This little infant of prague statue was my mother-in-laws home. Some how it ended up here after her death. The bride and I are trying to figure out her affinity to this infant. And now we're trying to figure out what to do with this statue now that the dog somehow jumped up where it was placed so she could go woof woof at another dog passing by. Elmer's glue usually works. With a household of kids, dogs and cats I would think that 10% of our home is put together by Elmer's glue. I'm not much of a fan of super glue or gorilla glue, so if old Elmer can't put the fucking thing back together again, it's adios. I'm too much of a klutz to be using super glue anyway. Honey, are you almost ready to come up from the basement...it's almost time to get ready for the party. I'll be up there shortly, I'm just a little stuck. Honey, are you almost ready. Pretty soon, I got a few fingers loose...could you bring a band-aid down for me please. Here's your band-aid...what the hell happened to you? Well, I was trying to repair the broken statue and the damn super glue gushed out and I got it all over my hand and I didn't realize that it was going to dry so fast and before long, I was stuck. I must have yanked too hard and it tore my skin. Tell me you didn't get your tongue froze to a doorknob when you were a kid. No, I was twenty one when that happened. I hope you're kidding...now what are we going to do with your thumb and forefinger. First put the band-aid on my pinky. You know the party starts in forty five minutes. I know...do you think we should call the firemen. Sure, if you want to look like a complete ass...but remember...the last time we called them...one of our dogs bit one of the guys. Oh fuck you're right...here, give baby jesus a yank. Ouch!!!...that hurt!  Now, will you hurry...we're gonna be late for sure.

When I'm out with the dogs for our walks in the morning and I let them loose by the creek I'm never quite sure what may make them bolt. The dalmatian is generally more docile and predictable but she does seem to like rabbits& muskrats the most. Squirrels don't seem to phase her much and she can't seem to be bothered by birds of any size. Now the vizsla is in constant relentless pursuit. Although this morning she just watched the geese and half assedly made an attempt to point. The other day however the fox was out and zip the vizsla attempted to bolt across the creek when crack she fell through the ice. I looked and said...oh shit, now I'm going to have to go in there and save her ass. And as I got halfway down the embankment she got up and out of the jam she was in and instead of making her way towards me, she continued to go after a fox long gone. One good thing about this vizsla...she does return when I whistle. But some mornings my lips are so damn cold I can hardly pucker up enough to give out a good whistle. Believe me, taking these two dogs off their leash and letting run by the creek is good for me. I love watching them run free and in turn I too am liberated. Now the same wasn't always true with the Jack Russell terriers. They attacked other dogs, they wouldn't listen worth a shit and they were so small could get through fences and holes most other dogs couldn't. For the longest time, they lost their privilege to run free and then when I finally did relent and set them free I'd let them go running with their leashes attached. And of course that wasn't a good idea because one would come back and I knew the other one had to have gotten caught somewhere on a rock or a fallen branch in the wooded area. And I'd have to go in there ankle deep in muck to bail out the little jack asshole terrier. And what a joy to finally find her and unhook the leash so she could sniff and scurry a bit until we got close to the road and it was time to hook her up again. Funny though, on days like that, (after an incident)  she would listen. But oh, what short memories we have.



 

