A Short History Of The 14th Century
I had an itch in the center of my back. Couldn't reach it. Am not that flexible. Should have used the wooden fork over on the counter but the steak knife was right in front of me so I used it as a back scratcher instead and I think you can see where this is going. No you can't. Nothing happened and I won't require stitches. Actually, with a Zen-like surgical precision I believe I dislodged something. Later in bed I felt that something crawling on my chest and I looked down my shirt and saw a blood-engorged tick lolly-gagging along one of my rib bones. Grabbing it with thumb and forefinger I placed it gently on the bedside table and set it on fire. Although clearly not impervious to intense heat they are not really that flammable, blood-engorged ticks, and it now sits still, still on my bedside table, dead as a doornail, which is an expression without certifiable meaning, dating back to the 14th century.
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The Dysfunction Of Little Walter's Mouse
I was telling Bernadette about a little accident I almost had this morning. It was a thing I won't tell you, to save you from embarrassment. It was a thing that in the telling of to Bernadette suggests that there are some steps on the road to intimacy one might be better stepping around.
There are times when circumstances allow only that you remain mute or if prodded to speak be crude.
All our tales are not pretty ones. There is limited time budgeted for your life as a superhero. We cannot always be free from mundane worries and unpredictable body functions. Find a day when you look in the mirror and looking back is not a total loser, and take a picture. Put the picture in an album and believe that the album represents a locked reality. Believe this as long as you can.
Medicate if there is no alternative.
She said tell me again why it is you must go in person to pay the cable bill?
At this point in time I have a single goal and that goal is one sentence.
All the other words are blocks supporting the one sentence trophy.
She only pretends to be jealous to make me feel better about my own jealousy.
You going down there to see that cable lady?
I wrote back the first couple of lines to Me and Mrs. Jones but replaced Jones with counter- person.
I waited for her to make out the two receipts and listened to her discuss with her co-worker the problems with Little Walter's mouse and that's all there is to this.
I was telling Bernadette about a little accident I almost had this morning. It was a thing I won't tell you, to save you from embarrassment. It was a thing that in the telling of to Bernadette suggests that there are some steps on the road to intimacy one might be better stepping around.
There are times when circumstances allow only that you remain mute or if prodded to speak be crude.
All our tales are not pretty ones. There is limited time budgeted for your life as a superhero. We cannot always be free from mundane worries and unpredictable body functions. Find a day when you look in the mirror and looking back is not a total loser, and take a picture. Put the picture in an album and believe that the album represents a locked reality. Believe this as long as you can.
Medicate if there is no alternative.
She said tell me again why it is you must go in person to pay the cable bill?
At this point in time I have a single goal and that goal is one sentence.
All the other words are blocks supporting the one sentence trophy.
She only pretends to be jealous to make me feel better about my own jealousy.
You going down there to see that cable lady?
I wrote back the first couple of lines to Me and Mrs. Jones but replaced Jones with counter- person.
I waited for her to make out the two receipts and listened to her discuss with her co-worker the problems with Little Walter's mouse and that's all there is to this.
Conrad Jones And The King Of Prussia
Everyone says he has Alzheimers. That's the first thing a person will say if you mention his name. Oh yeah, Jones, has Alzheimers. Sanders has a bump on his dick. Anderson has a boil on his ass. Crenshaw has a uni-brow.
I do not really know him that well to compare what he was like before people started describing him as an Alzheimer victim. He acts in a way that to me could only be described as marginally odd, and exhibits behaviour that could just as easily be described as folksy. There are certain criteria to meet in order to be a bona-fide Alzheimer sufferer. If you don't meet them your behaviour is then described by a non proper noun like dementia. Bob has dementia, Rick's demented, Sandra is deranged.
I heard recently the positing of an interesting concept--that the world of imagination is not that place to which one escapes when life presents challenges but rather the psyches ultimate destination. The place you are meant to be. Not a way-station or a tool or a means to an end but that very thing which the seeking and cultivation of perhaps answers the question, why are you here? So if someone ever says to you in response to something you are feeling strongly about--that you are imagining things, you say, I certainly hope so, even though the saying of that will possibly convey exactly the opposite of what you mean.
Guests were packing up on Monday. Sparkle came in after a trip to the car and said to me that Conrad Jones was in the driveway and wanted to talk to me. She seemed moderately disturbed, saying Jones was asking her things that she had no answers to and at one point said to her that he needed a friend. That's when she said she would go get me. Sparkle's husband, Jesse, says she is a dementia magnet, attracting odd types where ever she goes. I thought she was kidding that Jones was in the driveway. I didn't really get the joke though. I wanted to play along but I wasn't sure how to act. What is my character's motivation? I wanted to ask the director but there did not appear to be one. It was then that I realized, by reading the crease in Sparkle's brow, Conrad Jones, who had never before stopped by for a visit, was now visiting.
