Welcome to Amateur Hour at the White House. Our clowns on staff will be with you shortly…
My ancestors were hunting native Americans before Tennessee was a state. We’re not afraid to defend our country against the excesses of a government out of control.
Until more heads roll, let’s see how many scandals we can cause after these first rounds have had their full impact.
Guinevere wants me to write about her.
Other characters wait their turn.
Words fail me today, my fast-food-sized menu of a vocabulary and grammaticalarianiamistically-challenged phrases.
The hallowed echoes of a hollow hall, where eight enthusiastic faces sang dressed in black not madrigals, regaled us with their ringing voices last night.
The sanctuary of church has only one purpose for me — meditation upon the infinite.
How you anthropomorphise the infinite is your concern, not mine.
Rather, your concern interferes with my meditation.
A cathedral ceiling should reflect the echoes of pipe organs and windpipes.
Sermons are for those without a voice of their own.
Church was once the social sewing machine that stitched subcultures together at the family and community levels.
Now that recorded music and other aspects of church life are available on a pick-and-choose-at-your-convenience at your local convenience store where wafers (leavened and unblessed) meet your bodily needs, the reasons that some went to church are met away from the edifice.
My thoughts are my sanctuary, my heaven and hell. An author is quoted as saying, “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.,” allegedly C.S. Lewis the entertainer.
Last night, the Huntsville Collegium Musicum invited the community to hear early choral music in Covenant Presbyterian Church at 7:30 p.m., an invitation I found at 6:30 p.m. while looking online at al.com for events to attend and get me out of a house whose cathedral ceiling echoed with the sounds of recorded television shows.
Grumpily, my wife agreed to go with me, sans (le) dîner.
Happily, I drove her there.
The program consisted of religious and secular music.
There were no church social calendar announcements, no children’s Bible lesson, no Karaoke Jesus, no cappuccino and Christ, and no sermon.
It was heaven on Earth!
I closed my eyes and felt the soundwaves bounce against me (my wife saw colours and emotions dancing when her eyes were closed).
I opened my eyes and watched the physical manifestation of joy on the singers’ faces flow through their bodies and out of their mouths which changed shape to shape musical notes and sung words.
This is the one and only purpose for a church. All the rest — the Sunday school lessons, the social outreach, the weekend retreats — has no meaning to me.
[Except for the one small detail that my wife of 26+ years I met at summer camp (Holston Presbytery Camp in Banner Elk, NC) when we were 12 years old so, yeah, I owe a debt of gratitude to the whole social environment of religion (co-ed summer campers in the woods reading the Bible and sharing sleeping bags? how disgraceful!) that put us two together (but don’t worry, Church Lady, we didn’t kiss until after my wife turned 19).]
After my wife and I ate at a VERY LOUD restaurant called Drake’s, which killed any reverent mood we were in but filled our bellies, we returned home, suffered through many a lame skit on SNL for a few good laughs and turned on the main computer in the living room to play early choral music and listen to the echoes bouncing off the cathedral ceiling.
Some of my neighbours still get up on Sunday mornings to gather socially at whatever version of church they prefer.
This here, in front of a computer screen, is my church, the litanies composed in my thoughts rolled out in the holy text of a limited vocabulary, my wife sleeping with our cats at the other end of our country cabin of a house in the woods, within miles of native American burial mounds and hallowed cemeteries.
To last night’s singers, I salute you.
You make the long, lonely, expensive trip to celestial bodies worth the effort.
Which reminds me, if killing eliminating others cleanses my soul, what am I going to do if I’m the only living soul on Mars whose zest for living — his savoir–faire, his je ne sais quoi, his fly in the coffee of his petit dejeuner — is so strong that snuffing out Earth-based lifeforms will be his only salvation?
Will you survive to read the next blog entry?
And if you do, will you serve as a humorous aside, hero amidst tragedy, lone wolf , space pioneer, Bright, ascetic, or salt of the earth?
