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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| Trying to concentrate this morning, distracted by the noisy fish. I never realized how much noise a goldfish actually makes. We bought a new filter for the fish tank. It's called a "Whisper". It doesn't even do that. The thing is virtually silent. Which means that I can now hear all the noises the fish makes. Fish are not quiet. They don't glide silently through the depths with muted grace. It is not a calm and soundless world. At least not with this goldfish in it. All I can hear in the background is the constant "clink clink" as the inhabitant of the tank (sometimes called "Fred", sometimes called "Finn", but mostly called "Fish") searches for food he's overlooked amongst the gravel. "Clink, clink" goes each pebble as he picks it up in his mouth to glean the food from it and then spits it out, slamming it against the tank wall. How am I supposed to write under these conditions? |
| Recently, there was some dispute about swearing and the use of cuss words in writing and other forms of communication. I was rather unceremoniously implicated in some plot to outlaw swearing, I am not sure why, as this post is the first time I have written on the subject. That is not to say that I am pro-swearing. I don’t believe I am, though I do swear sometimes. I am not for locking up all people who swear, either. It’s a matter of personal choice. But like all personal choices, it affects the image we present to the world and the world will think as it likes, despite how we want them to think. If I decide to dye my hair purple, some people will think I am edgy or fun, other people will think I am senile. So, it would depend on whether or not I like purple hair and whether I can withstand the odd looks from those who disapprove. If I were to write a story with a hard-bitten character, it would seem silly to have him utter phrases such as “Oh, my!” or “golly”. Those are lines of dialogue best suited to Dorothy in Oz. But in expressing my own personal views, I think the more authentic voice is somewhere in between those two extremes. Even though I am extremely unlikely to include profanity in a blog post, it isn’t simply because I don't use it much in speech. It’s partly because it gets repetitive if not saved for moments of high dudgeon. It’s as if I used the adjective “very” in every sentence. It was a very hot day. I was very tired and very thirsty. I had been walking a very long time under a very bright sun in this very dry desert. I can’t believe anyone would review that paragraph and not beg me to use some more descriptive adjectives. Now, replace "very" with a common swear word. It’s still repetitive isn’t it? I grew up in a household where there was no swearing. None. No one swore on television, either. For me, swearing was an indication of an out-of-control, angry person. Once, at a friend’s house, I was terribly frightened by my friend’s father who was swearing at a toy he could not get to work. My friend was unfazed. This was the usual at that house, for that family. For someone unused to cussing, it can seem threatening or angry. It’s funny that in a world where so many claim that “words are violence” and feel injured when someone expresses a differing opinion to their own, the effect that a raised tone of voice and a torrent of profanity has on a person unused to that is not considered. Swearing has its place for just about everyone, I think. There are those who feel empowered by it, but there are also those who are offended by it. No one has to stop swearing because it offends people, especially if they don’t particularly care about offending people. No one should start swearing because of pressure to conform, nor should they give up using the adjectives or interjections of their choosing. Personally, I like to save my cuss words for when I am good and angry. Or when I do something stupid and feel frustrated. I want you to know that I am more upset than usual. Besides, cuss is a permutation of curse, and I don’t want to be speaking curses over people. |
| I came across a social media post that asked: “Do you remember your fifth grade teacher?” Yes, I do. I struggle to remember my first grade teacher. I have one image of her in my mind but cannot conjure up her name or anything else about her (except her failure to ease my fears on my first day of school) but I was five years old and such a tiny, anxiety-ridden creature that I think I pulled a Sybil and my conscious mind refused to attend first grade. It’s all lost to me. I do remember second grade and the teacher’s name. I remember third grade and what my teacher looked like, but the name escapes me. I remember my fourth grade teacher, her name and her photos of her dogs. I must have started paying attention by this time. Fifth grade was Mr. B. He was the youngest teacher that I had ever had up until that point. He was kind and handsome with thick, black hair and he wore