Ned Arbuckle was a dorky kid. When he was twelve years old he had already grown to a full 5’10” tall. His hair was a very dark brown that offset a perpetual tan afforded to him by a malingering genetic structure. His eyes were also brown, the color of dark baby poop, and he had very large feet at size 13.
Ned was a very smart boy. He loved science fiction novels and had a mad scientists predilection for invention. On his 13th birthday, Ned had rigged his father’s chain saw motor to run an extra wide skateboard looking machine that traveled a full sixty-miles per hour down the city streets. The day after his birthday, Ned was awarded a speeding ticket for riding this board on those same streets. The arresting officer wrote, “Ingenious if not misplaced design” across the top of the ticket. Ned’s father confiscated the board and reclaimed his motor, but put the board and ticket on display in his den, like a proud father.
When Ned was 18 he was a strong and lean 6’4” tall. Ned loved to lift heavy things and would challenge many of the football jocks to various tests of strength. Ned never lost.
The day after high school graduation Ned was seen by a college football scout lifting the back of a Cadillac, Ned was hence forth turned into a quarter back killer and drafted into the Crimson Pride of Alabama.
Ned played for 4 years and extended his education for 2 more. Ned graduated eventually with a degree in engineering from Alabama State University and eventually received a Ph.D. from MIT for his design in a power driven skateboard.
Ned Arbuckle was a dorky kid that grew into an accomplished man. Have you ever heard of him? No, generally four generations after a person’s death they will have faded from historical memory unless there was some greatness that reflected insanity.
When I was young I learned many of life’s lessons from my Dad. He would tell me metaphorical stories and have me complete a task that was supposed to reflect the story presumably imbedding the lesson upon my subconscious; many of them embedded and many left me in a perpetual, “what the f…” state of mind. Of course this is one of the primary functions of fatherhood to permanently traumatize the boy child.
One such lesson was learned after my Dad began explaining to me some of the moral implications of Hercules’ 12 tasks. When he started talking about the heroic method for cleaning out horse stables by rerouting a river and paused I knew I was in trouble. That’s when I was handed a shovel and he pointed to the ground and simply said, “Dig.”
I began digging, at first only a hole, but then the hole turned into a two foot wide, six feet deep, 12 feet long ditch from the foundation of our trailer to the foundation of our pump house. I learned several new swear words that day as I helped drill a hole through the foundation of the pump house wall. The wall was much thicker than Dad thought and brunt out three mason bits. I wasn’t allowed to handle the drill; my heroic prowess hadn’t matured enough for that yet. The more I listened the more I matured. That day my vocabulary matured at least ten years.
We laid plastic water pipe and attached all fittings on both sides. Pressure testing was interesting, more words to learn. Then I was given the heroic task of filling in the hole I had just dug. Using hay, straw, and three different forms of manure I filled in the hole, which was below the freeze line for northern Montana, and replaced the sod on top. I was satisfied and felt good about myself. Then he handed me the shovel and a pitchfork and pointed at the barn… that is another story highlighted by another Greek hero.
Tonight after working on my laptop for a bit, my AC power adapter died, it just sort of when caput. Electricity is important; it is what guides the machinery to run. Without a steady stream of electrons the battery in the computer, already weak due to over use, does not charge therefore dies a steady and slow death.
So, tomorrow in my travels I go forth to find another power supply presumably at Wal-Mart the store that has everything. I know the darn things are expensive, but it is an important expense.
Power is the name of the game. We use it, we generate it, and we exploit it like so many bees in a hive. So, like so many worker bees tomorrow I go out to find the stuff that makes my hive run, wish me luck…
Science is an interesting concept. There are soft sciences and hard sciences. I am the product of both schools of thought, which can cause conflict and confusion. What a wonderful mixture.
Hard science is very mathematical and logical, it has evidence to back it up that can be proven or debunked. Soft science is more philosophical, it’s logic wanes and expands depending upon the thought put into it. A philosophy can be rooted in fact, but most often has roots embedded in faith.
