Boy, there's so much shit out there that I don't even come close to understanding. Flying ranks right up there for me. You could explain it to me all day long, but at the end of the day I still consider it a miracle. It defies my limited logic. But I'm not going to get into the details, but primarily I would say, it has to do with the fact that I don't much believe that there is such a thing as the end of the day. And actually I hate when some people use the phrase...at the end of the day (blah blah blah). There is no such thing as the end of the day, let alone blah, blah & blah. So what's the point? The point is, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to divulge this truth to you. And what truth is that? Nothing dies. Except however through confession. A true confession absolves you from your past. A lot of shit is fad and it's difficult to ignore fad when it comes back around. (nothing dies)  But, (and this is a strong but) if you were truly strong enough to openly deny the fad (even though you succumbed to it before)  & later came to the realization that you were just being a follower and that bell bottom pants with 3 inch cuffs were not really cut out for you and you publicly confessed this...I dare say the next time the fad resurrects itself you will not fall for its power. And trust me, you may still be tempted because some folks will be looking pretty groovy in those duds. And of course, there is no one out there that has the power to tell you to turn the other cheek, to not pretend to yourself that there's a possibility that you may still look as groovy as someone else in bell bottoms with three inch cuffs....no, no, this is not what I'm talking about at all. What I'm saying, is that we confess because we forget. And that's pretty fucking sad. Why am I so forgetful and why do I do this thing to poor old me all the time all over again. Truth is, I'm not all that poor or all that old.

We're only dancing on this earth for such a short while. I'm not sure where this is going. I'm still in a pissy mood. I left North Carolina the other day with a huge unresolve and today I find out that Martha's husband Mike has passed on too. Yes, everything passes. But at times, there seems to be a freeze frame of sadness. So I'm thinking nothing stops, not  even death...and yet, certain events seem to stall greater than slow motion. Stupor comes to mind, like the one I can experience in a dream. Like when I'm running away from something and my fleet feet seem suddenly to fail. I become suspended animation until I awake in a startle. The unsettled heart pounding relief to the dumb brain. Phew, it was just a dream. Actually, I had a dream last night and I was having a conversation with a man who just died. And I asked him....can you tell me what death is like? And he said, it's no different than this...except that I don't wake up anymore and have to do all the stuff that I had to do. Unfortunately, I woke up after not getting more questions answered probably because I had so many things to do today. I did mow the lawn, I went to the bank and the supermarket, & I did visit my wife's aunt fanny. It almost seems like it was a full day. And even if I said I did absolutely nothing today and it seemed empty, it was still full of what it was regardless of how I defined it. I'm somewhat chuckling because something is telling me that I may never know. And really, I'm ok with that too.

         

Last week I was in my wife's Aunt Fanny's 2nd floor apartment to pick up a few things to bring to her in the hospital. An apartment where Fanny lived alone. A place where she mostly lived in one room (the living room) and then probably the kitchen and then, the bathroom. The least utilized room is probably the bedroom. Fanny slept on the couch in the front room with this newly purchased flat screen tv that she surprisingly became enamored with. (which makes me sometimes wonder about me because I haven't found a flat screen tv that I enjoy)  Regardless.  The other day I was asked politely by the bride and her sisters to go to Fanny's apartment and pick up this and that. (for those of you who haven't kept up with this saga...Fanny's in the hospital) So I went. I don't much care for going into someone's space uninvited.And yet, going into Fanny's bedroom that hasn't been functional in years, I felt like I was entering the most sacred of sacred places. And of course, the mother fucking shit asshole dick son of a bitch that I am, I snapped a picture of the display on one of her little dressers. I knew this was an invasion , but I also knew, that this was an opportunity to allow someone else to witness what it means to be alone with no direction prone. It made me realize that I know nothing. It brought me, for a moment, to the sacredness of everything,

                 