My grandfather was a man of more happiness than monetary wealth.
He reasoned, my father told me, that knowledge is the heated, padded seat in the outhouse of life — you can’t find the swallowed diamond until you sift through a lot of BS.
Granddaddy kept a lot of secrets along the way of gathering facts.
One day, while standing the backyard, looking at the canal but, in his thoughts, staring out at the sea, a fellow old seaman walked up to Granddaddy and told him a wild tale about a plot of land up in New Hampshire owned by a family named Winthrop something or other.
The land itself was not remarkable except for one small fact — every 100 years, a bright light appeared on the horizon, rose into the sky and shone down on a certain spot of the family plot.
My grandfather, ever the realist, asked why the seaman was sharing this information with a sailor and not someone more authoritative.
Well, this seaman, he was known in those parts for his notorious behaviour, having crossed paths with the law a few too many times, but he didn’t mind sharing this information with my grandfather, a nice man who had only beaten this fellow a few times in acey-deucey.
My grandfather asked what the man knew about the farm.
“It’s not exactly a farm. Not anymore. A few years ago, they converted it to a golf course.”
My grandfather had a soft place in his fact-filled thoughts for the irrational sport of golf. “Okay, so tell me what you know about this light. Anything you know for a fact?”
The man shared a document with my grandfather.
Yellowed and torn, the document described a treasure that was like no treasure that had been seen before — not only a map of the stars but instructions for how to travel through space from one planet to another.
My grandfather was a loving, trusting man but he had his skeptical side, too.
What proof did the man have that the document was authentic?
The man said that his grandfather had worked on the farm and found the document buried in the wall of an old, abandoned well, long since dug up and removed from history. No one living knew about its existence.
The man said that the next 100-year visit was fast approaching. All the man asked was that my grandfather visit the golf course, take pictures and share whatever information he gleaned.
Granddaddy was also a curious man, having learned that behind every legend or myth is a nugget of truth.
He had already accumulated enough material wealth to last the rest of his lifetime, but what about the lifetimes of his son and his grandchildren?
He accepted the document, bid the man goodbye and, when my grandmother returned from her garden club meeting, suggested they consider taking a vacation to New England in the next year.
My father had heard this story only a few times from my grandfather, assuming it was more parable or metaphorical tale than anything real.
Dad told me that in every life we’ll encounter people who belief wholeheartedly in family lore. We are not to disapprove or discourage these people from holding their stories on the highest pole, flying them as flags of faith and family honour.
Dad said that Granddaddy promised the story would have a happy ending but he wouldn’t tell my father what was discovered one night in New Hampshire, only that a few photographs he took barely document the event which cemented my grandfather’s belief in one fellow sailor’s tall tale.
Dad didn’t have an ending to share with me.
However, he did said that Granddaddy hinted the answer would be found on his property in south Florida.
Lo and behold, I think I have the first evidence of that fateful, faith-filled evening.
I present to you, dear reader, the images to which my grandfather eluded:
I have more to go through to determine if the map and other information are in the chest and I’m just not seeing it.
Usually, I find myself at company-sponsored leisure activities trying to figure out what I’m doing at company-sponsored leisure activities and why I’m thinking about why I’m trying to figure out what I’m doing at company-sponsored leisure activities, giving my thoughts an exercise in wondering, thinking and trying, but not always in that order.
Today, while just on the verge of creating an internal structure in the shape of mantra made of the above thoughts, up walked beside me a man named Bill.
I don’t know Bill well. I know of him by reputation and through appearances at his company-sponsored leisure activities, he being a co-founder of the company that sponsored today’s leisure activities.
Bill is an honest man whom I trust implicitly and explicitly, without question.
As a member of the board of directors of his company, Bill is used to being in the public eye.
His health is as important to the company as it is to his family and him.
I looked at Bill’s face this morning, noticing that there seemed to be more blood flowing through his system — his face was redder than it was at the Christmas party but something else about his face concerned me.
His complexion was not as healthy-looking as it had been several weeks back at an American Heart Association walk sponsored in part by his company.
Turns out that Bill had subsequently suffered a viral infection and spent several days in the hospital to get his temperature back near normal after he had worked with a pile of mulch in his yard.
I could write several blog posts about the value of mulch. In fact, my wife and I used to volunteer at the Huntsville Botanical Garden on Saturday mornings to collect monetary donations in exchange for loads of mulch dumped in the back of truck beds and small trailers, the mulch mainly composed of decomposed leaves and twigs scooped up alongside roadways after having been raked to the curb by homeowners in autumn.
Mulch and humus (not hummus (or humour (or vapors (or femurs)))) are valuable components of one’s garden.
One may wish to set up a mulch or compost pile that includes not only leaves and twigs but also kitchen scraps and other organic material.
Bill was not overly concerned about mulch’s benefits.
No, he had apparently picked up a virus that had hitched a ride in a pile of mulch and was wreaking (and reeking) havoc on his body.
Keep in mind that Bill had quadruple-bypass surgery not that long ago. Within four days of the surgery, he could walk several miles so he’s not all that out of shape.
Bill looked me in the eye.
There was something more he wanted to share with me.
Bill pulled out his mobile phone and showed pictures of his new acquisition, a 1959 Corvette.
Instantly envious, despite initially thinking it was a Thunderbird, I leaned closer toward him. What was so special about this car to Bill that he wanted to show the pictures to a complete stranger?
Bill said he had always wanted a Corvette.
Of course, our material dreams are often displaced by other priorities.
As Bill pointed out, the year after the last of his kids finished college, he put a swimming in his yard, along with deck. He invited the kids over and asked them what they saw. They saw a pool. He corrected them — this was what their annual college tuition had been costing him and now he was spending it on something he and his now fully empty-nested wife wanted.
Of course, it was an investment the kids could enjoy, too.
Of course, of course.
But Bill still desired the Corvette.
Before he went in for the bypass surgery, Bill told his wife, “When I get out of this surgery, I’m going to buy myself a Corvette,” in part to give himself something positive to look forward to after such an ordeal, not really meaning it as much.
Well, his wife held him to his word, making sure he had recovered enough from the surgery to remind him of his promise to himself.
Bill found the Corvette online, located physically not far away in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.
The car is not perfect, has been repainted and needs TLC — the soft top seal should be replaced, for instance.
At a distance, however, it looks brand-new.
Bill has a way to go to achieve the level of post-surgery health that will ensure he lives many years longer.
Unfortunately, the viral infection and hospital stay delayed his planned physical rehabilitation.
Bill’s honesty with others reaches his inner self, where he knows that he has neglected his bodily needs in order to sacrifice himself for the greater good, for the bigger community outside his immediate family and inner circle of influence.
For Bill, now is his time, time to devote to his wife and himself, to spend some selfish moments reaping the rewards of years of success and hard work.
Our lives are shorter than we think they will be.
Bill, you deserve these moments of happiness, of less stress, of giving your trust to the employees who continue the legacy you started.
Your Corvette and your Austin Healey 3000 kit with 350CI Chevy engine are ready for your full attention and fun-filled driving adventures.
Enjoy the open road, see the sites, revisit old hangouts and come back with tall tales about your new friends.
We’ll be here, waiting with virtual pen and ink in hand.
To your health, whatever you choose to do about it!
Growing up, I was taught to be a motorsports fan and NASCAR was the motorsports of choice in my family.
My father took me, as a child, to “minor league” NASCAR races at the local track on Friday.
My grandfather turned the TV to national NASCAR races on Sunday after church.
As an adult, I attended open-wheeled racing events with Dad but NASCAR was still a common topic between us.
However, somewhere along the way, the people who run the show at NASCAR have turned me into a NASCAR hater. I really dislike watching the event on TV and have grown tired of the noise at a live race.
