Compra Aqui, Paga Aqui

Cryptic sign du jour: SI-VN11.

What about Janet, who couldn’t sit for a moment waiting for a hairdo change ahead of me at Smart Cuts?

Her loss was my gain.

I sat with a cheerful young woman who scissored my follicle output down to a summer trim, serenading me about her future attempt at making a SpongeBob sheet cake for her four-year old daughter’s birthday (“I’ll use a melonball cutter to carve out the sponge holes. What colour should the holes be – darker or lighter than his body?”) and something about a dinosaur train show on the tellie.

Her ex-husband is still a good friend.

She wants to take an f…lobotomy…no, a phlebottomoose…well, a class on needles and blood in order to become an EMT. Her stylist coworker wants to finish her academic studies in nursing.

Later, observing drivers, passengers and automotive transport machines parade past while scribbling notes in a carpark between Riverside Avenue and Fairview Lane, I contemplated titling this “Road Closed to Thru Traffic- Bump Ahead” to honour road construction crews dealing with unruly, roadsign-ignoring drivers.

A nod to Sullivan County EMS – Paramedic Unit, Country Tyme Primitives, and the tie-wearing friendly employees of La Carreta #3 who will have Bohemia beer in the future for those who want what they want and don’t have to ask twice.

Thanks to Holly and Robert at Walmart, Linda H at Walgreens.

On a side note, interesting to watch my dyslexic typing, an indication that I can’t easily resubstitute family matters for central nervous system locations (including external clues) I normally use to feel the rhythm of the universe around me.

Dadgum, these here emotion-like neurochemical states of energy are a mess to deal with, sometimes.

Is Eleven Years In One Place A Childhood Home?

Sipping/chugging a dark wheat lager brewed with winter spices after picking up tree limbs off my parents’ yard…

Could be watchin’ NASCAR motorised vehicles in a circular bang ’em up ballet.

Could be neighbourly, spreading the message that a Christiane Armed-n-poor led round/oblong table projected, or the message that the Pepsi CEO’s facial expressions/twitches implied.

Blue skies and breezy day call my name.

A rabbit eats dandelion blooms in the backyard while contemplating Richard Adams and Watership Down.

I can speedread text but not video. Dragging the progress bar or fastforwarding is not the same.

Sitting by myself in the church sanctuary, safe from UV rays and whatever else faces me in the great outdoors, I felt alone and helpless this morning, unable to sing hymns with my usual joyous man/boyish booming voice of enthusiasm because I didn’t have my wife there to entertain with octave changes and hold her hand during congregational prayers. I miss her deeply/dearly.

Going solo at my in-laws’ and wife’s hometown church on Palm Sunday, I had no role to fill except messenger, quickly completed.

And then I was invisible again.

The prism.

The funhouse mirror with no persons peering at me to see their distorted image reflected back for comic relief.

If I cannot or do not reflect, what am I?

What is a social being without a social connection?

Best line I heard, emanating from a dementia patient in a bathroom: “Oh my God! What is coming out of my butt?!”

I want to be that person one day, forgetting what a BM is and entertaining random passersby with insightful age/scatological humour.

What if I already am and don’t know it?

If so, would someone please let me know by magically turning on a lamp next to me in this instant?

Oh well, no magic lanterns and no voices in my head telling me what to do after I lose an argument with myself.

Stuck with sanity and reality one more day, it appears.

Thanks to Jeremy at Fatz; Lynda, Tina and Christina at Dollar Tree; the soldier walking into the west Kingsport Walmart; Pam and Casey at Baysmont/Asbury Place, if I haven’t thanked them already.

Would a sitcom based in a skilled nursing facility generate enough episodes for TV syndication? Or would an Internet video series find a profitable ausience…sorry, audience?

Brain is slipping. Best sign off before it falls. Adios.

Time to contemplate the role of a comic preacher-in-residence proselytising to patients in a nursing home with a mixture of dementia and physically frail archetypes aided by witty nurses, therapists and CNAs battling with budget-challenged administrative types.