When the two sciences collide, when faith and fact meet the seeker is no longer within the confines of a closed system. We call this science metaphysics or metascience, the act of thinking outside the box.
Practicing any art form within the confines of a set of said rules entraps that art and puts it in a prison. Any philosophy that does not allow the thinker to think freely puts that philosophy in a mental prison. And any science that stops looking for answers to unanswered questions puts that science in a prison. So, outside the box we go into the unknown to let the powers of hard science collide with the powers of the soft science and let the metaphysics prevail.
Here’s a small Roman puzzle for you: Take the following formula, write it down on a piece of paper exactly as written, then without a pen or pencil do a simple change to make it true. XI + I = X
It's not outside of the box
It's not inside the box
It's not the box at all.
Luke was no ordinary man he was left-handed. Being a lefty gave those around him great concern. Was he evil, was he wrong, and was he the son of that down under? Words and thoughts like these followed Luke all of his life.
Luke was also a most intelligent man. He was well read and knew a great many things. Luke designed his own house and built it with his own hands, holding that hammer strongly on the left side. Luke loved building things. Creating was one of the great joys of his life. He was a master carpenter.
When Luke was a young man he carved and put together a fancy, but comfortable rocking chair for his dear mother. She would sit in that rocker and tell him stories about his people and family. Luke learned the lessons of family sitting at the feet of his mother while she rocked away.
When Luke was an older man he was spied nailing tiles on a roof without the aid of a hammer, he had learned to press the nails into the boards through the process of thought and will power. Luke had ascended beyond the need for physical tools.
There was a story about Luke placing a calloused hand upon the forehead of a blind man. Later that day while the blind man was alone his eyesight suddenly returned. There were no witnesses to the miracle, but the once blind man knew who did the deed. Luke denied he had anything to do with the act; humbly saying the once blind man must have spontaneously been healed.
Luke was left-handed all of his life and just sort of disappeared one spring afternoon. In his place was found only a few loose feathers and a note that read, “I’m sorry I can’t stay, but fear not I’ll return someday.”
Destiny is a gunfighter, an artist of the unforeseen fathoms. Destiny faces you with the inevitable and at high noon makes you look real hard at it. Destiny’s guns are fate and chance; both are loaded with the ammunition of what will be and what may be. Destiny is a deadly accurate shot, the best in the west.
Destiny rides a horse as black as the nighttime sky. The horse’s name is Truth and has carried Destiny farther than any star has shone. Truth is an ever-trustworthy companion and has never let a rider down. Truth will travel farther than any other mount it is always stable.
Destiny travels from place to place from person to person looking for any foe. And with the guns of fate and chance will always prevail. Each moment Destiny rides again.
Have you ever just watched a pan of bacon fry? This morning while making breakfast I did just that, watched bacon. When it starts it looks like a slab of fat with a little meat attached. If you’ve taken the time to heat up your pan your slab of fat will crackle and pop upon hitting the cooking surface, then the change begins.
Shrinkage happens the longer it cooks. Your slab of fat will shorten and become thinner and browner as it goes. It reminds me of the aging process, we all become shorter, maybe not so narrow, we lighten or darken and we become a tad crunchy just like frying bacon.
Bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee used to be called the “Heart Attack Breakfast,” today I call it food. My cholesterol is in the good range so I’m not to worried about that stuff, however I don’t eat that kind of food often enough to be concerned. It has been written that moderation in all things enhances long life. I plan to live forever to the chagrin of my children.
There is an aroma when bacon fries that makes the mouth water. After all who doesn’t like bacon? That would be un-American. I am a watcher of many a cooking show. One of my favorites has Chef Gordon Ramsey at the helm, and Chef Ramsey claims that bacon enhances the flavor of all things, kudos for bacon.
Frying bacon is like a stage in our personal development. We age, get crispy, and eventually are devoured by the gods. Humanity, the fried bacon of the gods, we are breakfast.