To me, prone is predictable, so I like it when I take alternate routes on my way home. Push when I should pull, go left when I should go right, walk when it says don't & maybe even piss in the wind. Honey, where are you? I'm at the corner of walk and don't walk. Well, are you anywhere close to a place that sells cream of tartar? Did you check the cupboard, I'm pretty sure we must have some in there. I did check, and we have a little McCormick container of cream of tartar...but I think it's old, and I want to bake this special (whatever the fuck it is...cake, pie or cookie) recipe for the annual ladies of good charity bake sale and I want it to be not only good, but fresh tasting too. Yeah honey I have to agree with you on this one...remember the time we went to a bake sale at Corpus Christi school and we bought the chruscki...and we detected the taste of cigarette smoke. Yes, that was gross. It kinda makes me wonder what bad cream of tartar would taste like. And come to think of it honey, I have no idea of what cream of tartar is, or, what it does, in the realm of baking. Does it have a taste, or is it just a substance that makes people run around and go chasing for. Something like a left handed wrench or a sky hook. I really should find out more about this substance, for it seems to me, that it may have more value than diamonds, or zircon for that matter too. I suppose it depends on what you're prone to believe in. Some I have heard actually believe in gnomes. And me, if I could get this little make believe gnome like person to assist me in finding the least expensive best version of the best local cream of tartar powder....I'll call it a night.




                        

 My girls tell me I peacock a lot. I'm not about to define the word or go on to tell you how I don't think I peacock a lot, but coming home last night from our trip to Ann Arbor and our son/brother's graduation from law school I was shocked immediately by our neighbor as we were unpacking our car when she asked me if I had I heard about the shooting of a U.B. grad. And I said no, because I hadn't been listening to any local news on the way home. Let's just keep it simple....Javon R. Jackson, 23, of the Bronx is dead. He received his B.A. in electrical engineering hours earlier. The details and puzzle parts are being put together. At approximately 3:15 a.m. he was shot and was taken to Erie County Medical Center and pronounced dead.Senseless life sucks that way. There is no rhyme or reason to this existence.  Stupid fucking shit happens every second of our lives. Even if outcomes are precipitated by bad choices, the Monday morning quarterback is more useless than the quarterback passing the ball into the opponents hands .And then, that's when the pundits and psychologists enter the game. Time out! There is no such thing as time. I'm glad for this one and that one and I'm sad for this one here and that one there. And in this mix all I can do is pray for all of us.Which I know means nothing. But goddamnit, at times I get so pissed off at the senselessness of it all, that I ramble on until I reach the point of  Amen.             ...

 

Lynyrd Skynyrd - That Smell (live '77)

Have you had any kita lately? Kita is a Polish word for tail. Dogs give good kita, but when a cat is wagging her tail you better be careful. Last week while we were away, we worried that our dogs wouldn't be too sad with us away and that they'd be enjoying their walks. Since our daughter Malina and her fiance Eric were leaving a day after us, they were in charge of the dogs, before Christine (Malina's friend took over the doggy detail). When we leave for out of town, we generally have friends and family take care of our pets. Only one time since we've been married (May 1981) we left a pet at a kennel. (Rush...our Springer/Lab)  It was a sad thing. When we returned and got to the kennel we thought old Rush would be happy to see us...but instead, she got out of the cage and just looked at us...we got no kita...she was pissed, I assume because we abandoned her. It wasn't until much later that we began to get some genuine kita form our beloved Rush. We vowed shortly thereafter never to leave any of our pets in a kennel. However, in this year of 2009 I believe that most kennels realize the pet separation anxiety thing and they go out of their way to reassure us that Spotty's environment will be as comfy and homey as possible. In fact, one place wants you to bring a few articles of your unclean personal clothing along with your pet so that they can tuck it away in the cage with your beloved Spotty while you're out of town having a good time without him. (her) And hopefully you'll get some good kita upon your return. It was actually nice to get this snapshot from Eric while we were away. We felt joy that our Bindu was getting her evening walk, and she was flashing her kita and that we were about to get a young man officially next June via the institution of marriage that understood our need to witness kita 360 miles away. Kita abounds....may you experience some tonight. Even if it has to be in the form of a purr or an eye glow you get when you do something nice for someone.