Whittling a cereal bowl

In a house, hearing noises, seeing lights, with no warm bodies to touch – neither wife nor cat – a mood sets in.

Do I only accept terms and phrases like “God’s Plan,” “coincidence,” “fate” and “destiny” when I feel I have little or no part in an activity or outcome?

What if all I want is to sit here, write, and have a warm sleeping companion?

What calendrical day is it?

If all rituals are bunk, with whom do I bunk when my bunkmate is unavailable?

No anti/stimulants to change my mood.

The silence of tinnitus to tune out the world.

Vulnerability of sleep to comfort me.

At peace with a peace that is my piece of the universe.

Was the Russian princess who never was named Anastasia?

Paint a poster board with glowing paint and watch the stars shine brightly in a darkened room, vivifying dreams.

Potato soup and bread pudding – a hospital dietician is a chef in a food pyramid fantasy.

Can a painter draw blood?

Thanks to Robert and Naomi at Walmart; Pal’s Sudden Service; Hawkins County EMS; the Testermans; Kay’s Classic ice cream…

…getting sleepy…zzzzz

Most used tags

Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw.

’tis pleasantries that often pass for ‘onesty and civility, no doubt.

‘istory, all the same.

Jargonese.

Maple salmon, carmelised cabbage and creamed beans complemented by Nottage Hill shiraz in the Troutdale at the Hale Springs Inn, courtesy of Chef Ellis (from Chateau Elan), server Tom (from Greeneville) and proprietor Ben Zandi (from Bristol).

Candlelight accompanied by robin, mockingbird and starling hunting insects on the town square.

Highlights selling public radio.

Bloomin’ white/pink dogwood bloomin’ in front of the Masonic Temple Overton Lodge and usbank.

Middle-aged daughter brought 80-year young mother for birthday.

A spa where three U.S. presidents stayed.

Almost a guilty pleasure eating there while my mother in-law heals – call it a self-assigned reward for a personal attaboy.

More people to thank: Ashley, Danielle, Carla, Karen, Dana, Bobette, Kate and Casey; Jolee at Meadowview Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat specialists.

Tired…more later.

L’alarm memorable

How am I lucky?

Gnats and crane flies draw imaginary 3D scribbled Spirograph patterns in the space I call my front yard outside the windowed, sunny view this morning.

How far “up” does my yard extend?

60 deg F on this 2nd day of April in the year I’m told is 2011.

I am floating on air today for the simple, joyous fact I danced with a beautiful lithe butterfly last night (I also danced with an angel (my wife, of course)).

The graceful movements of a ballet dancer who flew across the dance floor with the slightest touch of my hands.

And I don’t know her name.

Her name, I’m sure, means “brings him luck” in some language.

A nod to Erin at P.F. Chang’s; the chiropractor who works in Madison, Alabama (Dr. Alice?); Joe and his dance partner, Wendy; Curly and his swing partner; Kareem at the Apple store; and the kind folks at Ulta who helped my wife.

Currently, I’m working up a storyline that incorporates the following facts: a woman working 10 years in the restaurant business, who’s paying off college debt, moved from New Mexico to north Alabama, going from zero to 100 percent humidity, married 1 year and 1 month, first danced to “I want to grow old with you” from “The Wedding Singer” at her wedding reception, and can pour a glass of beer behind her back with her eyes closed while balancing a server tray, all without spilling a drop and with very little foam at the top of the glass.

And then there is the woman who wants her seat next to the dance floor reserved at all costs, getting me to smack around anyone who takes her seat while she’s dancing.

Finding joy in the simple things, like watching ants walk across the kitchen floor or crane flies bouncing against window screens, is a reminder how lucky I am.

I may be repeating my parents’ weekly ritual of going to the local dance hall on a Saturday night (mainly square dancing in their time), and I know how I find repetition boring, but in this case I am thoroughly enjoying myself because of the easy-going people who are sharing the social situation with me, wanting nothing but to have a good, clean, fun time together.

In awe, I watch couples skate around the room.

The room becomes a kaleidoscope made of twirling bodies – I see acrobats on the trapeze, throwing partner to partner to partner and back, or acrobatic flyers turning barrel rolls and figure 8s in the sky, colourful smoke trailing behind them to the soulful music…

Ceiling tiles lit up by Arduino-controlled LED spotlights…

Walls pulsing with fiber optic quilts like living tie-dyed shirts spinning around to the rhythmic beat…

Swing, cha cha, tango, merengue, simple hustle, rumba, salsa, waltz, foxtrot and 1950s-era costumes – I had forgotten how much fun these formal dance styles can be when mixed with freestyle dancing while meeting new friends who glide across the floor like they’re made of air.

It’s like having a reunion with myself from 25 to 30 years ago, thrashing on the dance floor or diving into the mosh pit, except now I’m older and my knees can’t take a jump off a 10-ft stage into the hypnotised masses.

Lucky to be here and happily participating in reconnecting thought patterns with physical dance patterns.

Yes, I’m easily distracted.  Today, I don’t mind – the politics of dancing can wait another day.

Time to get the wallflowers out on the dance floor to have a good time, Flying Monkey theatre at Lowe Mill, Kinesthetic Cue at Underground Madison, or wherever.

Beanpole Twist ‘n’ Shout

Lord, have mercy, it was a fun time last night.

Smacking boot heels on old wood floors.

Accordion, washboard, guitar, drums, bass…like an ol’ bayou Saturd’y night getdown.

‘Memberances of N’awlins, crawfish boils, jazz fests, New Year’s Eve on the Riverwalk, ESPN settin’ up for the national championship.

Louisiana hot sauce or, when that’s not available, habanero squeezin’s on the chicken sandwich at Beauregard’s, the ever resourceful Antonio givin’ us the extra onion rings.

Dance lessons a’fore hand – “just remember, it’s not the exact steps that counts, it’s keepin’ time with your partner that makes it zydeco!”

One, two, three four.  Five, six, step back.

My partner – my rational, logical engineering wife – dissecting the steps ’cause we already know how to keep time.  This ain’t work, honey, it’s the weekend!  😉

Sippin’ whiskey from a flask – Bushmills Black Bush.  A little Sprite for the missus.  A swig of ginger ale for her male.

My, oh my, does the zydeco bring out the bee-yout’uhful ladies?!

Like the cream o’ the crop, they were, a’dancin’ with their beaus or choosin’ more experienced partners to learn a new move or two to spice up their relationship on the dance floor and off.

I felt like someone wound my clock back, and we were back at the ol’ Chicken Shack down by the river, a jug of hooch bein’ passed back and forth while bodies spun ’round and ’round like the storm clouds that swept past over and over again.

Lightnin’ never strikes the same place twice unless the dance floor’s on fire, my grandpappy used to say.

Reckon he’s right.

Zydeco lessons at the Eagles Club tonight, folks.  Don’t miss it!

A nod to Jessica at Arby’s, the behind-the-scenes folks at Lowe Mill, and Yuri Ozaki, whose quiet happiness blesses us all – may your country find peace during this difficult recovery period.  Cat, we’ll fill up on Happy Tummy the next go-round.

Take a day off, then my wife and I are hittin’ the dance floor again, this time shufflin’ our feet to swing music.

No offense to you bowling fans but between drinkin’ beer at the bowling alley or hoppin’ on the dance floor with my wife, I’ll take the parquet.

Or is it butter?

One day, our dancing will be as smooth as such.

More Unintended Consequences

From Ralph Nader’s suggestion for eliminating athletic scholarships to those who consider initiating an unprovoked attack on Libya is full cause for impeachment proceedings, the 1,000-year view will give you what you want, as always.

Herding cattle or herding our species, the Committee takes nothing personal.

Should the organisation of a government (which, remember, is little more than another form of business) be heavily weighted toward one branch or another?

