So Much The Ancient

Happy Birthday to me! 

I wake up a little late.

I make a pot of coffee. Pour a cup full, over a dash of real cow milk. I cannot tolerate the flavor, nor the texture of nut juice in coffee. Oat juice is likewise not acceptable. I won't even entertain tofu juice in coffee. All of those are fine in other places. The coffee bean deserves the real milk, sourced from local, happy cows. I have seen them and their habitat. It's OK. They're as well off as any of us are in this twisty-turny simulation of reality. 

I mix up some flour, homemade baking powder, salt, stirring very well to incorporate all the dry ingredients. I grate in some frigid butter, getting the consistency just right, sort of softly-chunky. I lightly stir in the local whole milk, add cheese... your basic cheesy biscuit recipe, roll em' out, press/cut with Dad's old whiskey glass into the semi round shape, the shape Neal and I like from a biscuit, then throw them into the oven. 

Coffee cup in hand, I walk down to the bottom of the driveway to inspect the brand new, beautiful, large, amazingly yellow mailbox, the one I installed yesterday. It's solidly installed, but wiggles, just a bit when opened and closed. This is due to the thin metal of the post. It's in the design. And probably partially due to the very sturdy latch on the mailbox. The box makes a good solid "Klonk" when opened or closed. On a side note, in what is probably an unintentional bonus, it should act as a notification klonk whenever someone opens and closes it, to be heard from anywhere at the house. "Klonk!" Mail's here!

I think briefly about the marriage of the solid klonk to the less solid post. Is it a mismatch? Will it last? Or will the solid klonking mailbox be too much for the worryingly flexible post? Of course, the post might not be weak, just flexible. It might flex forever. I worry this could cause the box to, I don't know... wibble. Or it could wobble. The nuts could come loose from too much motion. We wouldn't want a problem with the nuts, after all. I mean, the box could be its klonking, solid self. The post could be its flexing, adaptable self. All the while, the bolts are working loose, not happy with the situation in their own way, because the nuts are loose. There's a lot to consider.  

 

Rather than be frustrated by this, I begin to think of ways I can reinforce the post, without compromising the nice, clean look of it all. I could back the post with a t-bar. But that would add clutter. I could add a half-round pipe up the back, or even wrap it with a split pipe. It would take some doing. But I could make it work. Or maybe I could remove the mailbox from the post, drill a hole in the platform that it mounts to, and insert a rod with some concrete around it. That would work, and secure it from the inside. Of course, that is a bit more work, and holds the potential for unforeseeable risks. The reality that there ARE risks is NOT unforeseeable. Heck! It could screw up the mounting. Not likely, but possible. I could set it down and somehow scratch the beautiful yellow finish. That's just it. The unknown is terrifying from a first world problems perspective, terrifying. 

I begin to feel a little guilty that I would deem to change the nature of the post. I'm being judgmental. And I'm obviously playing favorites. After all, it was designed that way. I'm sure people all over the world have installed that same post and surely someone would have let me know if its flexibility had become problematic. Besides, the post is obviously concerned about the cars that might come crashing into it. I mean, it would need to give way in that event. And if I were to have my way and install some heavy duty post, then a squirrel were to come darting out in front of some driver with an unfortunate combination of a caring nature, but a heavy gas foot, then I would be responsible for a disaster.

Besides, we've decided that the asshole who drives the shitty-loud pickup truck in the middle of the road, driving too close to us while we're walking, coming too close and revving his shitty-loud glass-pack muffler, driving too close to us and causing Meg to display for him the middle finger, the rude finger, the birdie finger, in turn causing him the rev even louder as he continues on his asshole way... We've decided he is probably going to knock down the new mailbox because he's a dick, and a dick who knows where we live. So all my thoughts on posts and boxes are likely moot anyway. 

Nah! 

I'm sure it's all fine. Like my Dad used to tell me, "Lee, you just think too much!" 

Well, coffee cup is almost empty. Cheesy biscuits were delicious. I'm done feeling ancient about being ancient. Also, if you're more ancient than I, congratulations. It isn't that I'm NOT ancient. It's just that you are REALLY ancient. 

Have a great day!  

     

Neural Reverb

I have tried for a long time to explain a certain feeling. It's a feeling I get when there is any sort of weakness setting in, a cold, a fever, some short circuit of the body. The best way I can describe it is neural reverb, or neural echoing. 

There's a copper on tin quality to it, like when metals rub together. In the microscopic world of energies, metals create electricity in opposition. You have to use the same, or at least complementary metals when you join them. Otherwise they will deteriorate due to the charges.

There is a mis-joining that occurs sometimes in me. Systemically, the charges go slightly awry, and the resulting sensations are neural reverberation. Each movement or step, or noise, or any sensation on the skin, creates a copper on tin charge, a slight zap and microscopic clank that shimmers. If I'm quiet of movement, I can pick it up. It's the mist thick enough that it makes drops on skin, just before a rain. It's coming. 

I got my first dose of Pfizer vaccine the other day, Friday. I felt absolutely nothing when she injected me. Well, not true. I felt the cold swab of the alcohol wipe before the injection. Then she said she was finished. I waited in the car, in the parking lot with Neal, who got his shot at the same time. I waited for 15 minutes, imagining each moment the onset of anaphylactic shock. And in the car line for coffee afterwards, I listened, to the passing seconds, to be the rare case. But we got our coffee fine. Just coffee. No epinephrine needed.

My arm was sore that night. That's about it. And just the area right around where I believed she pretended to give me a shot because I didn't even feel it. Now I felt it. But just...

We went to Boston the next morning. We roamed the streets, masked up. We bought delicious meals, stayed in a great hotel. We did a bit of Boston. It was probably a dumb thing to do. But we did. And we were as cautious as cautious can be once we threw caution to the wind and went. I mean, going wasn't cautious. But we wore masks. We washed our hands. We distanced. In Boston.

______

This was all something I wrote about three weeks ago. I've been engaged with the world to the extent I haven't been writing much. 

Now it's May 12, a day after my second shot, a day before my 54th birthday. I'm going to New York City for a day trip in a few days. The good news is I've had my second serving of nanochips, making me invincible, impervious, except for the downloads from my liberal overlords who will program empathy and respect for people into my genes. 

That's where I'm at.

"Moment Me" Meet "Memory Me!" How You!

This is a short one. At least it needs to be. If I make this a long post, something is wrong with me.

It was a simple moment that got tangled up in the complex goo of my over analysis. So, I guess long is relative in those terms. I've been noticing that social media is stealing our memories. I don't want to go into how there are ways it helps our memories. Because, in this moment, the absolute, irrefutable, and eternal truth is that social media steals our memories. I'll let you know if that changes. But social media does and has always been a theft of our thoughts. At least I am pretty sure it has been. I think it has. Hell, I can't remember. But whatever! 

It's as if there are two of me. I don't want to go into how there are so many more of me. Hell, there's really only one me. But, it gets churned up in this Zeno's hellethon of time in, of time out, now/then, then thinking of now, now remembering then... But whatever! 

Which is which? The me of any moment is the me viewing the memory of the moment I was just in. So, God (The Cosmos) grants me the magic mind power to snatch that arrow from the air and pluck it out of my whole damn story. Fuck Zeno! I mean, it's a great thing to ponder. It's a good exercise. But whatever!

My wife and I take a long walk every day. We pass this guy who has tractors and equipment in his yard. He waves. I wave back. He's off, up in his yard. Sometimes Meg doesn't see him. She keeps telling me she needs glasses. I mean, maybe... But also, we just see different things. In this particular point of the walk, she doesn't see him, usually. But she did see him the time he was driving and nearly ran me over because I was walking backwards up the hill, talking to her. I actually really appreciate that about us. It's like our skill sets capture different parts of the world and we fill in each others' blanks... sometimes. I guess it's dangerous to think about your and your wife's blanks. We likely don't agree on which blanks we each have and don't have. And there are lots of ways to read a sentence like, "My wife's blanks..." She has nice blanks by the way. Anyway, that's a bunch of nonsense for sure. It doesn't have much to do with the actual story. But the actual story is actually so short it isn't a story. But whatever. 

Anyway, so today he waves and says, "Hello." 

I throw up my hand and say, "How you?" Just like that... How...you... Not how are you. Not how you doing. But "How you?" 

I'm wearing this straw hat my daughter gave me. It's painted on the top. I'm carrying my walking stick. I look like some old man of the woods or something, and I say, "How you?" What the hell is that? It got me thinking. My thought? What the hell is that? How you? I mean... was I somehow trying to out country the dude? He may have a degree from Yale, or who knows what. And I'm out there throwing out my best Alabama, "How you!" I could have said anything else in greeting. Hello, hi, howdy, hey, or even expanded it to, "Beautiful day, isn't it." 

There are two of me. One likes to sit and have fun with the other. I play games with me, sort of. I look back at Memory Me and Moment Me gets a chuckle, has questions, sometimes complaints. It's weird. Moment Me becomes Memory Me in a quantum, fuzzy sort of time passage. They have to be a good mile or so away from each other to exist. And something will stick in one of those minds, and I will think about it as one of those characters for way longer than is likely warranted. But hey, whatever. 

 

 

Get Out of Dumb Free Card

Possible blog post titles:

Well, that was fun! 

Take a Hike, Not! 
Two Hikers Missing, Almost!

Dumb Choices Come in Bulk!

Nah, it wasn't really all that bad. When we were at the bottom of the ice covered hill and decided, after having not read a map to see how long the hike was, after slipping and skidding downhill with the help of gravity, after seeing that the path, from the point to which we had made it, then turned back UP the hill, an unfortunate reality that would have made gravity an entirely different character in our little story...  Anyway, when we were at the bottom of this hill, beside the creek, where we should have known we would be because we should have read a map, looking back up the hill, we made a decision. Was it the right decision? Well, I'm here to write this post. Spoiler alert, it involves no major injuries and ends with fancy chocolate and coffee. So, it could have been worse. 

I'm not sure how much of a story to make out of this. I mean, we left the house for what, in my mind, would be a "walk" to the "waterfall." The waterfall is a tiny little drop in the level of the creek on a beautiful, but tiny nature preserve, about five minutes drive from our house. Behind this waterfall there are two trails, neither of which have we yet to explore fully. As we were leaving the house, having already locked the various deadbolts installed by the previous, obviously paranoid owner, loaded the poles, gotten in the car... I looked over at Meg and said, "Oh, I guess I should have put on my boots. Should I go back in and put my hiking boots on?" Well, this was a short conversation wherein we discussed the merits of going all the way back in to get my boots. I, like I said, thinking of this as just a "walk," chose poorly. She, to her credit, suggested I go back in and put on the boots. Choices. What can I say. Hindsight and all. 

I started the car, placed my tennis shoe covered foot onto the gas pedal, and away we went.

I always grab my walking stick, for short walks, hikes, days in the park. It's a tool with many uses. To my credit, I had reminded Meg to grab the trekking poles I bought her for Christmas. I can take solace in that, because the poles and walking stick probably prevented us from breaking one, or various bones on our adventure. And had we ended up the way we joked we might end up, stuck in the snow, or one of us dragging the other wounded and busted up from the woods, or worse yet, one leaving the other behind to go get help... they would have made for "better than nothing" weapons.

Anyway, back to the hike. Standing at the bottom of the icy hill, halfway through the "hike," beside the creek, we looked at each other and, for the purposes of this story, simultaneously said, "I guess if we follow the creek back it might be better."  There were a few other comments. I can't remember which of us said exactly what, when, or the perfect memory of what concept was in our heads. Suffice it to say, we were at the bottom of a treacherous hill, didn't really like the odds of going back up. We didn't like our odds going forward (Also uphill, on a trail that foot traffic had disturbed, then packed, then had refrozen into a slippery mess). So, like in the movies, follow the river. It will lead us somewhere.  

How, exactly did the conversation go? We're a team. So you can imagine either of us saying any of the things said at any given time. "I don't know. Is this a dumb idea?" Sure, there were a few of those thrown in. Bottom line, it was the type of conversation one would imagine the couple in the news article about lost hikers had before they did whatever it was that turned them into a news article about lost hikers. You always say to yourself, "Well, that was dumb. Why did they do that?" I'm here to say, yes, that was probably dumb. But being dumb often has mitigating circumstances, outside help, the influence of a situation sculpted by mother nature and happenstance. 

The main thing that guided our poor decisions was likely the "How bad could it be," factor. Like, we weren't far from actual houses, they could probably hear us screaming, in a pinch, that sort of thing. Except, when we got separated and had to yell at one another, we could barely hear each other. So maybe that thought was false comfort. 

"So, Mr. Waites, how did you get separated?" In the movies, there's always some dramatic moment, some heated argument, a clear moment when one person makes the decision to leave the other person. It's a poor choice moment, or a survival moment. There's a clear cut choice that leads the story down the path, by splitting the paths of the characters. 

Well, I can see how that's probably bullshit most of the time. In our story, one little rock, one slippery log, one hole through the snow... we just ended up in different spots. I went around a big boulder, I slipped and fell, not bad, but enough that I wasn't going back that way. Meg went low, around the log below me. When you're off trail, and the ground is covered in icy snow, I can assure you, it's easy to get separated. Sometimes momentum drives you forward. I surged up the hill to get to a place with firmer ground. Meg crept across the creek to do the same. 

Voila! There we were, one up on a hill on one side of the creek, one down on the banks on the other side. You can't hear it very well in the video. But apparently we were both yelling basically the same thing. We both knew where we were going, and both worried the other might not. As good teams can do, we spoke with our actions when words didn't actually suffice. From here, the story, like the ground, levels out and draws us to a speedy conclusion.  

We both followed the creek until we reached the bridge, and reunited on the path back to the car.

 

We joked with each other that after this, we needed to hand in our "Get out of jail

dumb free" cards. This was a baby mistake. As in, compared to the mistakes other people make, this was inconsequential, like a mistake on training wheels. Could it have been worse? Absolutely! One of us could have broken a leg. One of us could have fallen in the water. It was below freezing, but only just barely. Up here in CT that's balmy for this time of year. But it would have gotten colder if the sun went down. We didn't have any lights. It was late in the day. That sort of thing. Baby mistakes. 

This was just a moment, for us, where we could sympathize with those people in the news articles about doing dumb shit. Our dumb shit was pretty tame. But one different moment in the story... What could it have been?

Our story ended with a bunch of laughing at ourselves and how goofy we had just been. Then we drove to Kent and got really high quality chocolate treats and a damn good cup of coffee for Meg. I'm glad we did that instead of becoming famous.  

  

   

   

   

Old Stalker Guy! Oldy Trolldy!

It's amazing how, after a night of reflection, writing about my Facebook stalker seems less important. I had 5 paragraphs and lots of information I had written while lying in bed. The delete button took care of that quickly. 

Bottom line, who gives a shit. This could be a long, drawn out post about how Facebook employees kicked me out of an admin group. I could ramble about the new Facebook pivot to monetize groups, and how exposing that in said admin group is what got me kicked out. But here's my edited version: Really... Fuck Facebook! Fuck the stalker guy. Who cares.

Bear, our dog, saw the deer out the back window, up on the ridge, grazing behind the house. I need to go let him out. But I'm worried he will chase the deer up into the woods and vanish. I set up the invisible fence around the perimeter of our property. I will admit that it's a very effective containment strategy. Somewhere, for the last two weeks, buried under two feet of snow, there's a breach in that line, though. It broadcasts a radio signal that triggers an electric shock if the dog gets too close. It sends out a warning chime so the dog knows not to go any farther. So it's basically a torture device. My kids hate that I use that description. But it is. And hell, it's made a big difference in both his quality of life, and ours. But it's a worrisome method. 

Anyway, this breach that's two feet under the snow causes the system to entirely shut down. Bear, having immediately learned the boundaries after one shock, hasn't gone out of the back yard since the breach occurred. I have to wait until I can actually access the line to fix it. But the mere memory of the one time he got shocked is enough to keep him from ever violating the intent of the fence. That is a strange psychological dilemma for me. Like, there were plenty of times I chose patient methods with my kids, perhaps less "effective" discipline, but morally justifiable. Shocking the shit out of them might have done the trick. That realization opens up a world of guilt for me. 

So, as an update, I decided to go find the breach. After writing the above paragraph, I figured it's better to go crunch around in the snow and just get it done. Of course, the snow had gotten down to about four inches. Only, as it melts and refreezes on the surface, the top layer becomes about an inch of icy snow. So I had to go smash through the candy coating all up and down the line where I knew there was a joint in the wire. After 30 minutes of smashing and crunching, I found and fixed it. The torture device is repaired. 

Guilt is a big part of my motivational arsenal. When it comes to dogs, I feel like the entire history of dogs is filled with evil humans, even those who love their dogs. We tear them from their mothers and sell or give them away. So many people mistreat them, or abandon them, or make them wear sweaters. They're like little slaves. Sure, they're family members. But they're not members with all the rights and privileges which that implies. This guilt worry that I keep in the back of my mind helps me treat them better. My German Shepherd, Maya, who recently passed away, was more of a friend and a partner. But German Shepherds tend to be people in dog bodies. Bear has been diagnosed as a Catahoula Leopard Dog. The symptoms include, but are not limited to, being very stereotypically dog. He thinks with his nose. He barks at the wind. But I am sure he is seeing something I can't fathom. His senses are pretty good. Sometimes, if I sit still long enough, I can pick up whatever he's barking at. Other times, if I sit still long enough, he thinks it's a game and starts barking at me. His language is very different from Maya's. She spoke people. 

I'm in waiting mode for a few minutes. After tromping in the snow to fix the torture fence, I went to wake my son up so we could go to Starbucks for coffee. We have to drive about twenty minutes, Starbucks is inconsistent and, not to be snobby, but not that good. But my boy likes it. So we're going to make a little fun trip out of it. We agreed last night to take our coffees and go to the tower. There are towers all over up here in Connecticut. But this one is an easy walk from the parking area, and only about ten minutes from the house. So it's "the" tower.

I'm sitting here by the window as I write. The cats are scurrying about outside by the garage. They have gotten chunky over the winter. But I hope they'll work it off soon enough chasing the little critters away. I think the tick that gave me my "Welcome to Connecticut" case of Lyme disease, just a short while after moving here, came from critters in the yard. But it's hard to tell. The ticks up here are ferocious. They tend to crawl onto my back. So, not that I am unaware of what's happening. But I didn't tend to give my back quite as much attention until arriving here. I mean, I did focus on how my back felt, the little weak spot where the butt meets spine that got hurt when I fell off the ladder. It's manageable. But it is something that captures my attention at times. It doesn't stop me from doing all the things I have always done. It just reminds me of life when I pick up too much wood at one time, or shovel too much snow in a day. 

It's 9:10. Neal hit the proverbial snooze button until 9:30 for our coffee trip. So I want to write this and post it before we go. It's good to have goals. But it's better that my goals are about taking a break from all the shit I do all day to post something rather than being about trying to do something between posts. I guess that's what this post is about. And maybe to tell the old man who stalks me and my family on Facebook, fuck you! But also, who gives a shit. It's just a Facebook stalker. That's half of the people on Facebook, stalkers.

OK. After a smidge of editing, not enough I'm sure, and making a delicious few slices of avocado toast for me and my wife, 9:29. Did it. Now it's time for coffee.     

  

  

Why?

My public facing journal: I spent time scrolling through the Facebook and Twitter universes this morning. I see them as overbearing attempts to capture and dominate the Internet. Zuckerberg admitted as much early on. His vision is an everything place, an Internet in one site. I'm not going to bother with the details. To be clear, and not to belabor the point, I'm not cool with that. We've heard it all before. This is me acting on my convictions. 

Why Blogger? Frankly, because it's a bit primitive and not streamlined in the Internet's well of souls. You have to kind of work to find it. It's open to the public, but when do you ever see Blogger blogs up close and all Bloggery Blogspotting up the world? 

This is not a place where I have something to sell. This is just a place to warehouse and share life events, thoughts, all the me stuff, and the adjacent to me stuff that becomes me stuff through proximity or interest. That sort of thing. I have used groups and pages and other blogs, frankly, with relative success over the years. I can share and grow interest by doing what is so insidious about social media strategies, letting people expose themselves. 

This is not that. If anything, this is the opposite of that. If anyone wants to see what I have to share, it won't be rammed down their throats, nor manipulated into some stream. 

When Facebook and Twitter first captured the magic chalice from the Myspaces, Yahoo groups, and the various other disparate chat rooms and message boards, they offered a potential for something amazing. There was a public square element to them that allowed for constant connection around the world. That's changed in so many ways. 

So, here I am, atop this old jalopy, if you will. Personal me, publicly. Just me, Just Lee, and related. This is kind of what blogs are meant to be. I just like being fashionably late to the party.