“Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you my friend
Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again
When the demon is at your door
In the morning it won’t be there no more
Any major dude will tell you” ~ Steely Dan
Distant, faint thunder, 4 AM. Gentle rain falling, sparse, with fairly big drops, in 46 degree air the rain is warm. Rosie the cat has been going in and out of the cat door since I woke up. She clearly wants to go poke around the yard to see what manner of small rodent she can find, but the soft rain has her daunted. Yet it has finally come to resignation, with Rosie taking her place on the bed, just out of reach of my left shoulder. Now, I think that I will go have another look at that rain.
One hour awake and only now am I making my first cup of coffee. In these early morning head spaces, which are mostly meditational, I enjoy perusing the details, and then using them to set the initial tone for the writing of each day’s blog post. This morning I am feeling emotionally exhausted from some social politics I ran smack into recently, and I am hoping that this first cup of coffee will make everything alright. Yeah, right. It’s been a rough few months and things within my life require attention, housecleaning, organization of personal space, and navigating passage onto and through the visit with the neurologist, down in the State Capital in just ten days. Is my brain damaged or is it okay and I am just weird? That is a good question.
The opening photo of today’s post is of some shelter dogs, four brothers and litter mates, who are called”The Eckles”. We won’t go into exactly how or why they got that collective name. That would spoil the cuteness factor. The “cuteness factor” is ever so important in regards to pop internet social expression. Pardon my naiveté but I just recently came to the conclusion that most of the stuff I read on the internet, every day, is written by and directed at people who are significantly younger than me. They, these youngsters, are the one’s who are going to have to deal with the wicked and weird state of today’s world. I can’t be bothered. In fact I tried my hand at one of those numbered lists that are so popular – mine was going to be “Then Things That Let You Know That You Are Intelligent”; I didn’t get past number one. My bad.
In a Facebook dialog last night I exchanged an introduction to Umberto Eco’s magnificent novel, Foucault’s Pendulum, for an introduction to the nature and purpose of spread sheets. Now, I don’t have it in me to make up a story like that, so it has to be true. Says me. I read Eco’s novel back in the early 90’s. I’ve got enough of the level of intellect that reading this book requires, and enough of the tendency toward conspiracy thinking as well. Great book! Reading it takes a lot of work. Be forewarned. As for spread sheets, I still have no idea.
This reminds me that I did a lot of reading back then, taking advantage of the really cool little library we had in that island town of Islamorada, Florida. From Eco’s book I went on to read Robert Pirsig’s Lila. More heady stuff in that book as well. It did me a world of good to read that deep stuff, and although I cannot say exactly what good it did, I know it is in me because I can feel it. It is a warm, a sweet feeling.
“To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top.” ~ Robert Pirsig
Second cup of coffee, coming right up. The rain is steady now. The rhythms on the roof stir me into the kind of melancholy mood that has peace and love, and all that good hippy shit, as a foundation. For a long time I considered melancholy to be an unhealthy thing, but I now know it to be of great value, in its timelessness, its reverie, and in the emotional propinquity it provides. That’s the good stuff right there! Truth be told, my superego is a friggin juggernaut, which probably accounts for a good part of my anxiety disorder, so these periods, however brief, of contentment-laced peace are the jewels of my narrow life. And right now, these days, whatever, my only true ambition, besides the neurologist visit, is to resume work on my novel, The Final Convenience. After introducing the three central characters I left the main character of the three sitting at a bar in Chicago’s Union Station, where he will meet one of his companions for the first time. Paranormal, New Age, and mystical forces are afoot. But how long can a guy sit at a bar?! That’s the thing about fiction, and life stories in general – fiction takes on a life of its own. A story starts out with ideas and applications, but it fleshes out into a mini-reality that can then come back to bring effects into that which we call reality. That’s why we read fiction. At least that why I read fiction. And about the guy sitting at the bar in the train station? He’s got good craft beer, so he can wait a while longer. I’ve got to go to work, dude. Chill.
Yup, working with the dogs today, and with this rain there will be mud, so taking the dogs out into the holding pens, so that their home kennels can then be cleaned, then bring them doggies back inside – eesh! – let’s just call it a chore, k?
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.