Some of the next few decisions are not easy for me to make because they do affect me personally.

Leadership can be fun but changing the lives of others drastically against their wishes is not the part I consider to be fun.

Just like they told me, “We wish a third party candidate would win control to prove the system is greater than ideology.”

Seven billion views that differ except for the fact they belong to beings that all lived, no matter how their definition of normality can or can’t compare…

A personal journey I asked for and a personal journey I got, where I often don’t get what I wish for but always get what I basically need…

Tree leaves grow bigger every day as the ambient temperature generally increases.

Waves of denser air push water droplets to the ground gravitationally, flooding big creases and low-lying areas in the landscape.

14,286 days – where does the time go?

Oh well, just stay focused on saving the species and/or the ecosystem to which it belongs.

Having grown up in one dominant subculture and used to responding to the habits of those within that subculture is a curious phenomenon to observe while knowing that subculture nor any other is the best one for nurturing children.

Yet, it shares features with other successful childrearing subcultures that are worth preserving.

Features that are shared across species and with all living things, too.

Not to forget its relationship to states of energy.

Will we see our planet is a relay beacon before it’s too late?

I used to ask about how we keep theists, atheists, extraterrestrialists and everyone else happy in their beliefs while putting them to work on a big project that is neutral about human-based belief systems.

Then they put me in charge of the Committee so I would set aside conjecture and get busy with the task the Committee members saw was the most important of all the tasks assigned to us.

It’s really up to me how much I want to get involved in the local/regional a/political activities of my species now that I know how much/little those activities in/directly impact the task at hand.

The simple fact is the easiest to explain – every individual must be given a feeling of being involved in its life, which can include the feelings of being in control or out of control of one’s life.

We can force people’s beliefs in one direction or another or we can lead by example.

Some subcultures use thought police and some use peer pressure.

Some celebrate every ability to excel, regardless of gender, and some separate skill/talent development by gender.

I am 100% a member of my species, at least as much as we understand the composition that states of energy constitute.

I defend all our actions as the ways in which we define living, regardless of how little I can justify what many of us do.

In 2011, I am learning to identify the worldview that I built to justify my actions on a daily basis as well as learning that a universal view can include an absence of not only my species but life as we know it on this planet (it can also include a reconfiguration of what I think is a universe).

In 1,000 years, how will this 1-acre tract of land I call my own have changed?

It is no longer a part of undeveloped country or land on the edge of farm fields.  It is an established portion of the suburbanised landscape, evidence of increased population density by my species.

We build and rebuild and rebuild urban population centers, finding many ways to justify their existence – increased efficiency, the interconnected sets of idea generation, glorious architecture, etc.

We hypnotise and mesmerise ourselves with our cleverness.

As we attempt to find the next superbrain construction means that is sustainable, many parts (e.g., urban centers) have failed and more parts will fail.

Do we step out of this moment and into the future by admitting nothing is permanent and our structures should be put together on the assumption we’ll need to take them apart and recycle the components for the next round of temporary construction?

How can we convince all seven billion of us that life is sustainable engineering?

If my regional government, the state of Alabama, is too backward to recognise the need to set aside undeveloped land for the future of its citizens, should I care if its existence is temporary, and its leaders, no matter how filled with self-importance they may be while they pursue lucrative business relationships in their brief lifetimes, are quickly forgotten and their fortunes quickly dissolved because of their short-sightedness?

Whether we came from the cosmos, lightning striking ocean goo, or melding volcanic spew, we are here together.

Together, we make a difference.

The power of suggestion is a tool few use wisely.

That’s why I’m returning to my task of turning the planet into a relay beacon, letting the Committee, the programmers/scientists on retainer and other members of my team keep our species and our daily lives running on automatic, repeating cycles that intersect spirals they don’t remember seeing generations ago.

If I don’t keep us on schedule, who will?

If the FCC and regulators won’t put the consumer’s interest in the forefront of the at&t/T-mobile profit-making business megamerger, who will?