During the course of a day there's so many heavenly things
going on. At 2:06 pm this afternoon my cell phone alerted me to a text
message. It was from my daughter Kellie and she asked...are you home? And I
replied ...yes. And at 2:07pm another message came in: ok cause I'm mad
hungry...do we have ham?  And my reply was ...yes mad woman....do you want
it fried on a toasted bagel with some melted cheese? @ 2:10pm...the reply: yes
please, came in. And shortly thereafter I got off my ass and walked into the kitchen.
I have this nice little 8 in fry pan that I love to use. I always fry in butter
too. Three or four slices of ham depending on the requester. Fry it up nice and
flip it over. Once it's flipped it's time to dabble. Kellie got a few drops of
hot sauce and of few dribbles of honey before the thinly sliced colby jack
cheese was place on top. While the cheese is slowly melting I cut a sesame
bagel in half and toasted it in the toaster oven. I took a little plate out of
the cupboard and nuked it for about 40 seconds. My mother taught me that food
should be served hot and the plates should be warmed. I glob a scoop of mustard
and a scoop of mayo into a tiny bowl and I whip them together. I take the bagel
out of the toaster and spread the mustard/mayo glob on. I take the fried ham
out of the fry pan and place it for a moment on top of some paper towel that's
spread out on the butcher block. Too much grease is not good for you. That's
long enough. Place on bagel and slice in half. Pickles are fine...sometimes fruit
works too and of course, a napkin. Hey, it's only 3:12 pm and I'm done blogging
for the day. But, to see my daughter smile when she came into the house...now
if that's not heaven, you can throw me out. And watching zappa & company
doing this song...holy shit...a double dose of heaven in less than an hour.

 

Frank Zappa - Stairway To Heaven

This morning I was catching up on some reading and I read a handful of poems by Sherman Alexie in the current issue of American Poetry Review. When I finished reading those poems I thought...this has been the highlight of my day thus far. I should post one of his poems...but I won't. He's still young, so I won't make his work as a poet any easier on him. He's got to earn his status. Instead, I will post one of my old favorites from this old dead white guy poet Robert Frost.

THE PASTURE

 I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;

I'll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf

That's standing by the mother. It's so young,

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.

I have a tough time commenting on poets and poems, so if you're one of those people who post a lot of poems on this gaia thing...god bless you for being a poet & more than likely I will read what you wrote, but I will seldom comment. But that's not saying much...I can go through a whole issue of the American Poetry Review and not find a poem that I enjoy. Which may not be truly true, but close enough. I probably have been a subscriber to this review since 1969. For many years I saved every issue. & then one day I said fuck you poetry and fuck you poets and I threw all the issues in the trash. Actually..I placed them in the newspaper recycle bin. Who knows, maybe one of the sanitations workers said...holy fuck...I just found myself a gold mine. Nowadays it's easy to throw stuff out...just like today...when  I wanted a Robert Frost poem...all I had to do is google it. Although, books are another story. I don't part with some of mine. I had a professor Carl Dennis who taught me creative writing many years ago at our local university. He's a published poet himself and I have several of his books. And one day I brought one of his books to class and I told him that "Knots" is one of my favorite poems.. And he was kind enough to sign the page of the book where the poem was. Anyway, I'm going to the Sabres hockey game tonight...and this is just to say... I won't be blogging tonight...and really I had no intentions of even writing this much...but I shan't be long ...and I'll be thinking of you, and how I wish I could make you totter.

Ubangi on the bar. Insensitive, sometimes I think I am. But seldom outwardly inconsiderate. And possibly at times inappropriate. I do have this thing about misappropriation lately. It seems to reek of political correctness. Prurient or puritanical. Give me a fucking break. Crack the sky. There you go again crack-head. Give me a break. So anyway, what kind of day was it for you? What's been the highlight of your day?  If I tell you, would that be like dwelling in the past? Not really because you'd be making it new & you may even be embellishing it and making it even more dreadfully exciting. Nice choice of words. I thought so too. So, where are you taking me tonight? To a place where we can french kiss. Yuck spit. Lickety split. Ah the alphabet. I love you. No you don't. I love you too. No you don't. Love me. I do. Now. & forever amen. Golly, that's a long time. Yeah, I've never been able to figure forever out myself. You need help man. But I can't help it, I'm a man trapped in a lesbian's body. Kiss me you fool. And who are you. Don't you recognize me, I'm your sister. Phew, I thought you were my brother at first. And so, I could say, that this thus far has been the highlight of my day. Playing in this alphabet soup....but no, there was something more real than this thinking that highlighted the day and it had nothing to do with a rainbow. Or the now that's constantly consuming. And this is for you, and you too...and please don't be too consumed by what just occurred. I could say ..that it all has to be convoluted...but no, it would detract from this, the highlight of my day. btw, this is for you. you cheeky little kid.

This has nothing to do with how you set your clocks tonight. It has to do with messages forwarded. I don't like to receive forwarded messages. And depending on how many fwd's there are attached to the message, I may not even open it. And I realize I may just have deleted the funniest or most profound message ever. The other day on the way to a meeting I got a text with fwd fwd fwd attached to it. I looked at my phone and thought for a moment...oh fuck, how banal is this msg going to be. I clicked it open and it read something like this: the economy is so bad that women are sleeping with men because batteries are so expensive. That really wasn't all that bad...I'd give it about an 80. I imagine I was probably the millionth person who received that text that morning, and it wasn't even 9am est. What was really coincidentally weird about that message was the fact that the gentleman I was to meet that morning so that we could go up to the third floor of the hospital to meet with the CEO said to me immediately when we got into a packed elevator: what do you think about this economy lately? And of course, I just couldn't pass it up...I said...according to a text I received moments ago...blurt blurt blurt, and a few chuckles followed. And then I wondered...why are they laughing do they have their cell phones off because they're in the hospital. And then I thought, maybe if I didn't say that I was just texted that one liner, maybe they would have thought that it was just me being clever. So, the point of this blog is simple. Pretend it was you that just made it up. Make it new with a twist or a variation....subtly.


                                   


                                    

Thank you ocean soup and all the ages and eons before that. Thank you mom and dad and everything else that followed. I am chance and I am lucky stars to be here now, to be able to sit in front of this computer, to be able to sit and pluck out words from the air...it's a small miracle. I ask for nothing more and for this I am glad. Thank you for allowing me to be one big fat liar. And thank you for not setting my pants on fire. Thank you for lust. Thank you for beer. And thank you for not making avarice an issue. And thank you for allowing me the flexibility of expressing my gratitude in no particular order. Thank you for my first pair of cowboy boots a long time ago. Thank you for all my fears and the breath to breathe my way through them. Thank you for woman and Mary the mother of god. Thank you for offspring, dogs and cats and squirrels and rats and pens and books and notebook paper too. Thank you for empire apples and jumbo eggs and pork sausages. And thank you for the bathtub and the makers of patchouli oil. And thank you for sadness that doesn't last forever. And thank you for the patience to stay with these words that are going no where. Thank you for giving me the ability to sew a button. Thank you for the opportunity to see sedona. And thank you for letting me smell spring in the air. And thank you for yet another day. And thank you most of all for being my friend.

And be aware of the bad out there, and the good too. And the mediocre. Some like it hot, some like it cold, some like it in between. I'm not sure, I'm thinking I'd rather be above average or below average but average yikes, I'd just be an average guy. Hey, but I found the middle ground. How fucking unnoble is that. We are gathered here today to bury an average guy in the middle ground. Now here's a question for you...is half way good enough for you. I think balance sucks. Whoa, here I am sitting on this cushion daily working towards equanimity and you throw me off kilter with a comment. For me, it was not so much the comment, but the harshness of the voice. Is mellow more soothing for you. Yes, if it's neither this or that. But you're a dog. Yes, but I'm not your average dog, so will you pet me, hug me and throw me a bone, so I can do all I can do all the other dumb shit you want me to do. Yes, I'll do that, if you promise you won't chew my slippers. Sure.
(but how could anybody be happy with that)

Longing may be a sin. I long to hold you in my arms. On this day 23 years ago you were called home. Sometimes I think that we made a huge mistake by making a birthday or an anniversary relevant. Language has fucked us up emotionally.Today is the first day of the rest of your life. The alphabet is just a tool. Thank god for babble and other diseases of the brain. You're not making any sense...a smile instead of the word good should suffice. I miss you. Bullshit, you don't miss me, you miss the routine of me that revolves around you. No, no, no, no, that's not true, I really do miss your loud farts. Yes, aren't you glad that they're loud, but they don't stink. Actually honey, I think you may need an operation. On my arse? No, on your nose. So, you're saying you miss my stink, more than you miss me. No, to me everything is one in the same...your farts, your breath, your soul, your ass, your tattoos, your words (especially your promise that you'll finish painting the dining room) and your conscience that I rarely get a glimpse of. Well, do you love me less or more. I love you just the same. I love you too. Come here honey let me put the squeeze on you (oops loud fart). And that's what I'm saying, the farts are just as loud, but they're stinking less and less lately. Well, maybe you should get your nose operated on.

My best friend once lived in Sherman Oaks, California in a home that was once owned by one of the three stooges. (moe howard)  My friend's wife Beverly worked as a corporate attorney for Warner Brothers negotiating contracts for tv actors. I think they lived on Kling Street. My friend Tom was a stay at home dad. We went to visit them one time and we all had fun. A few years ago they pulled out their Californian stakes and moved to North Carolina. (go heels) Their business just recently went south. Bev was in the hospital today for an operation. Act II, scene 3 coming up. Cut. Roll 'em. Cut ...cut! What the fuck is going on with you...you're not following the script. I am, it's just that you're not following what's going on. Can't  I just ad lib for a little bit. Yes you can. Cut!. Let's just call it a night. No way. Action...Roll it. Cut. What's going on now. Bonk, bonk, bonk. Oh yeah....bonk bonk. Cut. Actually, if you want to now the truth, I really want to be vague. Cut.

This is how it works. My friend Carla on this thing and Facebook too sent me a note with this song
& I know there's got to be a cleaner way of posting this thing, but hey, I have to work with where I'm at.) but, the point I'm making is this. As I listened to the song, my mind floated to the replica of Michaeangelo's pieta that I have hanging on the catalpa tree on the walkway to the side door of our house. She's dirty from winter I thought, I better do something about it. I brought her in the house and scrubbed her down. And doing so I silently prayed gladness and praise. And because you are reading this, here's one for you...om tare tutare ture soha...may you be at peace...may you feel joy intermittently throughout the craziness of your day. Hail woman, graceful entity of our existence shower us with your kindness and compassion. Let us be able to kick the shit out any fear that enters our consciousness and interferes with our connection to you. Blessed mother, as you nurture me, bless everyone else with the same love. OK, enough already. I'm not really sure how this works. But, this is probably how I pray most of the time. And yet I know the marbleized replica is just a symbol of an artist's depiction of a deity. I love to touch the face of this replica and for a moment, touch the world, and all the worlds that exist below, above and beyond the ground that I stand on. Wishing for that moment...peace.

I almost feel like whistling. Actually I just did. It was a tune that told you to look at me and that I feel as helpless as a kitten up a tree. Spring does that even when it's not actually and exactly spring. But burst of life has no calendar it just explodes willy nilly. I know I wrote about this before, but I think it's worth writing about again. A while ago I was in this writing class and this woman had this line, "pow a poppy" in her poem. And I understood immediately the power of those three words. A smile, an opening, an allowance, a penetration, an ejaculation, a crack in the cosmic egg, an acceptance, a bursting of the belly, some pain & pain and more pain and pow an obligation for a new spring. Pain keeps us going. Bliss sucks...fuck rapture...& you may as well throw nirvana on the heap too. Do you think for one moment that the crocus thinks of everlasting love. God knows. Me, I don't know the fundamentals of a lot of things, but when something goes pow, I seem to pay attention. Of course, this too is subject to change. Pow.

Did you hear about the new singing group...the New Christie Menstruals? Every time they play they get a standing ovulation. I had to be in the early stages of high school when I first heard that joke & I must have thought it was pretty clever to let it resurface 40 some years later. I have no problem with nostalgia, I find it a useful tool at times to soothe my soul. But I don't dwell in it. I actually saw the New Christie Minstrels perform live on stage here in Buffalo at the Kleinhan's music hall. They were once of many groups that came to town for a hootenanny. I believe it was my first concert. And I remember what I wore. A glen plaid black & white sport coat, a powder blue button down oxford cloth shirt (with the fruit loop)  & dungarees ( we didn't have blue jeans back then) & of course oxblood penny loafers (w/o pennies). The dungarees were a stretch, but even then, I felt this need to make a statement. 85% of me will generally toe the line, but I like to leave a little room for me to be me. Actually, it's probably a need, and I don't know where that came from. It may come from Poland. The Polish people were not very good at being under communist rule. They just like being somewhat independent. As probably 98% of the rest of the world. The inner mantra must be: just leave me the fuck alone. I mean, I could love you like I love my mother, but even my mother could be a nag. If I remember correctly, my mother said to me before I was about to leave for the hootenanny....I hope you're not going to Kleinhans music hall dressed in dungarees. And I said to her...mom, it's ok, it's a friday night, it's a hootenanny...this attire is just fine. I still don't like the way it looks.




                                          

And ginny gurl I miss you so fucking much too. And I miss the word girl because the last three times I wanted to use the word girl, I used gurl instead, proably becuase I thought that this gurl was cuter than that girl. But I would have to say, that this girl will out last that gurl and it has nothing to do with with looks, it has more to do with tradition. Some traditions take longer to die. While some traditions seem to last forever in their variations. I wish I could give you an example of a tradition that's been around for more than 3000 years. I mean, wasn't the original saint patrick an italian. No, I would say he was more like a roman. But aren't all men roaming around for something. Yes, and the gurls too. But I'm never sure, because how would I know. Today is special because I'm not Irish. I might for a moment think I'm a dancer. I'm not a jigger, although at times I pretend to be... but not publicly. And it makes me wonder. When the jig is up, will I become a saint. Of course. I am a living saint so why should anything change. I don't think much would change if at the time of my death I would think, oh my god, oh my god, what a piece of shit I am. Dead is dead...right. Nope, dead is frosty white. No, for the next three hours, it's emerald green. Now let's jig this thought so we can make it forever.


                                            

                       

This is the second day of March Madness, the first day of spring and shortly I'll be attending the father/daughter dance with Julie. It's bright, sunny and brrish outside. The dog dug a hole & I thought, what the fuck, I was hoping she would have forgotten about the good feel of earth on the nails of her paws. I didn't catch her in the act, but the bride squealed on her, and when she came into the room where I was at, I looked at her and said...what did you do out there..and she slunk down a bit and gave me this look that said, hey master, I know you're mad, but I couldn't resist...it's spring & I just had to feel that mud again. Well, I said, I'll forgive you, but if you keep this shit up, I'm gonna spray that bitter apple stuff all over the backyard and you'll be yucking summer. And, she must be thinking...hey, he said the same thing last year and he never did anything about. And I'm thinking...yeah, but last year she was a puppy and now, she's about 14 months old. Last year it was more of a game than anything else, but she did ruin a few of my tomato & pepper plants, and the game got old soon. So, since I didn't make any new year's resolution I may resolve on this the first day of spring, I will be a better watch master. I might have to have this conversation with her tomorrow while we're outside. For now, I have get my ass in gear for the dance. I dislike having to shave twice in one day & I actually dislike going to father and daughter dances, and I dislike when the dog digs.  But just think I'm a man who was blessed with three daughters and this will be 11th year in a row that I had to shave twice in one day. I know that the dog doesn't care about any of this shit, because really, what's time to a dog. But for my gals, when we go cheek to cheek, I would think that they would like for their dad to be smooth. Who knows, I may end up digging it too.

Of course things change, it's all part of the game ..uc? U C lew alcindor lately? Me no see. Si si. Wow, a global fucking society that started way back in babble on and we still can't figure out that we're all in this shit together. Gobble gobble. How about kluck kluck instead. Holy Toledo, what the fuck are you talking about? The mudhens are going to take it all this year. No way in hell, the panthers will prevail. OK, enough. What do you mean enough, there's still time left on the clock. Call a timeout..call a timeout faintly was heard from the sideline...but no time was called. And then it was heard and time was called and the game's officials hovered. And they hovered and hovered and hovered over this angle and that angle and they finally realized that no matter how long  they looked and looked and looked over again, the play in question would never be conclusive, because they knew they couldn't come to an agreement, so they ruled, no play &  the clock was started and the game began again. There were some boos, but it was minimal mostly because it was in favor of the home crowd.  And, I don't have to tell you who won the game...it's been all over the world by now...and I'm glad I'm not getting a whole lot of hate mail...but that doesn't mean anything...who uses the postal service anymore...and since my computer is down and my tv isn't, I'm going to watch the hilltoppers upset the zags. So, get out of my way...until the dawn's early light.

After today I'm done gushing about Spring. It's still pretty cold in Buffalo, so most of the halter tops are in mothball storage. Actually, I'm thinking that soon mothballs will be extinct. And even though I'll be sad that something else has gone extinct on us, I probably won't miss the smell. And come to think of it, I probably will silently gush some more when the halter tops begin to spring sans mothballs. Although, I'm wondering if we could somehow start a campaign to save the mothballs. I'm not sure if mothballs were ever a big industry in our country, but damnit, jobs are so scarce that maybe we should encourage folks to start packing their seasonal clothes away with the coveted mothballs of years ago. Which might be crazy because I have never had any of my clothes eaten by a moth. But, I always remember seeing a box of mothballs in the basement of our home when I was growing up. And for all I know, that box may have been passed down to my mother from my grandmother. Mothballs probably aren't necessary. It's bad enough we're doing something to fuck with the bee population, so it may behoove us to leave the moths alone too. However, you just may want to pick up a box of mothballs, so you can help someone keep their job. And, once you get this box of mothballs, you don't have to bring it into your house, you can leave the box in your garage, or bury it in your backyard. I started to do that with girl scout cookies and a few other things. Gosh, I must stop talking about all this. It only reminds me that it's the time of year that I have to go out and clean the garage.

I think I can handle the truth but I also think I can handle the fake as well. But I like fake more, when it resembles something that I believe is true. Then, I am not fooled. And yet, I will allow for the obvious fake to be a part of my life too. And this has nothing to do with fake tans, fake fingernails, fake hair, fake boobs or fake blogs. Or fake anything for that matter. After a while, it ain't worth the debate if something was real or unreal. And come to think of it, I used to like it when someone told me that the time they had was so unreal more so than when they said the time they had was really real. Can you name a song where the singer sang...it's really real, the way I feel? I can. It's true. I'll give you the initials of the songster...v.m.  I'll send you a nickel if you answer correctly. In fact, I'm so sure you'll answer correctly I've already taken a nickle out of my pocket. It's wooden. Which makes me wonder, what are nickles made of anyway. And pennies can't be made of copper anymore, can they? And so many people have been fooled by gold and diamonds too, it makes you wonder if the stuff you wear and cherish that has been passed down from generation to generation will hold it's value when you try to pawn it off for something to eat. I'm sorry, this is not worth anything, it's zircon. Bullshit, I paid a thousand bucks for it 30 years ago when I got engaged. Well, let me look at it again.

                  

Is that any different than gushing? I may have to start all over. Again would be unnecessary. Can you tell I'm fumbling for something to write about tonight? So why write. I'm seldom sure. I write because it's play. I play so I get tired. And then I rest. But blogging for me is generally my end of day stuff, so I'm thinking it may carry some of the day's baggage along with it. But wouldn't writing in the morning bring some of the dreamless or maybe dreamy discombobulated stuffed along with it too. Probably. I would think that I'm more serious and business like in the early part of the day. Not true. I'm actually too animated and perky in the mornings for most people....if you are an owl type, you may hate me in the mornings and then want to peck my eyes out while I'm sleeping. And, this is the way writing goes. It's like any other medium. Painting, poetry, music, baking, pottery, and panting. Yes panting. Panting is an art form too. As is smirking and frowning . Tomorrow (if you're not a shut in)  focus in on faces. I mean, really focus. Do you see many who seem to be genuinely happy? Yes or no, multiply that  for many times by nothing. Can science be an art?  Is writing a math or science? Personally, I would say it's integral. I would say, the answer is...all of the above.  

I have to admit, I fell for it too. The need for continuity. It doesn't last long. The first real gust or sway of wind can knock it (me) off course in a heartbeat. Skip a beat. Pick up your step. I like that. Now that's perfection. Oops, we're missing a scalpel and a sponge. And we're missing a magenta crayon too. Fuck it, just shoot it in black and white. Bang. The shot that wasn't heard around the world. But this is the internet isn't it. Yes, but it's not the third world. Oh, the poor in spirit. Yes, the truly blessed ones. Shouldn't they be informed. And what, make them unblissful. No, more aware. Aware of what. The fast shoe shufflers, the blood suckers, the baby rapers, the newscasters and bloggers too. Is that all? No, there's a lot more to it than this. Like what. Even our conversation should be suspect. Why. Because all the responses that flash before me in this almost moment of time seem to be trite while I strive to be profound. You lost me. Ah, then that must have been profound. Not. Well, here's a poem for you. Little kitty feeling shitty shat upon the wall. It wasn't a great shit or a great wall, but there was a great wail after a shot gun blast form some irate wallflower venting frustrations from being ridiculed in school where they were supposedly taught better. Another bang. Bang bang. What the fuck is going on. Bang bang...no one seems to know. It's to balance the economy....bang...bang. It's to bring peace to our....bang...bang...  oh shit, I've been hit...you got me. Ok, wrap it up folks...tomorrow is another day. Will somebody go after that cat that's on the other side of the wall. Bang.                                           

Me not. Me am. How dumb. But it does exist. Somewhere between curtsy and slam. It's 4:48 pm and I don't believe the time is accurate. But, I would have to agree, that it's slipping away demurely. For me anyway, at this moment. Not so anymore, I have a pounding headache. I don't know where it came from either. I hope it's not from the sun who finally came out. Imagine longing. Imagine longing for longer than you long for. And suddenly out of nowhere a flower crosses your path. And holy fuck, a fucking flower. And you may ask...why is this flower here. And the flower is like everything else. It's like the cat at the top of the stairs. It's like folded towels. It's like an empty bag of potato chips. It's like a dead poet's son's suicide in seattle. It's like the whole world chasing its tail. It's like having to take a piss with no where to go. It's like being hungry while never knowing hunger. It's like blowing a kiss to a dear dead one. It's so coy it's fake and yet, one would never know because it looks so natural. Yes, I agree, it is what it is. And what about me, have you ever caught me being that way. Not really, until now, I think I just caught a glimpse.

I am wondering what caught my fancy today. It was a clump of crocuses punching up from cold dark earth at 6am while walking the dogs. I attempted to capture this moment with my camera and the limited available light but my vizsla jerked me out of focus. If I remember to bring the camera along tomorrow I'll try again. But, it won't be the same, even if I capture a focused crocus. Or clump thereof. Now I'm almost determined to remember to snap this shot again tomorrow morning. But there are so many variables working against it and it has really nothing to do about discipline. By discipline I mean, waking up, waking up at the same time, and remembering to bring along the camera. Of course, the variables that I can't control are many. Dying in my sleep, or waking up blind, having a dead dog next to the bed or stubbing my toe so bad in the middle of the night while I'm getting up tp pee that there's no way in hell I can walk the distance to the crocuses to snap their picture or the possibility of  three feet of snow outside my door or (I wuz gonna say...waking up with a hard on...but my daughter occasionally reads this blog and scolds me accordingly) and possibly some squirrel digging up those crocuses this evening looking for some chestnuts she may have burred last fall. And no matter what, it's mostly silly to plan ahead, and yet, at times it's functional. Like taking care of your funeral arrangements even though you may have 20 or 30 years left on your lease on life, or buying the last twenty bottles of patchouli oil from the Grateful Dead boutique that's closing down in the neighborhood so a senior housing complex can go up instead.

There's this interesting scenario setting up. Both the bride and I plopped down ten bucks on a NCAA tournament pool. And we've both made the final four. She has Villanova and I have Michigan St. I won't bore you with the details, but both teams have to win their next game in order for Tom and Mary Grace to face off in the final. And, I would really want for Villanova to win it all. But, at this moment, Connecticut, North Carolina & Oklahoma have something to say about how I feel. But really, I pledge no allegiance. Although, I think I am a stickler for justice. All the other stuff is fluff. Or pomp. I like pomp more than I like posh. Port out, starboard home. But, both words mean nothing nowadays anyway. Even port wine is not as popular as it used to be. Tawny. Tawdry: look at that obnoxious guy in the loud Hawaiian shirt saying cheese in front of a camera. Let's shift back to the backcourt where Ty Lawson is exhibiting tenacity and leadership. Time out!  A commercial time out. I used to drink muscatel, but lately I've been enjoying mogen david's tawny port. I like muscatel better, but the liquor store I go to no longer carries muscatel. So, I switched. I'm glad I switched to mogen david tawny port...it makes me feel like I could slam dunk and play basketball all over again if it weren't for these banged up knees.  Edit room. Yes. Can you fluff it up a bit?  Anything you want sir...you're the owner.

You know what brings me joy? Getting a magazine in the mail, and more so, when I'm not expecting it, even though I've been subscribing to it for years. I've subscribed to the New Yorker for about 40 years...that doesn't count because it's delivered weekly, but I'm mostly talking about those magazines that come out 4-6 times a year. And what's weird, they always seem to arrive when I'm in need of a read. And they seem to connect with something I was thinking about. Which is probably bullshit...like deja vu. I think that all it really means is that I have experienced a mini lapse in thinking. Come to think about it, all my epiphanies, may be as simple as that... a lapse. Like forgetting how a movie ends when you've seen it before and then saying...oh wow yeah, now I remember when it ends. Maybe there is no such thing as a repeat. Slight variations...maybe that's it. The slightest variation throws us off kilter unconsciously. And then, when things seem to surface there's this nano moment of puzzlement, but not enough for you to realize something very subtle occurred, but not enough for you to give it much concern. Every thing is honkey dory. ( I have no idea what a quantum leap is all about, but if a chimp can go to space, why can't I.) But seriously folks....don't you think we should be smiling more? Hello dali this is thomas dali.


but hey, that's not dali it's louis


 

Thank you, even though you don't answer. I want to thank you for so much, I don't know where to start. Thank you for cashews and thank you for mysteries. I'm not really fond of mini series though. Thank you for anger and thank you for providing me a way out of it. Thank you for freedom of speech even though I dislike most bumper stickers. Thank you for the perpetuation of the species & thank you for the cell phone in my pocket which allowed me to snap this picture which ultimately reminded me of your goodness. Although, I wasn't glad to get the text message from my wife when she reminded me that I had to finish painting the dining room. And thank you more than anything, for not making me careless this afternoon ( as I was the last time I painted) and have me spill the whole can of paint. And thank you for making me like the color which I made a fuss about at the paint store. And please, when we get the room all spiffed again...when we will all be sitting there enjoying a meal as family in gratitude, please remind me as I say grace...that you don't exist...or at least let me know that the flowers that are popping up all over the place are somehow of you're doing.