Excuse me, one of our cats was begging. And this damn cat knows me, so that's why she begs. We have three domesticated strays around here and each has their own unique story. This particular beggar cat  that I'm talking about tonight has been around here for so long that I have forgotten her story. But that's ok...she wasn't really supposed to be the topic of tonight's blog. I was going to talk about something else, but that energy has left me. All but for her subtle beg. We have a routine around here...I pretty much take care of all animal feedings except for the evening feeding for the cats. That for some unspoken reason has become the evening chore for my bride. And that chore doesn't get completed until somewhere near 11pm. Unless of course I succumb to the subtle beg of an ancient cat. None of our cats come by me and purr or nudge me by my ankles with their head when they would like some of my attention, but this one comes as close as ten feet away from me and just sits. No meow, no noise...no nothing. And once I catch a glance of her sitting there, with nothing more than a glance my way, I know I'm not going to be able to ignore her until my wife wants to give the cats their evening feeding. Tonight my wife came home at 8:30pm after a visiting her aunt in the hospital. After asking her how her aunt was doing I then said to her that I just fed the cats. And my bride's immediate response was...oh good. Which made me immediately think of some sort of conspiracy in the cat world. Anyway, I just loved the way the setting sun was doing all these cool things in our house and I felt like writing about that earlier...but the damn begging cat somehow got me to pay attention to her.

I'm eating pretzels. The stick kind. Crunchy and salty too. I'm pouring a glass of beer from a forty. None of this has anything to do with the river styx. The pretzels are dry, I need a sip. Here's to all the dry mouths out there. This is my simple life. A corner in a home, an old laptop computer, a bottle of beer (large by some standards) and a handful of salty stick pretzels that don't taste stale. Thank you. What an easy practice. Practicing gratitude. The beer was made in Milwaukee maybe, the pretzels and the rest of this extravaganza I'm appreciating was made not by me and who know's where or why, but goddammit it's all a part of my joy that I'm attempting to tell you about. I would tell you about the sadness I'm feeling too, but it's rather shallow. It has something to do with the pretzels in my almost empty bowl. Which reminds me. I don't much care for this half full half empty bullshit. It's a worn out metaphor, don't use it anymore. No matter which way you say your glass is, you're a fucking liar. I don't believe in half anything. Even though I do things half-assedly for the most part. Not according to me, but to whomever said that silly shit about me to begin with. I don't like most standards. A good percentage of them I do seem to follow, especially when they pertain to health and safety. But I don't pay attention simply because I want to live a long life sitting nightly before this lighted screen with a jug of beer and a bowl of pretzels...nope, not at all, it's all about hypocrisy. Mine mostly...and sometimes yours. But ultimately, I have no say in any of this. Call it god's will if you wish. Call it anything you wish. For me, I feel it good to pause now and then just to say thank you. Whereabouts unknown.

                               


                                

Today I won't intrude on the dying, just the dead (although there is a connection I'm sure).  This afternoon I spent  a few hours decorating graves. Mostly family, but a few non family too. If I had a truckload of petunias, marigolds and geraniums I'd probably decorate them all. Even the nasty bastards that lie there too. I really don't understand much about the spirit world and I don't think I'm overly religious or superstitious, but I do have some sort of kinship with cemeteries. It's the one area of most cities that people revere. Scared grounds. A place to get some fresh air amidst the rot of bodies. Although nowadays a lot of folks are opting for cremation, so possibly in the near future more and more cemeteries will become abandoned. Our kids kids will be scattered instead of buried. Anyway, before I get way off track, let me say, that this blog is for Michael, Martha's husband, who recently left this plane for another realm. May he rest in peace. Martha asked me earlier why I haven been blogging as much lately. I have a few reasons and a couple of excuses, but knowing me, I would say pure laziness is the main reason...which makes it more difficult to make it new. And so now I'm looking up at the title of this blog and I notice the word ruah. It's Hebrew for breath. But before I get into that, let me tell you about Joseph whose tombstone is shown today. I never met the kid, but his stone is directly behind my parents at St. Adalbert's cemetery. Joe was born a week after me in 1947. He was killed in 1967 in Vietnam. I got to nam in '68. My father was buried in '77. Probably since 1977, I've been putting a flower or two on this kid's grave. So now you know. But here's another oddball thing I did today. I visited my bride's aunt Fanny in the hospice room at the hospital. She's 88 and shutting down because her cancer has spread all over. I nudged her...she opened her eyes...I said something...she said something...her eyes closed...we played this game for a while and then I figured it may be best to let her rest. I sat there and watched her breathe. And then I thought, holy shit, I'm getting breath from the dying. And then I began to blow breath her way. I wondered if she could feel my breath from a few feet away. And, I just blew some breath towards you. And I'm taking in yours. And right now, I'm blowing out a puff of every dead person's breath up into the heavens. Ruah.

                                                          

I'm fond of this snapshot I took this morning. It wasn't what I thought I wanted to capture, but it ended up capturing me after all, after a little cropping and quick fixing. It's not great, but fond isn't all that great either. I'm fond of you. Do you remember anyone ever telling you that they were fond of you. I'm telling you again...I'm fond of you. I never used to think that fond was a good word to use, but now I'm thinking differently. I'm not asking you to enjoy the snapshot just because I'm fond of you either. I'm fond of my smirking right now. I'm fond of not making a whole lot of sense. I'm fond of the fact that Rosemarie Saunders used to sign her Christmas cards to me....Fondly, Rosemarie. When she did that, I never understood what she meant. I'm fond of you. I'm so fond of you, I want to fondle you. Very few people have a fond recollection of fondling...especially the fondlers for fondling inappropriately being classified as molesters and perverts. But, who's to say. I'm fond when I'm not judged too harshly. And I'm fond of when I catch a gaggle of geese floating by in a pond. And did I say, I'm fond of you. I will not fondle. I'm not fond of how the geese fucking shit all over the place in total disregard of where I step and I step unconsciously in their poo...and you, did I say that I have this fondness. No, that's not true....I'm really not that cautious...I love you. & will you be fond of me even tough I was fond of this song a long time ago...

                                    

A day where by its end you wonder...where the fuck was I today. I don't know who said this: life is in session...are you present?...but a few hours of my day was like that up until now. Suddenly I raised my hand and said: here. And this time the professor didn't say: go back to sleep Mr. Mazur. I won't recount my day for you even though I did accomplish a lot. This is less about accomplishment and more about mindfulness. And really, even though I'm thinking about it, it has more to do with feeling than thinking. I was busy most of the day, but it wasn't a good busy, it was a busy that was preoccupied by something else. Maybe dread...I was thinking about dread yesterday. Dread resurfaced. I love stupid dread. I love the way it just pops in uninvited. No fucking knock, just dread in your face. The place is a mess, no beer in the refrigerator...and there's fucking dread hanging around. Excuse me while I shift a bit in my seat...this really isn't about dread today, it's something else. In my reflection, as I write this blog to you, I can honestly say that I'm not aware of any dread that I felt today. My dread is dead. And that's okay. But what if it's not dread that I'm really talking about...what if it's hope and joy. What if hope and joy are dead along with dread. A day where you dwell in the comfort of numb. And guess what...there is no such thing as a day. For me, I find that quite refreshing, dreadful and humorous. I think I'm trying to define malaise. Or torpor. Or maybe nothing at all. Yes, now I feel better. It is nothing.

                        

OK....that simply means to me that I should not be blogging. I had a meeting to attend & I made 324 excuses in my head to not attend that meeting. I attended and thus it's now 9:23 some where. It's probably later, because I like to pause a lot. Don't you love it when people define you. They may say things like...you never rest...you do too much, you don't eat enough...you eat too much ...you don't do enough...you give too much...you don't give enough & et fucking cetera. Abbreviated thusly from 9:33 pm forward efct. The phone rang in between so forgive me for my lapse. The bride just called. It's pouring cats and dogs on the way home from the cottage where she and her sister and our daughter Julie were doing some cleaning at the cottage 31.7 miles away from home. I'm not good at math or numerology, but the way I figure, so far tonight these are pretty good numbers. Add to this: 3847 and plunk the sum of it all, divided by two for the next race at Pimlico. Or if you live in Maryland...you may want to play those numbers for the mid day quick four. It's still not raining here. I have experienced rain on one side of the street and not the other. It didn't last long, it was fleeting. The rain suddenly stopped all together. It's raining...it's pouring...the old man is snoring in Paraquay. Some of you know what I'm talking about. This is a metaphor. So four plus metaphor equals what? I'm not quite sure...all I know is that the dogs are barking and the bride must becoming home. It's 10:14 pm. The bride's aunt Barb  just called from Pa. asking about Aunt Fanny. Look at the time.