Technical Difficulties

Never would I have thought that I could be so dependent on technology.

In the last couple of weeks I have had two laptops and a tablet take a dump. I am at present using a Bluetooth keyboard with my phone – not fun, easy, or anything I hope to continue for long.

All my notes and files are lost – there are some things to be said for starting over – none of them good.

I shall procure another devise and continue, but trying to follow this on a phone is a challenge.

\peace out, pilgrims.

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Can’t Find My Friend

Can’t find my friend – lately,

You’d remember him…hard to forget, just the pleasantest of guys’; he is one of the very few souls that enjoys not talking over coffee – no person has enjoyed the sound of their own voice less ; in the pursuit obscure galleries he takes almost singular delight – wherein could be heard at least once, oft repeated one of two mantras: at the beginning or middle of a walk around he will find something and freeze and then moving like a mastodon during a slow thaw he would circle the piece, studying it, oh so carefully, lovingly…and as a result; stumbling over all manner of nonsense right in front of him- I’ve yet to comprehend how he walked around that painting…it was hanging on a wall…

He enjoys what makes me happy…he just enjoys.

I’ve run into him in the very early hours – sitting in the sand of an empty beach, his long surf rod set in it’s holder, his eyes would be fixed on the tip – lit by what ever moon was available – watching it’s dip and pull, that motion generated where sea, shore, and wind come together and there is nothing alive on the end of that line. On just such an occasion I had noticed that his bait pail had been- well – empty.

Like mine – on that particular occasion.

He hasn’t been there – no…not lately.

I thought perhaps – maybe – if I return to all the old places I’d come across him again; and we’ll laugh about needing props on the beach to just sit and watch the light on the water.

Not that long ago, I was sure I caught a glimpse of him; it was in that little bistro, off S. Detroit and Main, he was looking over his own cup a mud when the image was lost as one line or another of bodies, faces lost to the glow of the tiny screen before them. Hoping to greet an old friend, I did take up my coffee and walk in his direction…to find – it was but a mirror, and the face I was looking at was someone else – someone else indeed.

Don’t Give Up On Me Yet

If you – this is addressed to the three of you – thought I’d come up with reasons/excuses for not being here – nope.

I will say that I have become somewhat devided of late, to the point that I need to have two sites.

This first site will be the first, my fondest most honest expressionand shall after this post be just about humor, satire, maybe a good belly laugh.

The second is in the form of a short book, the plot has been used over and over – guy gets the flu gets tests gets more tests and more tests and docs that say shit like:”…and we can keep you going for…on average mind you: for 5.5 years…”

I have some choices to make, nothing more. Out of that strange enery of sorts, a book, about a quest to find Xenia (?); person, place, idea, ideal, destination, state of mind, state of being, no one was quite sure which Xenia was – but it was/is.

I have always believed that there was a need for two things in this world in great abundance:

  1. Peace, stillness inside and out. Voluntary quiet, eliminate the din and listen to the rythum of the wind.
  2. Laughter; shared with strangers – there are nine of you gathered around this dignitary and they’re recounting an event involving some other indivdual and its getting interesing – and then its geetting really interesting and a touch humorous – and the story proceeds from the stright laced dignatary – from the eight strangers at times could be heard sounds of momentary loss of control of the desire to explode. The speaker finished, turned, and started to walk away when each of you looked at each other and you knew the punch line and there was an eruption like the first time you saw Mrs. Doubtfire. Perhaps one of the three of you smiled.

Peace out Pilgrims

Oh Where to Begin…How About Ohio?

I really can’t tell you how long it has been, is there a measure for forever, that I have been away from a keyboard – I have heard it said that procrastination is the sincerest form of low self-esteem.

(and they were right, oh so right)

Battling months of depression and stress triggered illnesses a general funk filled the house and at times it seemed like others needed more than we had to give – and it wasn’t that the SWMBO ( She Who Must Be Obeyed ) and me were looking for anything, it was just for a rest.

Over morning coffee, She said, “Let’s move to Ohio.”, without so much as raising her head. Then She took a sip of her overly treated coffee.

“OK”. Rarely does the SWMBO act spontaneously and never on anything of this magnitude; of course I’m going to go along for the ride.

Two thousand eighteen managed to shatter me…it wasn’t the year really, as years go it was a year, it was what was going on in me during most of it.

I labored over how to explain, well, my absence ( this is more for me than you); and the deep philosophical response sounds like so much psycho babble.

I’m a wood-butcher and there are times I work on a piece and I can just not get the joinery right to save my soul, nothing’s square, there are gaps in the glue up…you have a choice: beat yourself up forever or drill a hole in it and call it a bird house.


Let’s be honest here

 

Well, it’s the morning after the 22nd annual celebration of my 50th birthday.

 

Yesterday was a day of, “How does it feel to be 72?” delivered in the same condescending tone that I heard when it was, “…how does it feel to be teenager now?”

 

Same answer: how the hell should I know?