He introduced himself and I said who I was, even though we have met a couple of times before. He was concerned about something that each time I tried to make him specify what that thing was he would retreat back into the folksy good neighbor character who was just stopping by for a visit. I'm not sure he was clear as to my role up here and so I contemplated making one up for the occasion. Nice to meet you Conrad, I am Dave, the King of Prussia, and I have come here to claim this hill for my mother country and make of you locals, adoring subjects.
He said I have a good head on my shoulder or he may have said I seem to have a good head on my shoulder and the latter of those two I believe to be the more accurate.
From here, you can't really hear the traffic on the nearby state highway, except like now, when there is what sounds to be four hundred motorcyclists passing through on their way to the Shenandoah Park.
It is not so much that the motorcyclists are noisy as it is that the quiet you previously took for granted becomes, after they pass, something new.
Everyone says he has Alzheimers. That's the first thing a person will say if you mention his name. Oh yeah, Jones, has Alzheimers. Sanders has a bump on his dick. Anderson has a boil on his ass. Crenshaw has a uni-brow.
I do not really know him that well to compare what he was like before people started describing him as an Alzheimer victim. He acts in a way that to me could only be described as marginally odd, and exhibits behaviour that could just as easily be described as folksy. There are certain criteria to meet in order to be a bona-fide Alzheimer sufferer. If you don't meet them your behaviour is then described by a non proper noun like dementia. Bob has dementia, Rick's demented, Sandra is deranged.
I heard recently the positing of an interesting concept--that the world of imagination is not that place to which one escapes when life presents challenges but rather the psyches ultimate destination. The place you are meant to be. Not a way-station or a tool or a means to an end but that very thing which the seeking and cultivation of perhaps answers the question, why are you here? So if someone ever says to you in response to something you are feeling strongly about--that you are imagining things, you say, I certainly hope so, even though the saying of that will possibly convey exactly the opposite of what you mean.
Guests were packing up on Monday. Sparkle came in after a trip to the car and said to me that Conrad Jones was in the driveway and wanted to talk to me. She seemed moderately disturbed, saying Jones was asking her things that she had no answers to and at one point said to her that he needed a friend. That's when she said she would go get me. Sparkle's husband, Jesse, says she is a dementia magnet, attracting odd types where ever she goes. I thought she was kidding that Jones was in the driveway. I didn't really get the joke though. I wanted to play along but I wasn't sure how to act. What is my character's motivation? I wanted to ask the director but there did not appear to be one. It was then that I realized, by reading the crease in Sparkle's brow, Conrad Jones, who had never before stopped by for a visit, was now visiting.
He introduced himself and I said who I was, even though we have met a couple of times before. He was concerned about something that each time I tried to make him specify what that thing was he would retreat back into the folksy good neighbor character who was just stopping by for a visit. I'm not sure he was clear as to my role up here and so I contemplated making one up for the occasion. Nice to meet you Conrad, I am Dave, the King of Prussia, and I have come here to claim this hill for my mother country and make of you locals, adoring subjects.
He said I have a good head on my shoulder or he may have said I seem to have a good head on my shoulder and the latter of those two I believe to be the more accurate.
From here, you can't really hear the traffic on the nearby state highway, except like now, when there is what sounds to be four hundred motorcyclists passing through on their way to the Shenandoah Park.
It is not so much that the motorcyclists are noisy as it is that the quiet you previously took for granted becomes, after they pass, something new.
Me, And A Bear In The Woods
Three of us were parked in the middle of Skyline Drive to look at a black bear mama worry over her cub up in a tree. A man from Maine passing by from the opposite direction made sure to let us know that a female with her cub will rip your guts out if you get too close, but as all of us were seconds away from the protection of our vehicles I found the advice to be not all that warranted under these specific circumstances. I was more concerned about being rear ended so I looked behind me to see two gown wrapped Buddhist monks in a rented Chevy also taking pictures. The one Buddhist monk flung a frisbee-like biscuit between the mother and baby, with a precision so precise that I was made to wonder is playing frisbee with bears a part of some Buddhist ritual of which I am unaware. I am not one to give advice to monks so I did not say do not feed the bears. I just smiled at the younger monk and got back in the Jeep and drove home. I had passed an adolescent bear walking along the rock wall guard rail just moments earlier but did not stop because I did not want to be one of those tourists I scoff at who stop in the middle of the road when there is a deer alongside it. Oh-My-Gawd, a deer, I will say while passing the gawking motorists on the two lane winding mountain road, to return home in time to see a half dozen deer munching on the newly planted landscaping, marmots in trees, foxes in marmot holes, geese on the pond, an occasional bald eagle in the sky, and cats thought dead on my back porch. American Black Bears, while fairly common throughout large swaths of this country, are not something you see that often, and so I was glad to have the opportunity to be stuck in the mini traffic jam with camera handy.