Part of my job includes standing and watching over small children making sure they are safe and secure before and after they attend school. This is a duty that I take very seriously although while observing you would notice me occasionally tossing a football or sharing jibes with the kids. I am outside enjoying the fresh air with the kids, however am ever vigilant and always watching the perimeter of the playground looking for things amiss.
I have a background in military guarding styles and training that makes me hyper-vigilant, the perfect choice for this duty. The principle of the school knew what she was doing when asking me if I’d take the job. I have a partner that helps me in the guarding of these kids and together we section off the playground into two major observational parts.
Recently I have had the opportunity to deal with intrusions into our play area. The trespass was in the form of adults on both occasions and I’m feeling a certain amount of empathy for some of the more needy of our children. One of the adults had to be brought to police attention and was recently arrested for threatening a minor, the other is being dealt with by the administrations office.
My job is to protect the security and safety of the children under my charge during the day. I am a 230 pound trained killer and a master at hand to hand combat, weaponry and tactics, thank god I’ve never actually had to physically go beyond the verbal stages of my job.
Hi all, the next three blogs are a series of poems that I’ve written about the current neo-political climate that we’ve all been witnessing. The first, “Delusions Of The Village Idiot” is actually a reflection of our past administration, but I am finding many similarities in the current one. They will post one at a time during the next three days. Enjoy and let me know what you think.
I work with kids for a living, the little darlings. The problem with the kids I work with is that they’re at the “Know it all” age and have the communication skills of wannabe lawyers and professors of everything. Having kids around isn’t a bad thing, they eventually turn into interesting adults, quite often there is that child that is interesting itself, but in the middle ages, the in-between stage, the human species goes through an almost intolerable stage.
I have fortunately learned the art of ignorance and can pretend just about anything short of an exploding bomb isn’t in my personal space. This is a good thing because the little angles would be on a very short leash with an occasional whip-snapping overhead.
I do have an affinity for children though. It seems they enjoy my company and find me strangely funny. I know that sounds farfetched, but I must think on that level. The difference between me and the kiddies in my professional space is my learned ability to show a certain amount of respect and tolerance for my fellow man. I’ve noticed that the child of today doesn’t show much respect or humility and expects everything gratis. This is when I start thinking of the leash and whip, I need to start the positive thinking classes again.
I do believe in the process of a growing mind and that each should go through the learning curve. Each mind developing in it’s own pace and fashion, evolution at it’s best.
So, Aren’t They just Precious, the youth of today may they grow out of the age of the middle mind.
Damn the torpedoes full speed ahead, the war cry of the submariner in us all. If you’re a fan of the “Tick” your battle cry is, “Spoon!” Whatever you choose to scream do it with the fervency of life, do it with gusto.
To many times people loose their gust in mid drift. As the snow builds up they crawl into a cave and like bears, hibernate until the snow is gone. No war cry for the sleepers.
The young have no battle cry; they have a battle squeak, mice that try to roar like lions only to loose their voice in mid roar. As mice they do end up squeaking at elephants whom in turn end up stepping on them in fits of frustration and futile fear. This keeps the population down. There are to many mice anyways.
Develop a war cry, practice it; give it your all and penetrate the aether with a valiant voice that can be heard for miles and felt even further. At times it’s not the volume that gets the attention of the listener or observer, but the action that is produced from the cry for battle.
I recently saw an old movie with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd called, “Switching Places.” The plot had to do with a Wall Street mogul being forced to switch places with a flimflam man. It turns out that they were both genius’ at doing what they do and developed a war cry that was heard all over Wall Street. Not because of the volume of the cry, but the action that it caused. Our two heroes became extremely wealthy because of their battle cry, “Sell, Sell, Sell!”
A battle cry is your signature, your voice that is heard above all other voices; the more potent your cry the more likely that it will have positive results. Be positive and reunite your voice with your action, become the lion.
This night every year Romona and I celebrate the eve of Valentines; the day that has been taken into the hearts of couples and lovers all over the world. We take the time to celebrate our love for each other. This celebration predates the valentines that are sent to commemorate it. Many cultures bring in the spring with certain rites and rituals that are meant to bring about a prosperous growing season to the development of a happy family.
Our celebration is for our family, our hopes, and our dreams of the future. We call in the elements and the four winds to bring us a happy and prosperous new year. I call on my guides to bring Romona the gift of happiness, health, and long life. Her love and my love mix and we create miracles.
This is the eve of the day we call in the love of life and each other. This is our day. And to Romona whom I love dearly, I thank you.
The secret to a good cup of coffee is patience. Coffee that is brewed to fast is watery and has no taste. Coffee brewed to slow can be used to peal paint. The perfect cup of Java is somewhere in-between fast brewed and slow brewed, a good middle ground in grounds.
I have a friend that I consider a master coffee. He roasts his own beans, grinds them, and brews them over an old wood stove. After all this preparation he stores the liquid gold in a vacuum thermos keeping it fresh and tasty.
My favorite form of this godly drink is a little darker than normal and roasted to an almost espresso like taste. Complete with a tasty muffin or coffee type desert and you have a breakfast close to heavenly.
Every morning I wake and wander into the kitchen. I stand staring at the gurgling machine reverently praying to the holy bean until the drink is done, then I drink and wake in that order. The time before that is only speculation as my memory doesn’t fire quite right until I’ve had a cup or two.
After I’ve made a pot, I serve my wife a cup and let her follow me in the waking ritual. It becomes a family thing, we worship at the same alter, Café. So, patience and practice create the near perfect cup of Joe, and If I have a hard time brewing a real good cup of coffee I’ll visit my friend and poof good Java.
Stored energy is called potential energy. It is the energy of an item at rest. It is the energy of an idea before it grows to fruition. It is the mass of an object before it rolls down a hill. It does nothing just sits.
Potential energy is called potential because there is the possibility of movement, but no movement happens; therefore potential energy when left unchecked becomes stagnant energy and if left alone to fester may cause all sorts of potential problems.
Potential energy in human beings is our potential for growth. It becomes the process of making ideas, of coming up with big thoughts to do big things. Unfortunately potential means that those ideas and thoughts aren’t doing anything, they are only festering. This can cause a blockage and this kind of blockage keeps us from personal growth.
Newton’s first law of motion states that an object at rest stays at rest unless acted upon by another object. So, what potential energy needs is an outside force to get it flowing into kinetic energy. This is where our mental muscle gets used and we find out how much stamina we have for changing things. We mentally change our potential energy into moving energy with that polite kick in the rear, the other object acting upon the non-moving object. So, give yourself a polite kick in the butt. It will get you moving, flow your energy, push you into the second law of motion, and might even fulfill your greatest dreams, Have fun, don’t get hurt.
I’ve been listening to John Q. Public lately, and ole John has been complaining a lot about the state of affairs these days. Apparently the obsessively rich are the reasons we are in dire straights and the housing crunch is falling upon the woes of society. The Richie Riches of the world are so far out in the stratosphere with their monetary selves that they don’t have a clue on how the real people live. There is such a gap in income levels that they have become gods and the rest of us ants.
As an ant I can say I’m tired, I’m tired of carrying ten times the load to keep the Riches in their castles in the sky way up high. Ant’s revolt I say. Give the responsibility back to Richie Rich and the cronies who have taken everything we’ve worked for and invested it in futures of golden pork bellies and Tasmanian Surf boards. They have sold us down the creek in hopes that we’ll go the way of the dinosaur. But dangit, I’ve got a big footprint and if I’m a dino, then Richie get the heck out of my way cause I stompin on through.
So, ole John Q. keep the crying going, maybe someone important will hear ya and you’ll gather enough attention to change things just enough to keep a happy balance with the haves and have nots. In the mean time I still spend a buck on a lottery ticket every other week.
Poorness isn’t a bad thing, it isn’t a disease and it definitely isn’t an alternative lifestyle. Being Poor can, if the circumstances are right cause effective death. This kind of death isn’t recognized by the straights of society however, due to the lack of monetary excitement on the part of the deceased, ain’t it a shame.
Ok, to put it bluntly, I’m poor. I live well enough, I have a nice enough house and we have enough to eat. My house has very high payments that I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay from month to month, and our food is a certain dollar amount a month that if is exceeded we don’t eat, damn I’m hungry.
I do however; have the greatest of loving relationships in my beautiful wife. We are happy in each other’s arms and enjoy each other’s company she is my best friend.
Being poor isn’t a terrible thing. It isn’t a virus and can be curable through the injections of large amounts of cash, cure us. So, to all you readers out there send one dollar, one little dollar in an unmarked envelope to John and Romona. Maybe we’ll get cured.
Little gifts are often the most important way to tell someone how important they are to you and how much you love them. The simplest thing can bring great joy to the receiver. With very few words and the gesture of giving the heart can be lifted and happiness prevail.
My wonderful wife brought me a gift that made me both laugh and cry in the same moment. She placed in front of me a little stuffed puppy. This puppy, I call Fred, has the look of a playful little dog on it. It has little black eyes and fuzzy ears and if you look at it long enough you expect it to actually run around and bark.
Fred has become one of the funnest toys I’ve ever had. I’ll take him out and dance him around and pretend to sneak up on Romona. She’ll laugh and brush him away, then later I’ll find her pretending to feed him. So I am doing my part at sustaining the joy of Fred.
What Romona did was to give out a little bit of joy that has lasted and lasted. Because of this little gift we have something to share with each other and all who happen to fall into the warmth of Fred. Romona has given me a gift of love through a little friend and I am so grateful.
Each of us has the ability to give similar gifts. We can spread joy around to our loved ones, friends and neighbors, or anyone who might need some love and hope. This way of giving happiness is a tool that has been used to help heal the hearts of the receiver for many a generation. We heal each other through a small act and in turn that act heals the whole, this is the art of giving an art of healing.
Generally when I give out advice I do so in metaphorical fashion. I tell a story that has something to do with the subject of the advice I’m doling out. I’ll give advice on just about anything. The two subjects that I try to avoid are taxes and religion. Both can get you into a heated discussion. However, my advice is free and often entertaining; occasionally it is full of it.
I ran a business where I was expected to give out advice from time to time. I had students that needed the occasional friendly boot to the head. Depending upon the nature of the advice given out would determine if the boot to the head was proverbial or literal. I have been known for both types of boots, and I do wear a size twelve shoe.
Advice is a funny thing, it can be taken seriously or it can be taken humorously. I prefer the later, but the former is often needed. Often advice is taken to seriously; this can cause complications in the receiver of said advice. The advisor has to know the advisee well before handing out words that may cause reactions and behavior that may cause other more cerebral concerns.
If you ever become an advice giver learn the art of communication well and find your unique sense of humor somewhere within your being. Here is some advice to you from me; enjoy life, don’t take yourself so seriously, get outside, and enjoy yourself everyday.
Today Romona and I spent the day in our sleeping place occasionally rising to get a cup of java, go to the little room under the stairs, or find a snack. We slept muchly and enjoyed greatly the needed rest. There were bits and pieces of TV shows and movies that would change subject matter occasionally depending on when an eye would open and take a look. It was wonderful. I realized that I hadn’t written an entry in this Blog for a couple days. Time slips away from you when you’re sleeping the day away.
I realized just how much I enjoy staying in bed. I like old movies and I enjoy the company of my wife. Both are a perfect mix of time well spent. Unfortunately things don’t get done when you sleep the day away. Good thing we don’t do it every day. If the creator ever decides to gift us with a winning lottery ticket I can see that tendency would have to be kept in check.