 

Yesterday I became old. Yep, it happened, I had to face it and the face says it all…old. Along with becoming old is an overwhelming sense of responsibility to share the knowledge and related fears with the boss.

 

‘Hon, its just a number but it just kinda scares me; but, all that aside, I will still be doing my woodworking and I will grow the business…I’m gonna be a little more flamboyant, playful. I’m gonna die and there is just no time left to be serious; so you know I haven’t gone crazy, crazier.’

 

Later we got into the reality of things. “You are going to continue working for a while yet?” “Until the wood stops telling me what it wants to be…when that happens; its just a job.”

Its the day after that conversation and I can only say, Its a great day to be alive.

 

Introduction, A New Character

Yeah, this is the part about writing that really, really gets to me; creating a new character, a new full-blown character, believable, and moderately… interesting.

For now, I’ll call him “m”; short for some name that may or may not begin or end in the letter M.

As this is a contemporary tale it is significant that m is 71.

This is significant in its perception: ages 58 – 70 you should be gainfully employed and socially driven, 72 – whenever; you are in your dotage, no one takes you seriously.

He’s never missed a meal…although he has postponed several, indefinitely.

He’s confronted, accepted, and has stopped fearing his own mortality.

He’s slept under the stars, most often, willingly.

He’s a tree-hugging old hippie that now faces the day with a choice: morphine or oxy (by Rx) and sit or nap for an hour or three to squeeze in a moment or two of near comfortable movement, or take a hit on the pipe and feel like working. [m is a skilled woodworker and has his own small business: Be Splendid Enterprises Ltd. Co.] No choice really, a man has got to smile and do…stuff.

“Hello, I’m, well, m and I’m your narrator.”

The Blue Room

 

 

Much against my better (?) judgement; the octogenarians moved into the SWMBO’s (She Who Must Be Obeyed) house where three, soon to be four, cats reside and I am permitted to sleep.

At first residing there was much like walking through an infomercial.  Representatives from stair lift companies arrived; explaining and diagramming the advantages of having their product…the octogenarians could access the second floor, giving them a sense of freedom (and me a sense of a $15,000.00 debt.  NEXT.

There was a parade of “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” people.  I still could find no way to escape the house and I always heard any and all falls, bumps and complaints.

We moved them into the dining room, recently painted a deep Wedgewood blue; their queen size bed, two night stands, two dressers, pictures, mirrors, two changing chairs (although I never saw any transformation) and a 28-pound cat that had an allergy to litter boxes, she avoided them at all costs (she was cat number 4).

The octogenarian mother of the SWMBO had begun her unsuccessful chemo treatment for stage 4 lung cancer.  The Drs. Attributed this to her years as a smoker…she blamed her older sister for setting a poor example she was compelled to follow.

I answer her nightly, late nightly, very early morning, very very early morning calls for assistance to go to the bath room, get a drink (of water); during which an ongoing argument over the role of care givers.  “No you can’t have whatever you want”.

I remember similar discourses with my son…when he was three.

John, the octogenarian father of the SWMBO, waited impatiently until his partner in octogenarianism returned to bed and he made his way to the loo.

I found it simpler to have a drink of the coffee left from after dinner during John’s time in the purple loo.  There was always a cleaning and restocking required.

After a year had passed things began to change.

The queen size bed was replaced by a hospital bed and one twin.

The very early morning calls were now requiring lifting the octogenarian mother of the SWMBO from the bed to the wheel chair, rolling her into the modified loo and then lifting her from chair to bed.  This was a simple task she had lost most of her weight.

At some point in time, I can’t remember just when, there was only the hospital bed in the blue room; the hospital bed and a pale blue wing back chair in the corner, a tall iron floor lamp illuminated the nurse that quietly sat and read.  There was always an artificial light in that room now.

Conversations seemed to quietly dwindle from within the room replaced by the drone of oxygen pumps.

John’s bed moved (unfortunately not by itself) upstairs and the very early morning cleaning and restocking was in another loo.

And then there was the night the blue room was full of people not talking, conversation had been smothered by the weight of the blue on the walls.  The octogenarian mother of the SWMBO, lay quietly on the hospital bed, oxygen pumps now, also, silenced as the nurse, by the light of the tall iron floor lamp wrote her report.

The next morning (very very early in the morning) out of habit rather than necessity I came down to drink the cold, stale coffee left from after dinner.  I stopped at the foot of the stairs, facing the blue room.

Oxygen pumps had been removed, the hospital bed was stripped of linen, the mattress flat, there was no nurse in the chair, the iron floor lamp was on, lighting the dark blue of the room and nothing else.

I took my cold coffee with me as I went out to sit on the porch, it was warm for an October morning and at that hour the world was full of the sounds of frogs in the culvert, owls calling out to the waning moon.

After coffee, I took the empty cup to the kitchen and started to return to bed stopping at the foot of the stairs…I wanted to look at the blue room again…but it was empty.