I had been on a hike to research fishing holes and was now driving back and only minutes away from popping the top on the Guinness full strength in a bottle which I was carrying in my small pack, along with the camera and some cashews and some paper towels for the emergency cleanup which may be necessary if you go far out into the woods after a week of dosing on coarsely ground psyllium.
Three of us were parked in the middle of Skyline Drive to look at a black bear mama worry over her cub up in a tree. A man from Maine passing by from the opposite direction made sure to let us know that a female with her cub will rip your guts out if you get too close, but as all of us were seconds away from the protection of our vehicles I found the advice to be not all that warranted under these specific circumstances. I was more concerned about being rear ended so I looked behind me to see two gown wrapped Buddhist monks in a rented Chevy also taking pictures. The one Buddhist monk flung a frisbee-like biscuit between the mother and baby, with a precision so precise that I was made to wonder is playing frisbee with bears a part of some Buddhist ritual of which I am unaware. I am not one to give advice to monks so I did not say do not feed the bears. I just smiled at the younger monk and got back in the Jeep and drove home. I had passed an adolescent bear walking along the rock wall guard rail just moments earlier but did not stop because I did not want to be one of those tourists I scoff at who stop in the middle of the road when there is a deer alongside it. Oh-My-Gawd, a deer, I will say while passing the gawking motorists on the two lane winding mountain road, to return home in time to see a half dozen deer munching on the newly planted landscaping, marmots in trees, foxes in marmot holes, geese on the pond, an occasional bald eagle in the sky, and cats thought dead on my back porch. American Black Bears, while fairly common throughout large swaths of this country, are not something you see that often, and so I was glad to have the opportunity to be stuck in the mini traffic jam with camera handy.
I had been on a hike to research fishing holes and was now driving back and only minutes away from popping the top on the Guinness full strength in a bottle which I was carrying in my small pack, along with the camera and some cashews and some paper towels for the emergency cleanup which may be necessary if you go far out into the woods after a week of dosing on coarsely ground psyllium.
I Thought You Were Dead
I do not know a damn iota about magical forces but let me tell you something--there are two full moons in this month of May, the one today, and another one on the 31st, and there is something powerful going on with that, I'm not the only one seeing ghosts pretending to be dreams, men roaming about houses, more curious than malevolent, and when I two days ago spoke to a couple of cats down the road about coming by for a visit I certainly did not think any cats would come by for a visit, especially a dead one.
You know I mentioned awhile back about my shamefully serious intention of kidnaping an area feline. I called the kitty LaDainian and the owners apparently called him Fuzzy. As it turned out Fuzzy belonged to a prominent local and that got Fuzzy a mention in the local paper, first as missing and then the next week as an apparent roadkill. Since that day when I read about the demise of Fuzzy it has been a lonely cat-less existence up here on the hill. Until I called from the road to those two cats up in a town yard, from a distance of a hundred feet or more, and said come on by sometime. I told them where to come. One of the cats looked like he was actually listening to me, and turning his head a quarter to the side and slightly up, I could swear he was making a mental note of my directions.
Yesterday I was right here trying out this new Netflix feature of free streaming movies, trying to get through the horror of the Japanese film, Imprint, and a cat, I don't think it was the one I was talking to up in town, came striding up the driveway. It looked like LaDainian. There could be perhaps a Feline Communications Network and it may be that a flash bulletin was put out to the effect--lonely, crusty caretaker on nice property, skilled in the art of cat but hesitant to pursue ownership, no experience necessary, alive preferred, but not necessary.
I went out and called to LaDainian. He stopped, meowed. I said, I thought you were dead. He said, not necessarily. I said, well come over here and let me get a look at you. He strolled over to and under the Jeep and sniffed the oil pan, with serious intent. You don't have to play that cat thing with me, just come over here a minute. He meowed, and headed off towards the backyard. I crossed through the breezeway and sat on the floor, framed by the screened doorway, and waited. For him to explore the bushes. And do his I'm ignoring the birds even if they can't ignore me routine. Then he came over to me and I petted him. He remembered me from his past life but seemed uncertain of how that could be. He was fresh. A fresh, new, late model LaDainian. He did some poses. The--I'm hiding in the bushes pose, the--stalking past the barbecue grill pose, the--I know you/who are you? /I'm just damn cute pose, and the--I own this patio/who are you? pose. I took pictures.
I do not know a damn iota about magical forces but let me tell you something--there are two full moons in this month of May, the one today, and another one on the 31st, and there is something powerful going on with that, I'm not the only one seeing ghosts pretending to be dreams, men roaming about houses, more curious than malevolent, and when I two days ago spoke to a couple of cats down the road about coming by for a visit I certainly did not think any cats would come by for a visit, especially a dead one.
You know I mentioned awhile back about my shamefully serious intention of kidnaping an area feline. I called the kitty LaDainian and the owners apparently called him Fuzzy. As it turned out Fuzzy belonged to a prominent local and that got Fuzzy a mention in the local paper, first as missing and then the next week as an apparent roadkill. Since that day when I read about the demise of Fuzzy it has been a lonely cat-less existence up here on the hill. Until I called from the road to those two cats up in a town yard, from a distance of a hundred feet or more, and said come on by sometime. I told them where to come. One of the cats looked like he was actually listening to me, and turning his head a quarter to the side and slightly up, I could swear he was making a mental note of my directions.
Yesterday I was right here trying out this new Netflix feature of free streaming movies, trying to get through the horror of the Japanese film, Imprint, and a cat, I don't think it was the one I was talking to up in town, came striding up the driveway. It looked like LaDainian. There could be perhaps a Feline Communications Network and it may be that a flash bulletin was put out to the effect--lonely, crusty caretaker on nice property, skilled in the art of cat but hesitant to pursue ownership, no experience necessary, alive preferred, but not necessary.
I went out and called to LaDainian. He stopped, meowed. I said, I thought you were dead. He said, not necessarily. I said, well come over here and let me get a look at you. He strolled over to and under the Jeep and sniffed the oil pan, with serious intent. You don't have to play that cat thing with me, just come over here a minute. He meowed, and headed off towards the backyard. I crossed through the breezeway and sat on the floor, framed by the screened doorway, and waited. For him to explore the bushes. And do his I'm ignoring the birds even if they can't ignore me routine. Then he came over to me and I petted him. He remembered me from his past life but seemed uncertain of how that could be. He was fresh. A fresh, new, late model LaDainian. He did some poses. The--I'm hiding in the bushes pose, the--stalking past the barbecue grill pose, the--I know you/who are you? /I'm just damn cute pose, and the--I own this patio/who are you? pose. I took pictures.
Whatever Works
Mr. BC recently scored a zero on his test. What a loser. The test had a scoring range from zero to four hundred and Mr. BC scored a zero, what a loser. Did I already say that? It was a heart disease test and zero was the best score. So BC is not a loser. He wins with a zero. No plaque on his heart. Mr. BC is the Tiger Woods of the heart disease game. When I do BC residential duty at the home between Langley and Great Falls, VA., I sometimes look in on the one goldfish living in his bathroom and while there count the valium in BC's medicine cabinet to make sure he's not doing too many of them. I can't see that he's doing any at all but I don't like to take chances with his health so I pop a couple myself because friends look after friends. I don't mess with his Lipitor. Is that like cheating taking Lipitor and then scoring a zero on your heart test? Doesn't matter. It is good to rule out heart disease as the life squelcher of a friend. Mr. BC said I should have some medical tests too because I am an old crusty caretaker. He said have the company which is him pay for it. He later went on to say that he would sometime this year be having a colonoscopy. I said have one for me while he was there. He said he wasn't looking forward to having a Sony up his Guadalcanal. But that's how it goes. You start out with a simple 20 minute check up and the next thing you know you are being made love to in a non traditional way by a sexless recording device that assures you cooingly that this is for your own good, sweetcakes. But don't think any of the nurses are snickering behind your back even though they are. What does professionalism mean? Well it certainly doesn't mean you lack sense of humor regarding easily made fun of medical procedures. Let's move on, and make fun of me.
Last night I woke feeling parched and went into the kitchen and got a Vitamin Water. It was the opaquely pale yellow citrus flavor. I came back, put the expensive well marketed and designed plastic encased liquid on my bedside table, had a few sips, screwed the white plastic cap back on and laid back. I felt instantly at peace. In a narcotic trance was how I described myself to the me that was drifting away. I drifted away. Some time later I looked up and framed in the doorway was a tall black man dressed in an early 20th century policeman's uniform. I wasn't exactly asleep is the thing. And it is kind of frightening this state of mine not exactly unprecedented but usually suppressed in sleep as a thing leaving behind no picture, only the sensation of being pistol whipped all night, hey good morning. But this imposter for a couple of different reasons has no control over me, this I know so I ordered him away. If you press your tongue tightly against your upper palate and yell at the top of your lungs you will get the auditory sense of how impressively I rule as master of my own universe. The cop moved back into the dark unseen recesses of this place I call a cottage but isn't, really, and I could hear him about the place, touching things, and I got up, but not really up or anywhere did I go, I stayed in bed and transported part of me to the back door and yelled in that aforementioned inimitable fashion, for him to leave, get out, embarrassing myself frankly but unable to stop.. Just listening to this half awake half sleeping mutedly screaming me having no effect on this night's intruder. I was hoping Bernadette could not hear this, hoping that I was not making the noise I know I make. But she did wake up, more or less, long enough to tell me gently and kindly but no kidding around to shut the hell up. I said I was sorry, without my tongue pressed tight against my palate, and the spell was broken. I was so happy to be done with it. Damn ridiculous ghosts in the night. I'm going to lock the doors now. I do that sometimes because it seems to help.
Mr. BC recently scored a zero on his test. What a loser. The test had a scoring range from zero to four hundred and Mr. BC scored a zero, what a loser. Did I already say that? It was a heart disease test and zero was the best score. So BC is not a loser. He wins with a zero. No plaque on his heart. Mr. BC is the Tiger Woods of the heart disease game. When I do BC residential duty at the home between Langley and Great Falls, VA., I sometimes look in on the one goldfish living in his bathroom and while there count the valium in BC's medicine cabinet to make sure he's not doing too many of them. I can't see that he's doing any at all but I don't like to take chances with his health so I pop a couple myself because friends look after friends. I don't mess with his Lipitor. Is that like cheating taking Lipitor and then scoring a zero on your heart test? Doesn't matter. It is good to rule out heart disease as the life squelcher of a friend. Mr. BC said I should have some medical tests too because I am an old crusty caretaker. He said have the company which is him pay for it. He later went on to say that he would sometime this year be having a colonoscopy. I said have one for me while he was there. He said he wasn't looking forward to having a Sony up his Guadalcanal. But that's how it goes. You start out with a simple 20 minute check up and the next thing you know you are being made love to in a non traditional way by a sexless recording device that assures you cooingly that this is for your own good, sweetcakes. But don't think any of the nurses are snickering behind your back even though they are. What does professionalism mean? Well it certainly doesn't mean you lack sense of humor regarding easily made fun of medical procedures. Let's move on, and make fun of me.
Last night I woke feeling parched and went into the kitchen and got a Vitamin Water. It was the opaquely pale yellow citrus flavor. I came back, put the expensive well marketed and designed plastic encased liquid on my bedside table, had a few sips, screwed the white plastic cap back on and laid back. I felt instantly at peace. In a narcotic trance was how I described myself to the me that was drifting away. I drifted away. Some time later I looked up and framed in the doorway was a tall black man dressed in an early 20th century policeman's uniform. I wasn't exactly asleep is the thing. And it is kind of frightening this state of mine not exactly unprecedented but usually suppressed in sleep as a thing leaving behind no picture, only the sensation of being pistol whipped all night, hey good morning. But this imposter for a couple of different reasons has no control over me, this I know so I ordered him away. If you press your tongue tightly against your upper palate and yell at the top of your lungs you will get the auditory sense of how impressively I rule as master of my own universe. The cop moved back into the dark unseen recesses of this place I call a cottage but isn't, really, and I could hear him about the place, touching things, and I got up, but not really up or anywhere did I go, I stayed in bed and transported part of me to the back door and yelled in that aforementioned inimitable fashion, for him to leave, get out, embarrassing myself frankly but unable to stop.. Just listening to this half awake half sleeping mutedly screaming me having no effect on this night's intruder. I was hoping Bernadette could not hear this, hoping that I was not making the noise I know I make. But she did wake up, more or less, long enough to tell me gently and kindly but no kidding around to shut the hell up. I said I was sorry, without my tongue pressed tight against my palate, and the spell was broken. I was so happy to be done with it. Damn ridiculous ghosts in the night. I'm going to lock the doors now. I do that sometimes because it seems to help.
