall.
My mom's friends are all old too. She has known most of them for longer than I've been around. (Interjection: That's a lie. But it felt it good to say it. I think if a thing feels good to say, you might as well go ahead and say it, truth or not! You can always apologize and the benefit of the lie lingers long after the apology. It's a technique honed to brilliance by prosecutors and defenders alike. I think that adds some credibility to it, don't you?)
Let me tell you something about old people. This is just an observation on my part, but it seems to ring true. But before I go any farther, I should probably give you an example of some other observations I've made so you can get a feel for my perspective and apply that to what I am about to tell you. In other words, keep a salt shaker handy. (...should be taken with a few grains of...)
Women drivers. Need I say more? How about this one: women drivers and cell phones. Ha! Sorry! I get carried away sometimes. Well, in the interest of fairness, there is something about men too. I just can't think of anything right now.
So, back to old people. Well, if that don't beat all! I can't remember what I was going to say! In situations like this, I rely on the one rule of writing that has kept me going all these years. (Another lie. I haven't been at it that long.) It isn't much different than the one rule of living which is this: keep on breathing - keep on writing. That's it. Don't ever take a notion that you can't bullshit your way through anything. You can. The law of averages is a beautiful thing! If you throw enough words, sentences, paragraphs on a page, something of meaning will eventually be contained in it.
Time's up. I have had it for now. Its a slight cramp in my medulla somewheres. (That is part of the brain, isn't it?) I haven't heard anything about the medulla for a long time. Seems to be a lot of chit chat about hypocalamitus, spituitary and the like and the right brain and the wrong brain (the one that's "left"over after the right one's been dealt with. We moralize about damn near everything, don't we?)
It's a good day outside... for being inside. Kind of gloomy and rainy. Not one of those honest-to-goodness rains, but a measly drizzle of a thing, like it can't decide which way to go. A real fence-sitter of a rain. One that lands smack dab between mist and drops, but qualifies for neither. Not a very inspirational thing for deciding between this and that.
Another handy rule that seems to work: If a clear decision seems out of reach, don't make a fool of yourself. Let it rest. And....
Never mind.
Geronimo!!!!!!
This is my very first post on my very first blog. I decided to start blogging because I haven't written a story in a long time and I want to keep my writing muscles toned and ready. I write lies - fiction mostly. The truth is always there somewhere, but knowing it, deciphering it, can only be done if you sift out the chaff. And that could be my first lie because, you see, you don't have to sift out anything: its all chaff and its all truth. Can letters be anything but truth? Can you call the letter "A" a lie? How about the other 25? Any lies there? How about when you combine them together to form words? If the letters are not lies, how can the words be anything but the truth? And if the individual words don't lie, can you throw a bunch of words together on a page and call the combination a lie? I think not! So, if you put down a series of these combinations (words) in some sort of way, random or otherwise, can we form a lie? In other words, can a bunch of little truths be put together in such a way as to create a lie?
Never mind!
I will just continue to write. That is what I like to do. if I write fast enough, without any forethought, then I am not conscious of what I am doing and I am, therefore, not responsible for the result.
Today I went to chair yoga. I go there for mom's benefit. She goes too. She's 84. Its just a number. She's old. That is the truth of it. And old people's bodies seem to rebel against continual use. Its as if they say "Hey! Quit it! I have had years of this moving around stuff and I'm tired of it." My body hasn't come to that conclusion yet but I am afraid if I keep hanging around old people, I might start getting old too.
Not today, however. Today I feel my age, whatever that means. I can't narrow it to a specific age of course. No one knows exactly how it feels to be 59, or 46, or 3. They can only assess the current moment and extrapolate from a number of such moments to come to a conclusion of what it feels like to be (blank) years old. The problem with this way of doing things is that it is not very scientific. The conclusion is weighted heavily by the current moment when the decision is made, and secondly by the more recent moments and so on down the line and into the past. This is an inescapable bias. The past just doesn't carry as much weight as the present. If I feel like shit right now, those current feelings color greatly my perception of how I think I felt a short a time ago, and how I have been feeling overall.
My mom's friends are all old too. She has known most of them for longer than I've been around. (Interjection: That's a lie. But it felt it good to say it. I think if a thing feels good to say, you might as well go ahead and say it, truth or not! You can always apologize and the benefit of the lie lingers long after the apology. It's a technique honed to brilliance by prosecutors and defenders alike. I think that adds some credibility to it, don't you?)
Let me tell you something about old people. This is just an observation on my part, but it seems to ring true. But before I go any farther, I should probably give you an example of some other observations I've made so you can get a feel for my perspective and apply that to what I am about to tell you. In other words, keep a salt shaker handy. (...should be taken with a few grains of...)
Women drivers. Need I say more? How about this one: women drivers and cell phones. Ha! Sorry! I get carried away sometimes. Well, in the interest of fairness, there is something about men too. I just can't think of anything right now.
So, back to old people. Well, if that don't beat all! I can't remember what I was going to say! In situations like this, I rely on the one rule of writing that has kept me going all these years. (Another lie. I haven't been at it that long.) It isn't much different than the one rule of living which is this: keep on breathing - keep on writing. That's it. Don't ever take a notion that you can't bullshit your way through anything. You can. The law of averages is a beautiful thing! If you throw enough words, sentences, paragraphs on a page, something of meaning will eventually be contained in it.
Time's up. I have had it for now. Its a slight cramp in my medulla somewheres. (That is part of the brain, isn't it?) I haven't heard anything about the medulla for a long time. Seems to be a lot of chit chat about hypocalamitus, spituitary and the like and the right brain and the wrong brain (the one that's "left"over after the right one's been dealt with. We moralize about damn near everything, don't we?)
It's a good day outside... for being inside. Kind of gloomy and rainy. Not one of those honest-to-goodness rains, but a measly drizzle of a thing, like it can't decide which way to go. A real fence-sitter of a rain. One that lands smack dab between mist and drops, but qualifies for neither. Not a very inspirational thing for deciding between this and that.
Another handy rule that seems to work: If a clear decision seems out of reach, don't make a fool of yourself. Let it rest. And....
Never mind.
Geronimo!!!!!!
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