During our sabbatical we discovered a latent talent, making spontaneous homemade pizza. I now have a favorite pizza place, my own kitchen. Romona has proven herself the master at placing the right amount of cheeses on the pie and I enjoy the yumminess.
As staying in bed is occasionally good for the soul, so to is writing the occasional Blog about nothing. I hope you to can enjoy a day of staying in bed.
Home is where the heart is, the place you hang your hat and set your boots. Home is the place you remember from youth that isn’t quite the same when you visit years later. Home is being chased out of your grandmother’s kitchen when you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Home is the place you sleep, eat, and make love. Home is your favorite memory.
Each of us etches out in our thoughts our favorite places. These places bring us closer to happiness, closer to each other, and closer to ourselves. Combined the memories we carry from each of the places we’ve been form our conception of hearth and home.
Each memory contains in it a string of emotion. The emotional feelings that bind us to a place form our experiences. These feelings and experiences together give those memories strength, which in turn strengthens the value of home. This strength can move mountains, it is the majick that binds the universe, it is love.
I have many memories that I called home at one time or another. They bind my concept of hearth and home together and give me a true understanding of what a good home truly is. Today I have the greatest gift of a home that anyone can have, I have a home that shares memories with another that is bound with me in similar living events that has created us this memory. We with our unique experiences have formed this our home, amen.
I remember a time when there would be parties every Friday or Saturday night at different selected locations on our block. My parents would go to a party or have one at our house. I remember the way they dressed and the way they danced. I even remember the drinks that each would drink. These parties were called cocktail parties, not a reference to a rooster’s plume.
My dad would drink whiskey, my mom vodka and gin, my uncle Donald would drink tequila, and his wife of the moment whatever she could abide. We child like types would wander amongst the adults with our cokes and cakes pretending to be all grown up. Not that I should mention this, but when you’re pretending to be all grown up wandering around the grown ups wearing your footy pajamas with Spiderman printed on them your dignity takes a little plunge. However, this was at the age when dignity was being able to control urinary functions until it was time to get up in the morning.
At this age I remember my father wearing suit coats allot. White shirts and skinny ties were the fad along with penny loafers and argyle socks; grown ups were the statement of fashion. We little pretend grown ups wore short pants, tee shirts, and converse sneakers when they were the original white.
I remember every adult at that time smoking. My mom smoked Winston’s, and my dad smokes Camels without filters. What a disgusting habit. I’m so glad I never took up the stinky thing there’s way too much pollution in the world already. I’m the only person in the family that never took up such a dangerous habit, Thank God.
Every weekend a party would start and the adults would play. We kids would pretend and the block would become one big family. Bad habits, booze, and dancing have brought many a community together throughout history; I wonder just what kind of cocktail could solve our countries present economic woes? One with mango juice perhaps, one may never know?
Sometimes in a person’s life he gets to meet the perfect match. Sometimes even that match fits like the glove that he had molded to his hand by so many thousands of wearings. Ten years ago I met my perfect match. She walked into my office and stopped my breath with a glance. I could see the glow that reached out to me and enveloped me like the perfect glove.
The trying on of the glove didn’t happen all at once though. We had a courtship that lasted a little longer than a year before we even went on a date. That night was a majickal night. It sticks in my memory like a burning candle and lightens my being. My perfect fitting glove was first my best friend before she became my lover. She was my confidant before she was my partner. She fit on me perfectly and I wear her has part of my own skin. She is and forever will be my best and most favorite being, my friend, my love, and my secret keeper.
The one I am speaking about is most defiantly my soul mate. That is the one being in this universe that fits my soul like it is her own. My heart beats within her chest and her breaths come out of my lungs. My nostrils smell her perfume and the essence that is her flows through me like water flowing through a hose. She is the yin to my yang; she is my other self, the other.
To my love Romona I bow. You are my perfect glove and you fit me and I fit you, as you are I. I thank you my sweet for being me, I can never love as much as I love you.