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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. |
| Today, I want to talk about poison. Poison was a big part of my childhood. We didn’t keep poison in the bathroom medicine cabinet, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nothing like that. But it was at a young age that I first came across some Agatha Christie novels in a church rummage sale, and it began years of seeking out and reading all the adventures of the delightful Miss Marple and the fastidious Hercule Poirot. Quite often, the murder weapon used in her stories was poison. Her sleuths moved in upper crusty circles, after all, and poison is a very quiet and civilized way to murder someone. Not flashy and noisy like the firing of a gun. Not visceral and personal like stabbing with a knife. Poison allows for a certain detachment. Dump the vial in the tea or a medicine bottle and you can be elsewhere when the deed is done. I learned a lot about poison from Agatha Christie. I learned the names of lots of poisons and where they might be found in common household products. Many poisons grow right in the garden, and it is these poisons I want to talk about. If you’ve read any Agatha Christie, you will be aware that you can get digitalis from foxglove and that belladonna (deadly nightshade) is a beautiful but deadly flower. Christie even used ricin and hemlock to dispatch some of her victims. All harvested from the home landscaping. So, even in my youth, I knew that wild-growing plants had to be viewed suspiciously. But I never realized that many of the foods common in the modern diet are also quite poisonous. These poisons mostly affect pets. Humans manage them quite well for the most part (except for some of us who are sensitive). For instance, humans consume onions and garlic all the time, using them to season many kinds of food. But these tasty and spicy foods are toxic to domestic animals like cats, dogs and even guinea pigs. Which brings me to flowering plants. I have received several beautiful and colorful flowering plants as gifts in the past few years. In every case, a quick Google search provided a detailed list of the frightening things that could happen if your cat decided to chew on the leaves or blooms. I have had to move these potted plants outdoors where they do not long survive, but at least my indoor cat does. See, if you’re an animal and some other animal wants to eat you, nature has provided you with some defenses. You can run away, you might have colorations that help camouflage you or a deep burrow to hide in. If you are a plant, you have no place to hide, and you cannot run. Highly edible plants like roses have thorns to discourage anyone from messing with them. But there are a lot of plants that defend themselves with poison - Poinsettias, Calla Lily, Bird of Paradise, Jade plants, Wandering Jew, even Aloe Vera for crying out loud! I have recently developed a real sense of caution when it comes to any plant, even vegetables. For a very long time, tomatoes were considered to be poison until some brave soul invented pizza. You can’t blame them as tomatoes (along with eggplant) belong to the nightshade family. Just the name gives me the shivers. The point of this blog, however, is to encourage people to research any plant they intend to gift to a household with a pet. I feel really bad about putting your beautiful gift outdoors, but I have to choose the cat over the flowers. Beauty and bright colors is how the plant gets you to take it home and poison is how it kills off its enemies. So, beware. |
| I have a mail dysfunction. Mail is very important. Bills, for instance, need to be paid. But if I know I don't have the money, it seems silly to open them, so I just put them aside. Other letters may be important too, and so one day I must read them. Clearly, I must set them aside. And even if I read them, I need to keep the important ones - so I set them aside. Now my aside is so full, it hurts to move. There are so many good and psychologically sound reasons for this dysfunction. My mother never threw any piece of mail away without first tearing it up into tiny pieces so that no one could find her trash and read her mail. She was particularly worried about her name and address being decipherable. She taught me to be paranoid about privacy and security long before the NSA scandal and internet phishing scams and the rest of modern day intrusions. I don't even want to tell you what a problem the mail is for me. I cannot tell you how much backlogged mail I have that simply needs to be thrown away. But every pile of mail may contain an important letter or piece of documentation, and so every pile must be thoroughly investigated before it is chucked in the bin. It also needs to be shredded. Sometimes I pour the coffee grounds or some other unpleasant garbage on top of it to discourage anyone from piecing it together. All of this would make sense if I were some international spy or highly-placed government official. The truth is that I can't think of anyone who would want to read my mail for any reason. I was gifted a shredding machine recently. It would be a great idea, if only shredding paper were as much fun as it looks. It tends to get a bit samey after a while. I doubt I am going to get better, and so I can only hope that whoever cleans out the place after I die will shred the piles of mail. I don't want anyone assuming my identity in my absence. |
| I was considering a few ideas for the blog this morning, some of them topical, some philosophical. But, as I type this, I am sinking below the level of the keyboard, and below the high-toned conversations I intended to have on important questions of the day. The only question on my mind right now is: "Why does my chair hate me?" Finding the right chair from which to conduct all online business is a serious matter. And for many years this chair provided all I could desire. It was adjustable to a perfect height, it swiveled for easy exit or even just for dramatic flair, and it didn't roll away out from under me too quickly. I had a chair with fast rolling wheels once that threw me onto the floor and then I couldn't sit for a week. No, this chair doesn't roll too easily. In fact, it barely rolls at all. I don't mind that. I don't mind the spots where the fabric on the seat is torn or unsightly. That's what they make duck tape for. By the way, "duck tape" is the original name for the tape. I know it sounds wrong, which is why many people assume it must be "duct tape" and also because you're much more likely to need to securely tape ducts than you are ducks. Taping ducks sounds like animal abuse. The name "duck tape" refers to the waterproof material from which it was originally made. It's also a brand name. Nowadays however, the term "duct tape" is just as widely used to describe the product, and most people don't care what you call it as long as you have some when something needs to be repaired or the ducks get loose. So, the ratty appearance of the chair doesn't bother me and it never tries to pitch me out by speeding across the hardwood floor. The only direction that this chair goes unbidden is down. I've just had to stop typing in order to get up and raise the chair to desk level. This is the third time since I began this blog post. Already it is ratcheting down an inch at a time. I can continue typing for a bit, until the chair is so low that I am reaching up to hit the keys. Someday, I will need a new chair. But new chairs are not broken in to fit personal contours. New chairs roll too well. I don't feel that I have the patience to break in a new chair or to wait for enough cat hair and lint to gather around the wheels to form a natural brake. This chair doesn't always lower me to the floor, after all. Sometimes, it goes for tens of minutes at a time without losing height. It's the devil you know, isn't it? Sometimes, it's better to take a little duck tape and patch up the problems as best you can, than it is to buy new problems that duck tape can't fix. |
| I turned the coffee brewer on without placing a cup under the spout this morning, so perhaps I am not in the best mental position for discussing philosophical issues, but I may have a bash at one anyway. I wiped up the first ten ounces of coffee with a kitchen towel and set up a retaining wall with another as the kitchen counter flows downward to the right, then made another cup of coffee. A few more sips and I will be ready to type (this much has taken ages, but I feel the synapses coming alive and the signals beginning to connect with my fingers). First, let me say that I hope no one takes memes on Facebook seriously enough to alter their worldview. Facebook philosophy is flawed at best, dangerous at its worst. I remember when I first saw the word "meme", I mistakenly thought it was borrowed from the French même, meaning "same". A little research reveals that it is a made-up word based loosely on a Greek root word meaning to mime or mimic, and was coined by Richard Dawkins in 1976. However, I think a more literal meaning can be taken from pronouncing it as not one, but two syllables as in “me-me”. Because the majority of memes are all about “me”. They are screaming “me, me!” and it seems like an unhealthy trend on a site dedicated to social interaction. The me-me that I saw this morning (and which led to this diatribe) declares that someone found the author intimidating but the question was “is she intimidating or are you intimidated?” and then declares that the author refuses to take responsibility for how others react to her. It’s a good thing that Emily Post is dead, or this would have killed her. Hey, I believe that everyone is entitled to be their own, true, authentic selves. I also believe that civilization depends on our ability to follow a few rules of behavior that make it possible to live together. One of those rules would be to not go around intimidating people unnecessarily. Admittedly, there may be times when intimidation is a good thing, such as in war or political negotiations. It absolutely is not necessary to be completely self-absorbed in social interactions, however. While it is true that some people are more timid and easily intimidated, it is still a better answer to find out what about you intimidates people so that you can make sure that your message isn’t lost in the delivery. Other me-me messages that draw attention and sympathy abound. These are annoying but much less harmful. They generally tell you that the author possesses some faults but that they are wonderful and lovable anyway (and if you don’t agree you can do something obscene to yourself). They might declare that the author is silently suffering but will never complain (which they have just done in the me-me). These me-me messages fulfill the need for attention that caused the poster to spread them. But they don’t encourage anti-social behavior. The perpetuation of the me-me does help one to understand the study which found that the use of Facebook had a detrimental effect on mood. The more time users spent on Facebook, the sadder they became. User, beware! And if you find this blog post intimidating, then it’s not my responsibility. |
| The only thing I have to blog about today is heat, sweat and struggle. It's ridiculously hot here. There is no way we should be in an extended heat wave in early June. Before you cry "global warming", let me say that the last time I remember an early heat wave, it occurred in April and we were all fooled into planting flowers. Then, just a few short days later (they are short days, it being spring still) we had snow and ice in early May. Honestly, I would be alright with a surprise snowstorm. As far as I know, it hasn't snowed in June in New England since 1815. So very little hope of that. Obviously, the sweat is a result of the aforementioned heat, so we won't delve into that. The struggle is that this isn't my first post in June. I am going to blog for The Bard's Hall contest and wish I had known about it before I wrote my first June blog post. But if I edit that post to add the link to the contest, it changes the date on the blog post to today. The problem is that it's a much better post than this one. I even wrote a poem, for crying out loud. It's far too hot to be poetic or philosophical today. So, I would advise anyone reading my blog to immediately stop reading this post and go read the post from the third. Or maybe wait and read the next one. With any luck, it will be better than this. "The Bard's Hall Contest"  |