things like purple shirts with modern neckties. Yes, I am that old. Teachers used to dress up for school. So did we. What I remember most about Mr. B is that he supplied my first experience of indoctrination in public school. It was an election year and he brought a TV into the classroom to show us news and debates. I think that bit was good. Although this was way back in the olden days before cable news and most of us watched the news nightly with our families, it was still good to expose us to more information about current events. But he didn’t stop there. Mr. B inserted his personal political opinions into the current events curriculum. He told us that one political party was in favor of some very bad things but that the other party (his, I assume) was in favor of all these good and wonderful things. I am intentionally leaving out details because it doesn’t matter which party he was praising or which he was trashing. He was speaking to the uninitiated, those who had not yet formed any opinions and he was trying to shape our opinions and make them the same as his own. That is wrong, regardless. Mr. B was not the only teacher I would have whose main interest was teaching his or her opinions, he was just the first. Although I went to school ages ago, the new crop of teachers were already trying to shape the students' viewpoints to match their own visions. I learned to like the older teachers, the ones the other kids hated because they were strict, disallowed monkey business in class and demanded more of them academically. At least they weren’t trying to convert me to anything. Teachers should teach by encouraging students to learn. They should encourage students to seek out information and form their own opinions and tastes. They should not be in the business of raising up an army of clones. |
| Last night, instead of curling up in her usual spot at the end of the bed, the cat slunk up the bed to sleep in the hollow between our bodies. The reason for this sudden desire for closeness? Fireworks. Yes, it's time for a week of amateur, backyard fireworks. These will start each night at dusk and continue long past a reasonable hour. There will be long, sustained rat-a-tat-tat-a-tat-tat of firecrackers, the ear-splitting whistle of bottle rockets and the deep, resounding boom that seems to produce no evidence of its detonation in the sky and makes you wonder if the neighbors have started mining on their property. The noise will cease somewhere around 1:00 am, just long enough for you and the cat to fall asleep, then someone who has finally found some dry matches will startle you from your sleep and send the cat under the bed with one last fiery hurrah at 2:00 am. There are three stages of fireworks. They are like Shakespeare's seven ages of man, but there aren't as many and it's much less complicated. When one is young, fireworks are an amazing spectacle, a magical light show of stars exploding into being and then fading into darkness as if one was witnessing the birth of the universe. The second stage is parenthood, when parents delights in showing their children these brilliant displays and holding them tightly to protect them from the vibrations resonating through their bones. Finally one reaches the third stage. This is the one I am at. It's the "enough already, I want to sleep, you're scaring the cat so knock it off, where are the police when you need 'em?" stage. It's the old, curmudgeon stage. Yes, I remember how much fun fireworks were when I was a kid, but that's because I didn't realize how annoying I was being. I've changed my mind. Ban them all! Of course, they are all banned already. I live in the only state where every type and class of firework is illegal to purchase, own or transport to the state from some other, less anal state. However, fireworks are going off around me in blatant disregard of these laws and I have never in my entire life seen the police stop the perpetrators or even interrupt their illegal displays. The annual trip to a neighboring state to purchase these illegal fireworks is a tradition in some families. The law exists, I think, to make a statement. The state is saying: "we made hand held explosives illegal because we care about your safety, but we don't obsess over it". So, there's nothing to be done. Fireworks are like drugs - the state has an official position but it makes no difference to the average consumer who can get what they want regardless. Except, drugs are not as loud. I know I am just old and cranky and the proof is that I don't even feel guilty about being such a killjoy. It's no longer just a side effect of age, it's a mission. |
| I am anxious to see today become yesterday. Today is the last day of June and it is also the last day of our current heat wave. I don’t remember welcoming July in hopes of cooler weather ever before in my life. I am beginning to think it’s also the end of my coffee maker. It still makes coffee but it coughs and spits all over the countertop. It does produce a cup of coffee very quickly, however. I have to decide if I hate wiping up the spills more than I hate waiting for my coffee. My grumpy mood was short-lived, because my attitude was accosted immediately by the antics of the cat. She and I locked eyes the moment I entered the room. When she was sure she had my attention, she began her morning rolls and stretches upon the top of her cat tree. These movements are meant to show off her fit and sleek feline physique in such a way that I will be powerless to resist. I will be drawn to her, overcome by the urge to stroke her silken coat. She will then have me in her grasp, clasping my hands with sharp claws and gently biting my hand. I believe she does this to remind herself that I do not taste very good and this is one of the reasons that she does not give in to her wilder instincts and try to eat me. Besides, I am the source of tastier food and can be commanded to play with her at any time by staring at me with large, round eyes. I am enjoying the brief respite from heat this early morning, but it’s time to get a few things done before the day heats up. |
| Everyone has heard of a “fish tale”. A fish tale is another way of saying “big lie”. The term refers to the expectation that a fisherman is likely to exaggerate when reporting the size of the fish he’s caught. But what about the size of the fish that caught the fisherman? A couple of weeks ago, a local lobster fisherman had a whale of a fish tale to tell. While diving to the bottom of the cold Atlantic to check his lobster traps, he found himself suddenly immersed in darkness. He thought at first that he had been swallowed by a Great White Shark, but the absence of teeth slicing into him or chomping on his bones told him that could not be the case. In fact, he had been swallowed by a feeding humpback whale. Luckily for him, he was able to reinsert his breathing apparatus and get oxygen until the whale decided to spit him out. Amazingly, he came through the experience without any serious injury. The tale is remarkable for the fact that it is not that rare or unheard of. This lobster fisherman was not the first man to tell this kind of fish tale, nor was he the first since Jonah. I knew you were thinking of him. All my life, the biblical tale of Jonah and the whale has been called into question by skeptics and defended with alternative explanations by religious scholars, but it seems that there is no explanation required. If you are in the area of a big whale with its mouth open, you might get swallowed up in the great rush of water going into its mouth. It makes me want to revisit Moby Dick. Maybe it wasn’t just a fish tale, after all. https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/a-lobsterman-found-himself-in-a-whale-e2-80-99... |
| When my son was born, his older sister immediately viewed him as an interloper. It was clear to her from the start that he was going to steal some of her spotlight and destroy her glorious only child status. As a baby, he got far too much of my attention and so, she ignored him. As a toddler, he was blamed for everything she didn't want to get into trouble for. When she became a teen, the five year age gap made him far too insignificant to be part of her life. Of course, that applied to me, too. Teenagers treat anyone who is not a peer as if they were a disease. When my daughter reached her twenties and moved out of the house, I didn't see their relationship ever changing. As a parent, you worry about what will happen after you are gone. Some day, they may have only each other as family. But no one in their twenties listens to anyone, right? Think back. Of course, circumstances change and The Girl (her official internet name) has moved back home. The Boy has graduated from teens into his twenties and is also part of the working world. Finally, there is some level of equality. But I didn't really detect any kind of loyalty or concern for each other until last night. The Boy had an unfortunate episode with his car while working. His car is essential to his job. If his car breaks down, he doesn't make money and his job is threatened. Not only did the The Girl research the problem online, find a YouTube video on how to fix it, but she took time off from her job to go show him what she learned and help him get the car going again. She actually offered to let him drive her car in a pinch. I was flabbergasted. I guess there is a time when siblings of all ages find their common ground. There is a time when the jealousy over mom's attention fades (probably about the time they decided I was too old to know anything). There is a time when she forgives him for being born and he forgives her for trying to dress him in her ballerina tutu when he was four. A time when the bickering, bumps and bruises of childhood are forgotten. Even though it means I am even less important than before, it still warms my heart to see this time arrive. Maybe someday, I can grow up and get my own place. |
| A meme in my Facebook feed this morning poses one of the most challenging questions facing those of us living in the modern world: "hmm...should I spend two seconds clicking unsubscribe or spend one second deleting an email from this company every single day for the rest of my life?" This is a real dilemma because to unsubscribe is to cut yourself off from any future messages from this source. The possibility exists that even if I am not very interested in reading that email today, at some point in the future, there may be something of great interest and if I unsubscribe, I will miss it. Actually, that's not true. The truth is that I am inexcusably lazy. I don't read emails if the subject line tells me all I need to know. I don't click unsubscribe because I don't want to spend the time and effort. And I don't even delete the emails every day, or sometimes ever. I am so lazy. But I cannot be the only one who gets emails they don't read from a source they have only a slight interest in. It's so easy to get on a mailing list - it takes nearly no effort at all and it can be done without even being aware of the commitment one is making. Unsubscribing is a conscious decision and requires a directed effort. Google is being helpful these days by having my Gmail ask me about senders that I ignore. "You haven't opened an email from so-and-so in a while" it will tell me, and then ask if I want to unsubscribe. This is incredibly helpful. I know that Google has become evil and overtaken by megalomania and a desire to rule the world, but sometimes it's worth it to sell my virtual soul because Google excels at making life easier for lazy people. |
| I don't know what this post is, maybe it's a lament. Maybe it's a longing for the days when I could concentrate all my focus on the computer, when the phone didn't ring so often and there were fewer voices calling my name. At my age I should be much more lonely and forgotten. That pulls me up short. There's a thought that yanks on the reins of my mind's wandering. There will be a day when these interrupting voices are silenced in death and even fade in memory. There will be a time when no one will ask my opinion because I am too old and out of touch. Then I will be truly alone and with all the time in the world. When that happens, I probably won't be blogging, or writing poetry or concocting wild stories except in my confused reveries. I won't be phoned or sought after for advice. I will be lonely and forgotten, but maybe I won't know it. It's odd to think that dementia might be the way to escape the inevitability of being forgotten by others - to simply forget about them, too. |
Speaking of poison… In my last post I talked about poisonous plants. Well, I have found another one. Maybe. It might also be a health superfood. I bought some ground flaxseed because I had heard in a YouTube video that it was a very healthy addition to other foods and generally good for digestion. As usual, I decided to do my in-depth research after I purchased it and not before I wasted my money. I found an article in the Daily Mail from 2019 which claims that flaxseed contains a compound that turns into cyanide gas as it breaks down. Ground flaxseed has apparently become a popular topping for porridge, and it’s nearly a staple for people on a ketogenic diet so if it is really full of cyanide, I would have expected to hear of at least a few deaths attributed to mysterious cyanide poisoning in otherwise healthy people. But, nah. So, I decided not to give much credence to the Daily Mail article (which is often the sensible option) and dug even further for information. I happened upon another article on a health-related website which listed many interesting facts: Flax was grown in ancient Egypt as a staple grain. However, I will note that all the ancient Egyptians are dead now. Flaxseed contains phytoestrogens which either prevent or cause breast cancer. Opinions differ. Some research indicates that it might lower cholesterol. It may improve diabetes in rodents, but no one knows if it will do so in humans. Flaxseed might help constipation, it might cause diarrhea or it might cause intestinal blockages. Something for everyone. It might reduce physical damage from radiation exposure. For me, this last claim is a reason to keep it in the house. I mean, in case of nuclear bombs or leaking radiation from a nuclear reactor, I would probably eat lots of flaxseed and not care if it does anything for my diabetes or cholesterol. I wouldn’t give the cyanide a second thought. Apple seeds contain cyanide, too. Sounds like it’s a seed thing. I probably won’t be eating the flaxseed, but it will go into the bomb shelter (if I ever build one) to prepare for the coming apocalypse (if there ever is one). Overall, the rumors about flaxseed have contributed to my growing suspicions about the true nature of plant life on Earth. I think the plants have plans to take over. |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts