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 Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| For the last week or two I have been fighting an infestation of what I eventually determined to be drugstore beetles. They are a form of pantry beetle that enjoy dry goods. I thought I had found their source a few days ago but they kept coming. I finally decided to do a complete clean-out of all the cupboards and found some surprising things. For instance, who bought a box of protein pancake mix, opened up the box, left the box open so that the flour-y contents were completely exposed and then hid the bug hotel they’d just created way in the back of an upper shelf behind everything else? I also found myself questioning the packaging that manufacturers choose to put their food into. It’s almost as if they want to encourage staleness and bug infestation so they can sell you more sooner. Nah, they wouldn’t do that. So anyway, I have eradicated the beetles, their breeding and dining spots and a lot of forgotten dry goods that were lost in the dark corners of high shelves. And just for good measure, I moved all the food to another cupboard and switched it with the dishes so if the bugs do come back they’ll be confused by all the empty plates. |
| I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little tired of being told that I'm doing everything the wrong way. You know what I mean, all those videos on TikTok and X and Facebook that show you how to do everyday things in these new and inventive ways that you never thought of because you've been doing it wrong all your life. Now, these videos usually have titles like: “My mother taught me this”, or "My grandmother showed me this", or “I learned this from an expert”. This is to make you think that it's some secret knowledge that you never were taught because your mother, grandmother or chosen expert were total morons like you. Today, I watched a reel on Facebook of a woman showing me how to fold a towel. Apparently I've been doing it all wrong all my life. See, I just hold the towel in my hands and fold it up, first in half then into a rectangle or a square or whatever shape fits my closet best. I have in fact folded towels many different ways through the years depending on where I was storing them. However, it seems that the right way to fold a towel is to lay it down on the floor. Then you get down on your knees on the floor. Fold up one end about five inches or so. And then go to the other end of the towel and roll it up until you get to the folded bit, which you then wrap over the rolled towel. That holds it in place, like a cover, so to speak. Now you have a cylindrical towel. Now, my mother didn't teach me to do it this way. She definitely didn't. Neither did my grandmother or any expert that I've ever met before. All of the aforementioned taught me the wrong way. And for a very good reason. It works. In fact, I'm pretty sure that my old fashioned and very wrong method of folding towels is easier and quicker than getting down on the floor on my hands and knees, laying a fresh clean towel on the floor and then rolling it up into a tube that isn’t going to hang very nicely on my towel rack. Maybe it's me, but I don't think these mothers, grandmothers and experts with all these fancy new ways of putting garbage bags in your cans, straining your pasta, opening cans in the apocalypse or rolling up your towels on the floor ever actually existed. Because all the mothers and grandmothers and experts that I know taught me to do things all the wrong ways. All the wrong ways that these videos attempt to correct. Funny thing is, these wrong ways have worked perfectly well all my life and continue to do so. And I don't have to get down on my hands and knees on the floor to do any of them. |
| Did you know there’s a theory that oil might not be a “fossil fuel” formed by the biological processes of decaying organic materials but instead, may be produced through an abiotic process that originates in the Earth’s core from deposits of hydrocarbons and seeps up through the layers of the Earth’s crust? And further, are you aware of the possibility that this abiotic process may be ongoing - meaning that oil is a renewable resource? No, you are probably like me and didn’t know about this because the science is settled and we won’t have any new theories, thank you very much. There’s so much political power and money now thrown into the solar and wind industries, that I doubt there will be any further research into abiotic oil production. However, I found this old article from USA Today which seems to have been published before Science locked the doors and put up a “CLOSED” sign. Abiotic Oil a Theory Worth Exploring  |
| When the grandson stays over, I sleep on the futon in the spare room where his bed is to keep him company. When I say sleep, I mean sleep in all its various forms like tossing and turning, curling up in pain and desperately willing myself to stay in bed until a decent hour. I managed until 3:47am, at which point I turned on the coffee pot, knowing it would not be brewed before 4:00. Drinking coffee before 4:00 would be indecent. When I was a kid, I could sleep anywhere. I slept outside on the ground, straight through until the sun in my eyes woke me up or the grasshoppers clambering about the dry August grass made too much noise. I slept on the concrete floor of my friend's basement. When my kids were young, I regularly got up at 4:00 to write for a few peaceful hours before work. Now I get up at 4:00am because sleeping too long is painful. But it's nearly 5:00 and that's late enough to blog. |
| Some people ought not to take to social media when they're upset. They make bad decisions. I just saw a video from some guy I've never heard of who apparently is in a band that I've never heard of and to my knowledge, he has never heard of me, either. Nevertheless, he is really upset with me and tells me I'm not allowed to go to his concert. Now normally, I only want to do things that people tell me not to. That’s why I never tell anyone when I am on a diet. If someone says “You’re not allowed to eat that cookie on your diet”, I have to eat ten of them. But, if this guy’s judgment is so bad that he actually aims to stop people from paying him money for his music or for tickets to his concert because they make different political choices to his own, then I'm not sure that he would even understand my coming as a protest. I don't know, maybe it's some strange marketing ploy? Maybe it's reverse psychology? Maybe he really wants lots of people to come but nobody knows who he is and the only way he can get any kind of publicity is to demand that people don’t come to see his band? Actually, I'm sure this is what it is. Because I don't think people from any political camp have ever heard of him. This way he might get some people coming out of spite and a whole lot of other people coming out in support of his ridiculous bigotry and hatred. I guess it's genius in a way. |
| I was readng an interesting post on Facebook this morning. It was about the baseball field that preceded the famous Fenway Park with its infamous "Green Monster" in Boston, MA. It was called the South End Grounds and it had some eye-catching architecture in the form of a few fairy-tale type towers. Rapunzel would have felt at home. The post, however, wasn't as interesting as the comments. I mean, I should have expected it, but still it surprised me that one commenter managed to blame the destruction of the South End Grounds and its "architecture" on a present-day elected official who hadn't even been born at the time. Fenway was opened in 1912, after all, and the Boston Braves were replaced by the Boston Red Sox. All of this happened a long time ago and although capitalism might have had something to do with it and it was a form of real estate development, it's a stretch to blame anyone not alive at the time for their relationships to those economic fields. It reminded me of a little poem I wrote about the results of bitterness. Resentment They say resentment is a poisonous drink. Your enemies mix it and somehow you think if you swallow it down, you will kill them all - but it will eat at your peace with bitter gall. Forgiveness seems unmerited, and so withheld. But grudges remain and build prison cells. Your life becomes centered on those you blame. But they have moved on and forgotten your name I dunno. Just my opinion. |
| It’s a grey morning. The clouds hang over the house like wet sheets, their bellies distended and low. They are pregnant with moisture and threaten to break open at any moment. There’s a current running between them, buzzing in the air, about to flash. I know a thunderstorm is due because the cat is skulking around the house, trying to maintain a low profile, getting her body as close to the floor as her legs will let her. She’s one of those animals who is afraid of thunder and hides in strange corners and overcrowded closets, trying to secrete herself where the danger cannot find her. My mother was nearly as cautious in thunderstorms as the cat. Having once been struck by lightning, she was apprehensive whenever a storm was near and as children, we were not allowed near doors or windows during a thunderstorm. No one could watch TV or talk on the phone. We were told to stay off the rug and forbidden to pet the dog. She saw everything in terms of its possible conductive qualities and warned us of hidden dangers. Which brings me to this little fact about June 10th. On this date in 1752, one crazy, inquisitive, Boston-born inventor decided to try to capture electricity in a jar during a wild thunder and lightning storm. My mother would never have allowed this. Benjamin Franklin’s mother obviously was never struck by lightning and so never warned Ben not to play outdoors in a storm. Of course, we all know that because of this, we eventually learned to create electricity and harness its power to illuminate our lives and charge our cell phones. The cat has no need of electricity and so is skulking off to the closet. |
| This is something I wrote may years ago when the children were young. Some people, well one or two people - okay, there was one person who wanted to read it. So here it is. Thoughts While Falling They say that pride goeth before a fall. I know this to be true, but hereby share what goeth during a fall. Now, walking is not really my gift. I don't do it very naturally. My left leg often requires much of my attention or it just forgets to come with me. With constant vigilance and a distaste for drawing attention to myself, I usually manage to appear somewhat normal. However, occasionally, when things are going well, I forget to pay attention. It is of vital importance that I look straight down at the surface my feet don't seem to acknowledge, as this is the best way to make my brain aware of the fact that I am, in fact, walking on this surface. I eschew sneakers and other such "comfy" footwear, as the cushioning of the shoe only serves to further obstruct any attempts by my brain to understand the strange language that the nerves in my feet use to communicate their mysterious interpretation of the part of the world they are in contact with. It is absolutely necessary to constantly keep an eye on where these feet are wandering to. Under no circumstances and for no event or noise, for no stimuli either visual or aural,may I turn my head. I forgot this. A general rule of life, of course, is never try to attend to more tasks at once than is reasonable. On a Saturday, dressing a small boy and making him wear shoes outdoors and ushering him to the car in the snow should be enough to do at any given time. However, I suffer from the same disorder most mothers do - I can't walk by something that is undone. So while trying to accomplish the aforementioned tasks, I noticed the full trash bag sitting on the kitchen floor and the broken cardboard box and the empty juice box carton and decided to take them out to the trash before we departed. A light snow began to fall this afternoon. It soon became a fluffy covering on everything. When temperatures are this far below freezing, snow seems to have no water content at all. It looks like Hollywood snow - light and shiny, made of soap flakes. It sticks to nothing, it is blown about by every small breeze, the brush of an arm clears it completely from the car windows. It conceals however, the very real danger that lurks beneath it - ice. I headed out the door with trash bag in one hand, the old and torn cardboard box in another and was nearly down the stairs when the boy decided to follow me out. I turned my head, only briefly, to tell him to go back inside but I had already set my foot down off the stair, and not being aware at that moment, experienced the sudden confusion and panic that my feet flying out from underneath me brought to my mind and my cardiovascular system. It is true that as adrenaline pumps in a crisis, your mind and body speed up and time slows down. I am always amazed at the number of thoughts and escape plans I am able to consider, the options I am able to weigh, the decisions about falling I am able to make. However, in a situation of hands full, feet going out from under you in a forward direction, there is no chance to alter the angle or course of your descent. You are going down, and going down like a ton of bricks. My first thought was to make sure my head was upright, so as to avoid hitting it on the cement step. Had I not done that, I would be currently in a persistent vegetative state, unable to type and cursing the fact that I have not, in fact, made that "living will" and am unable to stop hasty family members from pulling the plug. I have decided that should I ever become incapacitated in such a way, that I want any and all extraordinary measures taken to preserve whatever life may still flicker for as long as the state is willing to pay for it. I not only don't mind the thought of being a burden on society, I rather enjoy it. If I ever do enter a comatose state, it may be that I am just taking a break from consciousness and may return to it at some later time - if not cut short by court order. So, first I determined as I went down to finally codify my desires should I survive. A second thought was that the five year old boy was not going to be much help if I was unconscious in a moment. Now, my daughter at that age could have called any number of people. She knew the phone numbers of at least four relatives and could have called any of them or 911 or even WorldVision to sponsor a starving child in Africa. She often called me at work to give me the 800 number to do just that. But she is a girl, girls are naturally drawn to the phone. The boy is not that interested in the phone. He may occasionally get on the phone when I call and tell me, "hahaha, I am Batman" and then hang up, raucously laughing at his own joke. Conversation on the phone does not appeal to him the way it did, and still does, to her. Suddenly, it struck me why women get so invested in a man's promise to phone, why they get so angry and hurt when he doesn't, and why he is baffled by this reaction. A brilliantly illuminated revelation that would be completely useless if I came out of this with the IQ of a gourd. I also had time to curse my cheap nature as I thought of ice melt at $1.99 a bag, considered and passed over during my last trip to the store. I compared the possible $250 copay for an inpatient stay at the hospital and decided it was not a wise choice. I also realized I have not willed my children to anyone and this may be because no one has expressed an interest in taking them, and I can't really blame them. One of them can't even call 911, of what possible use are they? Finally I landed. Pretty hard landing too. I sat there for a moment, assessing my status and determining that: a.) I was still alive, b.) I was going to be able to move, c.) I was going to be in a lot of pain and d.) I still had to take the trash to the shed. That is all that that was necessary to motivate me to move again, so I got up off the ground, minus a fraction of the skin that used to adorn my forearm, with reddened palms and a slight sense of the headache the whiplash was going to cause to bloom. And I also had a few things to add to my "To Do" list. |
| When you buy anything requiring assembly, whether flat pack furniture or electronic devices, you will find an instruction manual. Well, you will eventually find it. It's usually hidden at the bottom of the box so that you have to remove all the pieces before you have established which order they should be stacked in. That's on purpose. Reading the manual can be trying, too. They tend not to explain fully so that while you know that piece A should screw to piece B, you don't know that it will fit on backwards so much more easily than the right way that you will be quite confident in tightening the screws and so have a more difficult time un-attaching it so that you can do it all over again. YouTube has changed all this because for just about anything you can buy, there will be a video of someone who has already read the manual and put everything together twice so you don't have to. They say life doesn't come with instructions, but it's not true. Ask anybody and he will tell you everything he knows about the subject. Then ignore half of that and watch the video. |
| When I was young, I used to experience déjà-vu quite often. It was slightly disturbing to feel that I had lived through an exact moment before but not know where or when. Nowadays, they guess that déjà-vu is the result of a kind of hiccup in the hippocampus, confusing a present moment with a memory and causing a brief glitch in the memory matrix. They also say déjà-vu happens most frequently between the ages of 15 and 25. I realized the other day that I haven't had "déjà-vu" in years. I don't have "avant vu", either. That would be more useful, but whatever. I think mon déjà-vu a disparu. Je suis perdu. |
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