| There's a media prompt this week, It's a song about pretending to be something you're not in an effort to try to please others, or perhaps to make up for your own insecurities and how this pressure makes you a liar. Although I know people like that and perhaps, have felt that pressure myself at times, something quite different came to mind. And so I have written this poem. I am putting it here in the blog, killing two birds with one stone. I swear, I didn't kill any real birds. Not that I wasn't tempted. The Mockingbird The mockingbird cares not if I sleep Crying out from a nearby tree He explains to the risen moon That he can be all he was meant to be Not a robin, a chickadee or even a loon He sings forth his practiced rhythm Hiding himself in the thick of the leaves He does not mind his plain color or form It is enough for him that everyone believes That he is not a tiny bird, but a car alarm |
| I remember that when I was young, one of the most derisive epithets that my older brother and his friends tossed at each other quite liberally was "fathead". This probably stems from having watched so many hours of The Three Stooges, followed every Saturday morning by the spectacle of professional wrestling (a sport in which many participants appeared to be fatheads). This might have been a good thing. You see, I read some interesting brain facts this morning, the most surprising of which is that the brain is 60% fat. Yowsa! Suddenly, I felt better about the butter on my breakfast. And about watching The Three Stooges. I remember remarking to a Stooge aficionado once that the Stooges were entertaining in their genre of comedy if one appreciated them for what they were and may have said something along the lines of "well, it's not Noel Coward" and the hurt reaction I received has prevented me from ever again entering into any deep critique of their body of work. So, my goal for today is to be a great, big, fathead. I hope you all can be fatheads, too. |
| I am thinking about blogging again. It's one way to keep writing even when I have nothing to write. But thinking about it is as far as I have progressed this morning. I was asked what my plans were for the day, and as usual, my plans are both visionary and practical. That means I will dream big and accomplish little. Visions are always hampered by the existence of practicalities. If I can think of anything to blog about, I will be back. The day's prospects are bit bleak and sodden under a leaky grey sky, so I wouldn't form any expectations. |
| It's been more than a month since I updated my blog. For a short time, I was blogging daily and feeling very proud of myself. Now, if there is only one email in my Inbox, I won't even look at my email. I know what it will say. Update your blog. Such an optimistic term, though - "update". It implies that interesting and exciting things have been happening and it's time to let everyone in on them. I assure you, that is not the case. Spring has arrived since I last blogged. It isn't a very impressive spring. It hasn't bowled me over. There has been the usual amount of grey skies, the occasional downpour day and a few windy nights that blow right through the window casings, making spring feel every bit as cold as winter but sound slightly noisier. Snow is cold, but it is very, very quiet. ------------------------------------------- and------------------------------------------------------- I put that line in because I seem to have wandered away for an hour or two. Oh, I remember now. I was on one phone call while a second person was calling me and a third person was texting me, so I went off to wash the dishes. Then I had lunch. I think I must be done blogging for today. |
| The Media Prompt this week is a video of the song Jumpsuit by Twenty One Pilots. Prior to this, I have only one brief experience of this band and their musical offerings. Since it is the only story I have about Twenty One Pilots, it's the one I will write for my blog post. Warning: In the beginning, it won't seem like the story is about Twenty One Pilots, but it is. Hang in there. It started with The Mandolorian, the latest entry in the Star Wars saga. I had not watched this show as I didn't even have Disney as a streaming service. So, I was completely unaware that The Mandolorian had become a sensation, as big as any Star Wars character had ever been in popularity. So big, that his fan base was eclipsed by only one other Star Wars character - his unnamed sidekick, called "Baby Yoda" by fans of the show. I first saw Baby Yoda when my daughter texted me a photo of him and asked me to crochet a Baby Yoda for her. I said that I would, little knowing that crocheted Baby Yodas were all the rage and it was almost impossible to find any yarn in a sort of mossy green color since all the crafters making yodas had cleared the shelves. Eventually, I found a source and got to work. A woman who works with my son's girlfriend saw photos of my Baby Yoda and wanted to buy two of them. So, I made another two yoda dolls. She loved them and asked if I could make a Ned for her daughter. I confess, that I had no idea what a "Ned" was. Aside from being Ned, it had no meaning for me. It was then I was directed to a video of the song "Chlorine" by Twenty One Pilots. Ah ha! Now there seems to be some point to this rambling story, you might say. But you'd be wrong. The only point is that Ned and his song are my frame of reference on this band. And from what I've seen and heard, I feel like the songwriter is not very happy. In the song "Chlorine", the singer ends up sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool (with Ned) looking rather depressed. Chlorine may cleanse the water, but in a larger concentration is poisonous. One wonders what Chlorine represents in the song, cleansing or poison? He sings "sippin' on straight Chlorine" and says he's running for his life. In the song, Jumpsuit, he's standing on a car that's on fire and being chased by a figure who may represent Death. Death appears to catch up to him, but only smears dark ashy fingerprints on his neck. It seems significant that the coat that the singer puts on has high-visibility stripes and looks like a fireman's jacket. At the end of the song, the car is burnt but the fire is out and the jacketed singer, safe in his coat but carrying the marks of fire on him, walks away from the charred chassis. The singer has survived the fire, and Death was not able to take him. Yeah, I think that the songwriter for this band thinks about death a lot. Or maybe I have it all wrong. Watch both these videos and see what I mean. Or tell me I am full of hooey. |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts