“You can’t trust writers. They make up nonsense for a living.”
McDonnell, Caimh. Dead Man’s Sins (The Dublin Trilogy Book 5) . McFori Ink.
It is now Saturday the fourth day into February. Alas, I do not make up nonsense for a living, I do it because I have little else to do with my time. Today Naida and I went to the Saturday Morning Coffee as we usually do on Saturdays. There were not as many people there as on other Saturdays, only about 20 or so. The morning’s nonsense joke was:
“Who is the strongest thief?
Answer: A shoplifter.
Naida and the Reverend spent much of their time trying to console the Artist, an 86 or 87 year old ex-teacher of art and math named Shalla who was having a crisis over having lived as a Mormon but I wondering if she she should die as one. Although Naida and the Reverend urged her to find an different source of consolation, she seemed not too convinced but agreed to think it over. I as usual did not speak to anyone but I took photographs and listened. Someone brought lemons in a pail for us. She had picked them from a tree in her yard.
After the Coffee we went to Original Mel’s nearby. I had blueberry pancakes, two fried eggs over easy, and and Bacon. Naida ordered poached eggs with avocado. We also had coffee. After breakfast we went home and did nothing memorable for the rest of the day. I couldn’t sleep that night so I went downstairs and read for a few hours before returning to bed. The next morning I felt like an old used dishrag.
During breakfast, Naida kept up a running soliloquy about her memoir for over an hour and a half. She then found an old roll-a-dex of hers ( you have to be of our generation to know what that is). We looked through it trying to remember the people or organizations whose names appeared on the cards. This all made me sad. Not because it brought back memories, but because I really had nothing better to do. So, I did what I usually do when I come face to face with the question of the meaning of life. I went upstairs and took a nap.
After my nap I felt much better. Even the sun was shining outside. I thought about taking the dog for a walk. Then changed my mind. Then changed it again. I hooked-up the over excited Booboo to his leash and reached for my walking stick. It was gone. Not there. I ran around the house hysterically looking for it dragging the confused dog behind me. I could not find it. I began shouting somewhat hysterically “Naida, Naida my walking stick is gone.”
“No it’s not” she responded, “I put it somewhere we would be sure to find it, but I cannot remember where.” So we set about of a lengthy search through through the house until we found It in the back of one of the closets, Joy! I grabbed it and refrained from asking why she thought the closet was a more memorable place to store it that the stand by the door with all my other walking sticks. And so properly equipped I set off to walk the dog.
Actually, I was not walking the dog, He was walking me and we were not walking we were running. He flew out the door with me, one arm outstretched in front of me grasping the leash and, the other flying behind holding on to my walking stick. We ran that way down the path from the house to the street and up the street a ways until he veered off the road and up upon a small embankment to do his business. I was thankful for the moment of rest. He finished, turned, suddenly began barking and ran into the street pulling me along after him. I stumbled off the embankment and felt myself falling onto the tarmac. I pictured, broken ankles, knees and hips as I began tipping toward the ground. Suddenly my descent halted. I extended my ever present walking stick and saved myself from injury.
I then looked over and saw a woman of about my age wrapped in a dog leash at the end of which a tiny little creature tugged and yipped hysterically. It was mostly dark grey and at first I thought it was a rodent of some sort — Smaller than the gigantic Norwegian Roof Rats the haunted the walls of homes of my childhood back in NY and slightly larger than a mouse. Its longer legs indicated it was a dog — one of the smallest dogs I had ever seen.
The woman and I, mutual apologies in our eyes and a silent mouthing of apologies on our lips untangled ourselves and dragged our snarling beasts in opposite directions and went upon our way.
It was Wednesday before I resumed writing here as far as I can recall the three days in between were at best “meh*” days, little to write about and little to remember. Last night however, Biden gave his second State of the Union address. It appeared to me to be one of the cleverest and politically adept State of the Union addresses I have ever seen. For an old guy, he gave the young toughs a licking — sort of like Clint Eastwood in his later movies. Or even better Gary Cooper in High Noon.
During the walk I noticed the multicolored chalk marks that had appeared on the streets a few dats ago. The marks were of different colors, red, blue, white, green and yellow as though some acid crazed tagger freak had run through the streets pretending to be Mondrian. I later learned the different colors were placed there by different companies to inform their various work gangs where and what to do in tearing up the streets.
I also took note of the brilliant Autumn colors of the leaves on the bushes that I passed during our walk.
Later when I considered how I felt about today, the best I could come up with was, “Hmm.”*
Thursday..;.
That is all I wrote on Thursday. It is now Friday evening. I seem to be losing interest in writing here. Maybe it’s temporary. Maybe not. If temporary, why? When I moved to Thailand 13 years ago, I would periodically send letters to a few friends and family members letting them know what I was up to. I also began keeping a Journal from which I would draw information and stories for those letters. After about four months, I combined the two to reduce the time and energy in what seemed like duplicative efforts and because felt it would encourage me to continue writing because it was easy to delude myself that someone depended on the receipt of my letters to brighten their day. Later, as I would now and then read some of my older post, I would enjoy being reminded of things I had forgotten. Recently, given how short my time here will probably be, writing new posts to remind me of thing seems to be a less useful means of self entertainment.
I did have lunch today with Hayden. He seems to have become more focused on his higher education and life goals. We ate Stromboli’s at the pizza place in the Golden Hills that we like so much. The day was another unseasonably warm and mostly sunny day with afternoon temperatures in the mid 60s. (Hmm*)
Saturday — Saturday Morning Coffee day. We drove to the Nepenthe Clubhouse because I had stubbed my small toe yesterday and it was still painful to walk. I will worry if it starts to turn black. Gerry our leader was not there. She must be ill again. Jan, Coach’s wife, told me that Coach had had brain surgery last week. She does not know if her will be able to walk, talk or even remember anything. Joan, Peter’s (The Nice Guy) GF reminisced about Italy 50 years ago. Some woman, who along with here husband splits living during the year between the Enchanted Forest and Pacific Grove talked to me about the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey. As we were leaving, the short talkative Asian women who sometimes brings here two year old daughter to the coffee, complained that the “squad” as she referred to them told her not to bring her daughter to the coffee because she was too noisy. I told her, “You should do what I do when I disagree with a rule. Ignore it. If they still complain I will support you.” We then returned home and Naida played the piano while I wrote this. The weather outside was clear but chilly.
Having nothing better to do tonight, I thought I would insert here a few excerpts from one of my favorite political blogs — American Madness Journal by Shower Cap (https://showercapblog.com/):
Joe Biden > Howling Asshats, and Other ObservationsThe State of the Union put me in mind of my all-time favorite evening spent watching politics: the 2012 vice presidential debate. There’s something about watching Joe Biden play with his food that works for me.It was like a nature show, only better; you were absolved of any feelings of sympathy for the wildebeests, because you knew from previous episodes that the wildebeests were assholes. The look on Joe’s face, when he saw how easy it had been to bait these dopes into a Social Security fight, I’ve never seen that look in real life, only on the faces of 8-year-old boys in black and white movies, when they race downstairs on Xmas morning to discover a bicycle-shaped package next the tree.Jowls trembling with theatrical fury, they bellowed, “How dare you, sir? How darrrrrrrrre you accuse the Republican Party of seeking cuts to entitlements?” and Joe’s grin grew wider, visions of news cycles to come dancing in his eyes like sugarplum fairies.(February 10)All Things Being Equal, I’d Rather Be the Jobs GuyWriting about Republican politics is like babysitting the shittiest kids in the world, and honestly, I feel like these little assholes owe us a good, long nap. Never a moment’s fucking peace. Little shits.. (February 3)Marjorie Taylor Greene and the 221 DwarfsBefore we dive into the latest antics from Kevin’s kooky kakistocrats, let’s take a moment to remember the context: this is an audition, folks. This is the Republican Party putting its best foot forward. These are their church clothes, and this is their best behavior. Yikes. Yiiiiiiiiiiiikes.(January 27)
So ends this day. A day I consider not bad*, not bad at all.
Sunday arrived with a thud. It was a day in which I promised myself I would not spend it riffing through the internet and typing T&T. We have just passed noon, I have spent the morning riffing through the internet and typing here in T&T. I am committed to do better this afternoon. The temperature today is expected to reach 70F here in the Sacramento Area (I need to find a better nickname for this City other than Sacratomato.). 70 degrees in mid-February, one would think I was living somewhere at the edge of the tropics instead of here in the middle of the Great Valley. I am confident, however, that February will not disappoint me and I will still suffer through several days of misery and darkness before the month of the roaring lion comes by to remind me that I still have another month to grumble about the weather before the flowers in the Enchanted Forest bloom again.
At about 4PM I took the dog for a walk while Naida napped upstairs. My toe felt a bit better she the walk was not unpleasant. The temperature still toyed with 70F and we walked a bit further than usual. I sat and rested on one of the benches along the way. While sitting there other dog walkers walked by on the path. The first ones do do caused Booboo to break into his usual hysterical barking and pulling on the leash. Surprisingly, the dogs ignored him completely. I think that humiliated him. He sunk onto the ground his head between his paws and did not utter a sound whenever other dogs and their walkers passed by our bench.
Today was not bad* either.
Monday, Monday, Monday — Lunch with Naida at Ettore’s. Later, a nap. Then a walk with Naida and Booboo the Barking Dog. Then a dinner of leftovers. Read a bit about Scipio Africanis Some television — The Reader a sad film about the Holocaust. And then to bed. Nothing.
That night I dreamt of my brother Jim. In the dream he died of suicide. I couldn’t get back to sleep so I went downstairs and watched the skies lighten and a new day begin—Valentine’s day
Some believe Valentine’s Day may have been created during the Middle Ages, when it was believed that birds paired as couples in mid-February. Others consider it was most likely created to replace the pagan Roman holiday, Lupercalia.
The Lupercalia had its own priesthood, the Luperci (“brothers of the wolf”). On February 15, a male goat (or goats) and a dog were sacrificed. An offering was also made of salted mealcakes, prepared by the Vestal Virgins. After the blood sacrifice, two Luperci foreheads were anointed with blood from the sacrificial knife, then wiped clean with wool soaked in milk, after which they were expected to laugh. This was followed by the sacrificial feast after which the Luperci cut thongs (known as februa) from the flayed skin of the animals sacrificed and ran with these, naked or near-naked widdershins along the Roman Palatine Hill after which many of the noble youths would run up through the city naked, striking those they meet with shaggy thongs. Many women of rank purposely got in their way, and like children at school present their hands to be struck, believing it would encourage pregnancy and ease delivery should they become so.
The first recorded association of Valentine’s Day with romantic love is believed to be in the Parliament of Fowls (1382) by Geoffrey Chaucer, honoring the first anniversary of the engagement of fifteen-year-old King Richard II of England to fifteen-year-old Anne of Bohemia.
In Middle English:
“For this was on seynt Valentynes day
Whan every foul cometh there to chese his make
Of every kynde that men thynke may
And that so huge a noyse gan they make
That erthe, and eyr, and tre, and every lake
So ful was, that unethe was there space
For me to stonde, so ful was al the place.”
In modern English:
“For this was on Saint Valentine’s Day
When every bird comes there to choose his mate
Of every kind that men may think of
And that so huge a noise they began to make
That earth and air and tree and every lake
Was so full, that not easily was there space
For me to stand—so full was all the place.”
Today is Wednesday, a spring like day with the sun shining and the temperature hovering in the low sixties. The local water company is putting in new water pipes in the subdivision. This morning they are doing so beside our house. Their activity has driven the dog into a frenzy of barking, At about noon I left for lunch with Hayden in the Golden Hills. We had a lunch of pizza at Nugget’s Supermarket in town center. While we were discussing old times we had together, he told me that when he was 5 years old he was so afraid of growing up that he made up a song entitled “I want to stay five forever,” which he would sing with tears in his eyes at bedtime until he fell asleep.
On Thursday after lunch at Ettore’s Naida and I took the dog for a walk along the American River. It was a grey chilly afternoon. The trees were mostly bare. The storms of last month left many of them toppled or broken. I had not walked along this section of the river since shortly after January’s deluge. At that time the paths that we usually walked on were submerged, flooded by the river. This evening the paths were passable the river receded about 15 feet or more. It still however covered the beach and low lying areas. As we walked along we could see the silt covered branches of the naked bushes and trees extending above our heads. It was hard to imagine this dark bleak landscape was the same as the one we walked through last Autumn.
*Pookie’s classifications of the subjective quality of his days. In ascending order — “Shit,”(Sometimes, “Porca Miseria”) “Meh,” (I am not impressed), “Nothing” (nothing) “Eh”[maybe good maybe not so good], “Hmm,”(Get back to me later), “Not Bad” (But not too good either),”OK” (Good, not great but good), “Good” (Not bad at all), “Great” (Great!)
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 