I used to enjoy rooting and rallying enthusiasm for my favorite drivers but then, somewhere along the way, the fans started yelling at each other and booing their least favorite drivers.
It was enough to turn me off from the whole show.
Then the NASCAR organizers decided to up the hate even more, pretending the races were some kind of real sport and technological regulatory nightmare in return.
So, I stopped watching.
I was glad that Richard Petty, Alan Kulwicki and Jeff Gordon were my favorite drivers.
Now, it doesn’t matter.
The headlines that pop up showing yet another female driver being a “maverick” on the racetrack or the attempt to create another non-stock-car variant of racecar turn me further from even thinking about paying attention to the driver standings or watching the races.
But they do get me to comment about my lost childhood and the joy of cheering for both local and national drivers.
C’est la vie, NASCAR. Adios. You oversold the concept of bland racecars and pretty-boy/girl drivers — the empty seats show that those of us with limited incomes have more interesting things to do with our time and money than support your infighting and pretense with setting your rules and then proving your worth by punishing innovation within your ranks.
Richard Petty was right. The stock car died a long time ago and would eventually take NASCAR down with it.
I laugh in your face and spit on your so-called sport. Ptooie!
The pulsing migraine headache that has dogged me from the moment I was born is pulsating “louder” than ever today.
I am screaming in my thoughts in order to be heard, using alliteration as method to contain the contagion of madness that wants to spread into the rest of my body.
Using old tricks of my youth to hide my insanity from the rest of the world — running through vocabulary words in any language to keep myself connected with the society into which I was born and am expected to communicate in a legible manner.
The litany of voices I hear and read wants to repeat itself here through the funhouse mirror/brilliant cut crystal ball of a writer.
…the dance instructor I just met who tells me her whole life story in a few minutes — married, divorced, miscarriages, births, lack of silliness, not a girl, not interested in guys, Western Swing dance champion who prefers Balboa dance style, etc., like she has been through this interrogation by strangers a million times and learned to push people away quickly, or…what?
…on social media: the animal rescue posts — please rescue this dog/cat before it’s euthanised, pitbulls aren’t dangerous, found a cat with kittens in a back alley that need to be adopted, etc.; the gun owners who feel threatened by government regulations and must let us know their fears through LOUD STATEMENTS EVERY DAY; the people who claim they are loving devotees of their religion but they relentlessly post hateful comments about others (Christians against Obama, Buddhists against overcrowded cities, etc.).
So, in my mental confusion, I put a paper bowl filled with water, oatmeal and ground-up flax seed in the microwave oven, set the timer for 20:00 instead of 2:00 and, after taking a shower, I returned to find I had made dried oatmeal/flax seed cakes instead of a bowl of hot cereal.
Happiness!!!
The universe entertains me constantly, poking me in the side and saying, “See? Isn’t life beautiful? You didn’t burn oatmeal, you made yourself the handheld dried oatmeal cake you’ve always dreamed of eating on the commute to work for years, didn’t you?”
Despite the boring moments between eventful events, while setting up the next scenario to snag the snaggle-toothed snagosaurus, life is, indeed, beautiful.
Surprising, no?
I don’t know what it is that puts me in a mood like this, this feeling of smugness, this desire not to believe in myself, to always be wrong, always chasing the perfect 100 on a test score as if I’ll never get it, running from my mistakes, fleeing into the cosmos.
Why?
Because of both my faith in AND my fear of our species’ imperfections.
I do not want to be successful.
Instead, always vigilant, looking for the crack in the veneer, analysing the pinhole leak in the dam, contemplating the lack of understanding everything going on in a cubic centimeter of dirt.
Why?
Because we can make films about our mistakes, films which contain their own mistakes, and we learn from neither, or the lessons we learn and the solutions we apply solve a different set of problems because time is irrelevant, only relative.
That is why we seek perfection in our theosophical beliefs.
Otherwise, tarnish, rust and decay should be taken as normal aspects of our impermanence.
I am chasing my tail in an M.C. Escher print.
treetrunkdings 
