The Shrine of St. Cecilia

O! how many times I've listened to "The Shrine of St. Cecilia," the song! A bunch of times, so many. I wake up with the tune in mind. I'm out walking the dog and humming the tune or singing. It's inspiring. Musing over how there's trouble everywhere, devastation on a large scale in the area, storm clouds and winds on the march, but the Shrine of St. Cecilia remains standing, inviolate!

I love that song, but sometimes I get it mixed up with a couple other songs I have about St. Theresa of the Roses. So I think I'm singing St. Cecilia and it turns out to be St. Theresa! But they're inspiring too, one by Billy Ward and the Dominos and the other by the DeJohn Sisters. I honestly like about any saint I ever hear of, including St. Charbel of Lebanon and St. Rita of Cascia, who was a recurring character in a series of blog posts I wrote for Paranoia Week in 2014 (links below). I try not to hear about any other saints, because I know I'll like them and life will get complicated.

Today, though, we're thinking of St. Cecilia, also famous in song, with several versions of "The Shrine of St. Cecilia" available on YouTube. Her shrine withstands the various disasters that come around, giving hope and moral support to the people who weren't so fortunate. My life might be the pits -- and my house is actually right now undergoing major renovation because it neglected itself and became a shambles -- but as long as I know Cecilia's shrine yet stands, I too can make it through.

But where her shrine is is a thing I'm confused about. I thought it was in South America, since I've always heard about the Five Peruvian Shriners visiting it, having "traversed not far." But according to online sources, it's in Rome. Which is far from Peru, and allowing for continental drift, getting farther all the time. The confusion probably comes more from what is a shrine and what isn't. And whether the various locales in South America where St. Cecilia is honored are shrines per se. Regardless, we would also commend the Five Peruvian Shriners for going all the way to Rome and yet considering that, because of the saint's sanctity, "not far."

Still, the song of the Peruvians -- We Five Peruvians of Peru Are -- gives a great deal of encouragement to a lot of folks, though for me it's a love-hate thing as well. One of my family heritage things, which I wrote of a few years ago as well, involved Peruvians coming to America and being involved in abusing horses by having them kick their enemies to death. This was an immediate threat to me, having not been conceived yet, and not something I can imagine St. Cecila sanctioning. But every people group has their good apples and their bad, and I can't judge the whole crop by a few especially notorious bruises. Still, I'm watching Peru closely, because according to Grandpa, the Peruvians are among the baddest hombres ever to live. He said they have long memories and aren't given to an easy forgiving nature. The fact that it's all out-of-sight now, and a thing of the distant past involving previous generations, makes it tough for me to judge decisively.

Anyway, it's great to have saints; we can agree on that. They show the possibilities of genuine sanctity even in our usual sinful world. They're the cream of the crop, which is beyond dispute. The typical person is mostly good or mostly bad or some other combination. Then there's some that are mostly bad through and through, usually through some fault of their own. Maybe their parents were bad, so they picked it up. Or their parents were good, but they still turned out bad. For the most part I wish bad people would fall off the edge of the earth, or let's say the earth opened up and swallowed them. Followed by reopening and emitting a burp and maybe allowing for one final scream from the victim for good measure. Bad people make me sick. Then there's saints, better than me by far in their intensity of devotion and allowing devotion to characterize them.

Of course we would want to erect a shrine to them, telling the world, "Here's what our actual ideals look like," despite our own inability (generally) to live the same sanctity. I'm forgiven daily and nightly for my many sins, going back to my childhood. I've already seen the judgment room of God, and let me tell you this much, there's no place to hide. There's literally not even one broom closet in the entire Throne Complex to hide in, not one.

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Paranoia Week links from 2014 involving St. Rita of Cascia:
1. Paranoia - I Hit Rock Bottom
2. Paranoia - This Dark Is Huge
3. Paranoia - I Know Where You Go
4. Paranoia - What Maniac Arranged All This?
5. Paranoia - One Slip, I'm A Goner
6. Paranoia - The Microscopic Level
7. Paranoia - My Fortunes Change

I'm Pronouncing All Of It Already Classic

I'm pronouncing everything about my Grange posts of the last month and more "Already Classic," meaning they're "Worth Their Weight In Gold."

It was an amazing journey, fraught with peril. I wasn't sure where it would lead. But I'm glad it had a happy ending.

Now I can turn the page. That is not to say there won't be any discussion of the issue in the future. Because everything has its ramifications.

I've been very withdrawn today, obviously, not saying a mumbling word about it. But the biorhythms will come back around, I trust, giving the future that promise.

No one should ever exclude the future or try to prejudge it. The feelings of this moment surely won't hold sway forever. For example, I can see myself driving out by the Grange very soon. See, my biorhythms have sprung to life with the mere thought!

Why shouldn't a happy ending be just that?

In The Cellar You Can Set Your Mind At Ease

Who among us hasn't yearned for a nice basement drain to lay in, curled up naked, enjoying the coolness that cellars always have? There are places perhaps more romantic, more exotic, and sunnier, but there's nothing quite so refreshing that's usually so close at hand. If you're without air conditioning upstairs, you do have it downstairs, on the floor, on the lowest part of the floor.

There are things about the cellar that I don't like that much. I associate it with storms, because we'd always grab the first aid kit and a radio and head to the cellar. And the bugs. There are strange crawling things in the cellar. Bugs with two heads. Bugs with 100 legs. Bugs with pinchers, stingers, hooks, offensive stink emissions, poison. It's a wonder bugs get along as well together as they do, with the vast offensive and defensive equipment they're always packing.

And there are things about the cellar, besides the coolness of a low drain, that I like. Such as the shelves of food we used to have down there. Grandpa would be bringing in baskets of stuff from the garden, and Grandma would be boiling it and putting it all in jars. This is what they used to do. They had some interesting stories of keeping food on hand back in the old days. Meat buried in hardened lard. The iceman putting ice through a hole in the wall. The milkman bringing his cow to the door.

I started off OK last night in bed. But I soon became very restless, tossing and turning. I couldn't sleep, so worried, so conflicted, so stewed up about everything going on in my life. Vast and terrible scenarios were playing out in my mind like a war. So I got up and went to the cellar. It's been cool lately so I didn't take off my pajamas. But I did lay there on the floor for a while -- I left the light on and looked at it dangling up there till my eyes got fuzzy and I slept. It does seems like when you're as low as you can go it puts your mind at ease more easily.

I woke up a little earlier because of the discomfort and stretched. There's some pain from being on a concrete floor. But I stretched and that made it better. I brushed off a couple of two headed 100 legged poison-pinching bugs and decided to sit at the chair and little table. I pulled out that box of books, from the same place down there where I found the Sex and the Single Girl book last year. I was picking through it. It's all musty.

Suddenly my eyes perked up. Down in the bottom was a folder and some papers having to do with the grange. The past comes calling!

Looking around the cellar, I came to one unmistakable conclusion. The cement floor, the drain, the light bulb, the furnace, the table, the chair, the boxes, the books, the shelves, and everything else my eyes beheld ... Other people have been here! I do not know when, I do not know who ... Maybe it was just Grandma and Grandpa and our family. But over the years, at some time, whether in building the house, which seems certain, or since the house has been built, which equally seems logical, Someone has been here!

Sex and the Single Peruvian

It's been over a year since I was poking around in the cellar and found the book Sex and the Single Girl by Helen Gurley Brown. "The unmarried woman's guide to men," it said.

Back then I was almost willing to exclude Grandma from the likely suspects who could've owned this book. But the dates, the fact that my aunt and mom were both out of the house well before 1963, led me to one inescapable conclusion: Grandma was a lech. Or at the very least, scientifically interested in affairs of the heart.

The "True Confessions," "True Stories," "Secrets" magazines that were always around the house also factored in as a clue.

I put it out of my mind, that book, since Grandma and Grandpa had been married forever, so why would she want or need an "unmarried woman's guide to men"? Unless, unless, you see the pieces are falling into place. The whole thing with the Grange Brotherhood or Sisterhood (more likely at this point), the sex games designed to ensnare and kill foolish young men, the Peruvian queens, a dynasty the extent of which I haven't begun to discern. These things can't be merely coincidental.

And both my grandparents were in with the grange people all those years ago. Until whatever it was that separated them and put them in disfavor or semi-disfavor with the group. Then it was hardly ever mentioned. Except I knew we avoided the countryside like the cooties. And I remember Grandpa oftentimes had a cold shudder go up his spine that even people unfamiliar with him could feel across town. I could feel it. That's why they kept me out of kindergarten till the following spring. I had some kind of rare, congenital frostbite.

Anyway, if the Grange Sisterhood is trying to keep all this hidden from me, they're not going about it in a very good way. It's more likely, since I was invited into Lemuel's home and was present when Peru and Lemaperu were dressed in full royal garb, that I'm meant to be in on it. For whatever reason. Breeding purposes, I'm thinking. Possibly recruiting. Or taking over the horses. I just don't know. Maybe no real reason. Maybe they just want to rub my face in it because they can.

But Grandma sleeps on. There's no way she's in on this at this point. Unless she's-- No, that's crazy talk. Able to separate from her body? That's total nonsense. But what keeps her alive? And how come I never see bedsores? What's she made of, linoleum?

The Mule Stands Alone

From my post yesterday, one sentence stands out and has been screaming in my mind ever since I hit the ENTER button:

So the mule exists by itself and dies alone after its servitude.

That's right, the mule stands alone. Which is what Lemuel is in his own home. I'm not big on names but look at his name, "Lemuel," which could be easily split as "Le muel." Then it's just a matter of flipping the EL and you got the exact animal. Hush my mouth.

And I like to think more highly of myself. But what do Peru and Lemaperu think of me? What do they see when they look at me? I'm unmarried, middle aged, no prospects, living with a widowed grandmother. I'll tell you. They see a mule in servitude, existing by itself and prepared to die alone.

Now -- go with me here -- what if the entire Grange Brotherhood is just a proud facade? What if the brothers are simply a barren of serving mules, keeping some level of pride by running around the countryside spying from every tree, when in actual fact there's a Grange Sisterhood pulling the strings?

Well, the answer is, I'd say, What is is. If that's what's going on, the rest of us would have to adapt, assuming they've fought it out over the years and are considering the matter for the most part resolved. Maybe this is why Grandpa dropped out, too much testosterone to stand it. And yet, and yet...

I'm racking my childhood memories and not coming up with much. He died first. Grandma lives on in a kind of perpetual existence. He worked hard and brought home the bacon. That's what a mule does. He took care of a lot of the heavy maintenance stuff around the house. Like a mule. In fact, now that I look back, every chore that you'd give over to a mule, if mules could do chores, seems like it was Grandpa's to do! Then he finally died ... after this dumb servitude.

Excuse me a minute. ... I creeped over by Grandma's room to make sure she wasn't up and talking on a radio. Everything seemed normal. She's sleeping. At 104 there's no way she's doing a whole spy thing on me. Surely not. The Sisterhood can't be depending on her for information.

So where does all this leave me? I think things are pretty much the same. I need to just go with the flow. It does knock down the whole idea of the glory of one day being the head of the Grange Brotherhood, which might still be a decent, honorary thing to do. But if the Sisterhood has a place for me in their service, there could be something good in that too. One thing they still need us for, I hope, is our service in reproduction. Which, I understand, brings with it some rewards.

But as for Lemaperu and sweeping her off her feet and romancing her, all those dreams I had -- she's a big gal, she'll probably sweep me off my feet. And as for romance, if she's as hardhearted as I'm starting to think, she'll have a whole biology lab with her. Checking my temperature, her temperature, charting our cycles, when you plant things by the light of the moon, sex almanacs, various horse manuals extrapolated for use among our own species, etc.

Then at just the right moment, by the light of the full moon, my head silhouetted against the moon, I'll let out a bray of victory, several sisters will appear, throw a bucket of cold water on me, and I'll be immediately kicked out of the room.

But an actual mule doesn't care. As long as he has something to chew on, some hay, and a warm barn to bed down in. They just go with the flow.

All Things Being Equal (Lemaperu)

All things being equal, whether I meet Lemaperu or not it doesn't make any difference. If we marry, all things being equal, that'd be OK. If not, all things being equal, whatever.

Whether she looks one way or another, all things being equal, it's all the same. She may think I look like a troll (which I don't.) But all things being equal, she might see it that way.

If Lemuel and his wife want us to marry, all things being equal, it could happen. All things being equal, it'll be up to Grandma and me as well.

All things being equal, though, I'm feeling very complacent about the whole thing.

I guess I need to shuck this "all things being equal" outlook. It's like I died and went to Hindu heaven. Which, because of transmigration means I'd be right back here, all things being equal. So there's no reason to leave in the first place, all things being equal.

I need to shuck it, if that's my choice, because it's sapping my ambition. All things being equal, it's six of one, like that. I'm literally drifting off from thinking of it. All things being equal, why not sleep the day away? Why even go to Lemuel's? Why worry about the Grange Brotherhood? Why exploit my expertise in group dynamics, human environmental science, and the lifestyle sciences?

All great questions, all things being equal.

A Date With Lemaperu

I wrote about my sit down with Lemuel, the old horse keeper at the grange. That was early afternoon yesterday.

Then late afternoon, early evening, I stepped outside to see how summer was going, and there in my path I saw a gift basket from a bed and bath store with a gift card from the Olive Garden. Hmm, strange coincidence, wouldn't you say? Since this is exactly what I gave the guys in the trees along the road going toward the grange. Somebody must've been shaken down! And now they're being used by the Grange Brotherhood for what? to mock me in some way?! These were my first thoughts.

But I was pleasantly surprised and very much pleased to discover it wasn't that way at all. And that this was sent or put there by Lemuel and his wife. I don't know these people, of course -- Lemuel by sight, and his wife is probably one of the matrons. But according to the card there's at least three people in his family, including a daughter, Lemaperu. Obviously named after her dad and if Lemuel's wife turns out to be Peru, then I would say the name must be a combination of both. Like when Sam and Antha named their daughter Samantha.

What a nice gesture this is! Under the card there was a note that made it even more delightful, that they are inviting me out to their place on Thursday night for dinner. I can see where this is going and I like it a lot. Lemuel and Peru (if that's her name) are probably looking for a mate for Lemaperu and want to fix us up. That'd be OK with me. I've been single long enough and there's no prospects.

As for having to go out and find a mate on your own, I've never been a big fan of that custom. I like the old ways, where families arrange these things for you. Then you just lay in your bed with a sheet covering you, writhing there, waiting for her to show up as quickly as possible. For this silk is always nice, like with a nice southerly breeze pushing the curtains. A record playing something, music. Maybe a bottle of bubbly if you drink. Like that.

I was always afraid I'd end up with nobody. And that's the way it's been so far. I used to have this thought that when I became of age that I'd go uptown and stand by the electric company on this one particular corner and ask women passing by if they wanted to marry me. But then the electric company moved just about the time I became of age, so I was essentially lost. What now? And as it turned out I never married.

I've had many flings in my mind, I should confess, so I haven't been entirely shut out. I've followed a few in my car, so I definitely know where they live. Unless they've moved, because I'm not keeping track of these things with any kind of ongoing dedication. It's mostly in the spring, when a man's fancies turn to the things of romance. Those are the times you most want to keep your eye out and follow them home.

And now -- this is amazing -- one has followed me home.

Honey, we've never met. Perhaps on the dance floor, I didn't get your name. Excuse me, miss, are these your shorts hanging on the line? I might know you. If my instincts are honed. We shall see where it leads, perhaps we'll date, then marry, then alternately dwell in your father's and my grandmother's home.

The imagination runs wild, as is its function.

But I must slow down. And if I'm going to have dinner with them not forget my head. I need to lead with my head. Every group dynamics, human environmental sciences, lifestyle science, pavlovian trick I can think of! When it's love, it's love. But everything else needs help.

Lemuel's Number One On Google (Tweets)

Crazy thought. Irate customer to waitress: "I'm not paying for this second fork!"

My article "A Sit Down With Lemuel," which I just wrote, is ALREADY number one on Google if you search for "Sit Down With Lemuel"! Amazing!

Lemuel is a really nice guy, who I had the privilege of getting to know this morning. He trains horses to kill people, for a good purpose.

At first he came at me with a gun. But I talked him down with "The 3 R's" of group dynamics. I specialize in human environmental science.

I'm going to be scarce here today. Having conquered both Lemuel AND Google, I'm going to unwind with a well deserved nap.

A Sit Down With Lemuel

The other day I specified the 3 R's of group dynamics, which "R" of course, 1 aRrange; 2 Reconnoiter; 3 Ruminate.

I like to say if you're not aRranging things, things are being aRranged for you. You must be proactive but low-key. People don't really notice. They just think you're being helpful.

As for Reconnoitering, this is another way of saying Keep your eyes open, but also to be deviously aware. It's also something that you have to be very proactive about. And out of the 3 R's -- and this doesn't just go for group dynamics but for all the human environmental sciences -- I think this is the most enjoyable. Because you're using all your senses, engaging your subjects while observing them.

Sometimes with reconnoitering, I know, the observer fears he or she might tamper with the subject too much, but it depends on what you're trying to achieve. Because some are going for knowledge for knowledge's sake, such as to chart general behavior, and, say, you wouldn't want to have a table there saying you're charting general behavior! Just like if you wanted candid photos you wouldn't say Smile and say cheese.

In a lot of my engagements with people I'm not looking for objective information, of course, because the engagements are primarily social, and I can't step back behind a one way mirror. Believe me, I'd love to! If I could live in a house or skyscraper that was full of one way mirrors, I'd move in a heartbeat. Then give me 30-40 assistants to massage data, and maybe one or two to massage me, and we'd have a great time. We'd be looking for secrets, charting secrets, doing psychological experiments till we were blue in the face. Fun stuff, too, like college students shocking unwitting victims, to prove something about original sin.

But as it is, I'm flying solo. And I don't really call my forays experiments as such. I'm doing what I do to make it to the next level. To get the understanding to give me a happier tomorrow. And, let's say it helps free the country and lessens rural paranoia, bridges some divides and opens up a free flow of trade, not to mention the sharing of ideas, etc., that'll be good too. The third R -- Ruminating -- is in this to some extent.

But let's return to Reconnoitering. I decided to do some reconnoitering of the grange complex. I know things are relaxed at certain times, like Sundays. I don't know where the rural people all go on Sunday morning, so I'm just guessing. The thought occurred to me that they bury themselves in a box of soil from their ancestral land, then close the lid and lay there to recharge. Or it could be they're in church. Either way, the morning is relaxed. There weren't any of the black hooded, black veiled guys in trees, leaving the country vulnerable to interlopers.

I drove out and parked in the same place as usual. Everything looked deserted. The grove, the field, the grange itself. Some of the farmers' daughters shorts were hung on a clothes line. I decided to saunter over and take a closer look. My verdict: Very interesting. My further verdict: Who says Reconnoitering isn't the most interesting R? It's where you get to use all your senses.

After some lengthy reverie in that vicinity, the gentle breezes helping my reverie immensely, I next decided to check out the barn. The door wasn't locked, but that didn't seem unusual, since it's just a barn. I opened the door a crack and didn't see anyone. So I went in. Soon I could hear some noises. It was the horses rustling around, eating, snorting, neighing. I thought of the old joke that horses are nothing but neighsayers, which brought a smile to my lips, playing across my features, enlightening my eyes, and perhaps flaring my nostrils with delight.

My joy was suddenly interrupted by a call from down the other end. I saw a man step from the shadows with a gun and ask me what I wanted. It was Lemuel, the horses' keeper, who, it turns out, lives in a small house behind the barn. From where he stood, with the door behind me open, and the morning sun streaming in, I must have looked like a silhouette. Bad aRranging, but I was caught unaware!

So using my best group dynamics tone (what I call the old We're all in this together tone), I said, "So there you are! I'm glad I ran into you!" That immediately disarmed him because now he knew I wasn't just sneaking around but was looking for him. Then a bit of flattery, "These horses are beautiful. You do a heck of a job with them!" Then some commisserating. I immediately sat down on a barrel, fanned myself with my hand, and said I was still a little tired from Friday night, and that I knew he must be too.

In a few seconds we were like close friends. I pulled over another barrel -- careful not to have him between me and the sun [aRranging] -- and we had a good old fashioned sit down. I was careful to keep my head at a lower level than his.

He told me his story, his love for animals at an early age, the revulsion he'd always felt at immorality, the need for people to go to church, how society is a complete waste, and so on. I nudged him a little -- verbally -- and asked why he wasn't at church. His answer astounded me, "A game toe," one of the exact same things I suffer with, and what I have to thank for my disability benefits. We had that in common, so we were totally on the same page. Same foot too, the right, and even the same toe, the big toe!

The things he said about morality and immorality, I really, really resonated with. And how society is a complete waste. It was all right on as far as I was concerned. (Meaning that's the story he got, since a lot of Reconnoitering is nothing but strategic agreeing with people.) Several times I trumped him, because people like that too; it lets them know you're really paying attention, plus, it lets them know you respect the progress they've made in life and your optimism for them to take it further. Like if he's giving an anecdote about some terrible thing -- let's say the ravages of rock music on religion's popularity -- I have a worse one.

We got on the subject of horses, which of course is his real pride. I buttered him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Each of these horses he trained. It's his signal they go by when they kick some immoral person to death. It turns out he used to train animals for the circus but quit when a monkey bit the big toe on his right foot. So that's where he got the game toe! Interesting. But why'd he quit? Because he felt like such a failure at the time and swore he'd never again work with animals. Then he moved to this area -- back ages ago -- was tested himself like the others are, passed the test, and eventually got the job from the old guy before him who died, etc., and he's been at it ever since.

He was happy to meet me, he said, and said he was impressed how I passed a very difficult orgy test a couple weeks ago. Somehow I knew better than to dare touch my zipper. He complimented me on my great discipline -- my morality -- and said he knew I was a rare breed. My intuition told me he was sizing me up to take over his job with the horses, just like he got it from the old guy before him, but I didn't say anything about it.

We parted as close friends. Lemuel. A nice guy indeed.

Now I'm back home to Ruminate, which, in part, you've been privileged to witness.

My Head Screwed On Straight

Umm, huh, umm [moving my head back and forth], just want to make sure my head's screwed on straight. I can't keep it straight, everything I've been doing lately and saying. With time not being quite itself -- being sped up sometimes -- and an unremitting flurry of meetings, theories, schemes, friends, enemies, not to mention a real lack of understanding of Grange Brotherhood history, politics, and ways, I really don't know where I am.

So it's time to simplify things. I'm the good guy. But I'm still going to have a hard time saying the Brotherhood's the bad guys. Some are, perhaps, some aren't. Probably most of them are good in the same sense that people are generally good. Good until you turn your back on them, then they're the same stew of semi-good and 75% evil that all of us are. Pelaging Dr. Freud!

My own concern is to do like -- who were those guys, the Utilitarians? -- to advocate for the greatest good for the greatest number of people. Theoretically, because when my head isn't screwed on straight I wonder why I should care. I've got my guns and sacred swords if everyone gets out of hand. But I hate suffering, that's it, as necessary and unavoidable as it is. So I don't hate suffering at every level, since that would be to deny existence. And whether this is the greatest Creation there could ever be, etc.

So much suffering is simply perspective-driven; wouldn't it all have to be perspective-driven, if there's a suffering soul or consciousness? We've got it that even the Highest suffers on our behalf, which would suggest something intrinsic or objective. Then there's the whole matter of the Highest's choice in this matter, unless we take the Highest out of the realm of being just another character like every other character. If we think of the One somehow without a Two, it's even humorous to think of the One suffering; the perspective of it would be artificial, no doubt to use the wrong word, a thing of choice, chosen, therefore not wholly an intrinsic matter except insofar as Grace and Love are seen as separate from Being Itself. And with that, we're working with lingnastics and putting too much of ourselves into it...

Anyway, there's interesting ways of looking at things.

Then there's gift baskets and gift cards, which is what I really wanted to get to. I'll keep it short. The black cloaked figures along the road between here and the grange have loosened up toward me since that first Friday. This is positive. Like I said in a tweet yesterday, quoting the great song, "Sometimes good guys don't wear white." To further loosen them and find favor, I used some of the money from my savings account to buy for them gift baskets for their wives and/or significant others and gift cards for them. What they were specifically were some gift baskets from a bed and bath store, with towels, bath lotions, powders, etc., and the gift cards were each for $25 from The Olive Garden.

So on my way to the dance, the black cloaked figures in the trees were already trying to wave me on and wave at me. But I slowed down. At first they were looking suspicious because I seemed to be acting suspicious. But, like I do, lifestyle science stuff, I laughed and acted very inclusive -- we're just folks here, you and I -- and called them down from their tree and gave them one of these baskets and cards. You should've seen the look on their faces. Like, No one's ever done anything for me. This is the greatest gesture anyone's ever done for me, etc. I'm waving it all off, but they're still lathering it on thick and at length.

I made good time, though, and got to the grange way early. Since I'm trusted now, I went over to the barn and saw Lemuel brushing the horses and sharpening their shoes. The matrons were putting on their dancing clothes, like a costume party. The various orgy people were going through last minute choreography refinements. The farmers' daughters were cinching up their cutoffs, setting aside what it appears they normally wear, sack dresses and wool socks. And I saw other women and men going through their preparations, unbuttoning the top button to reveal cleavage, or, for the men, setting their zippers askew and pulling out cloth to give the slightest hint of underpants.

When the dance got going, I stayed inside quite a bit, but once in a while I could see the horses heads bob by the window as they were going to the barn or back to the grove. There's a great honor in all this procession work. They put a lot of pomp into it, especially with a fresh kill. Death isn't cheap to these people. They honor it by going to the extra trouble, which, frankly, I think the horses love. They have very little else to live for, and if horses watched TV I'm sure they would cherish the opportunity to see a well-placed shoe in slow motion, perhaps set to the 'Chariots of Fire' type of music.

But I didn't need to see it all this time. I know what an idiot kid looks like, his zipper down, then a horseshoe imprint in his forehead wasting him. Still, it makes me sad to think, One little mistake like that ... fatal ... what a waste! This will be something I bring an end to if I'm ever fortunate enough to be in a position of power with this organization. Because I feel for the parents at home, looking out their window, wondering what's keeping Billy. And to me Billy deserves more of a chance than this even though life sometimes says No.

Inside, I danced with a few of the farmers' daughters, who, while looking as hot as a fireplace poker, are so engaged in their part of allurement that there's very little actual life to them. Plus, I'm way too old for them. Mostly I danced with the matrons. The men trust me now so there was barely any surveillance from the curtains. A few of the matrons were decidedly forward, being aware that I'm now an old hand.

One tipsy gal had her arms around my backside and grabbed each side; there's two sides divided by a line down the middle, I should note, and she simultaneously had a handful of each, with the kind of grip we usually associate with chefs working with pizza dough. I'm thinking I might have some bruises. As close as this put our front extremities, there could've been some misunderstanding, and I'm lucky the horses and husbands were otherwise occupied.

Everything is working out neatly. The level of trust is so high. I had a wonderful time!

I Guess Everyone IS Looking For Some Tush (Tweets)

Ah, passing the time with paradise people / Paradise people are fine by me... (from the song 'Abergavenny.')

I shall win over the Grange Brotherhood with gift baskets and gift cards. Let them know, "Sometimes good guys don't wear white." (Standells)

I'm at the grange dance, just checking in. I heard some weird sing-song children's songs in the distance, but it's just fields for miles.

I've had a few dances, including one dance with a very amorous matron. She had hold of something behind me and pulled me close. She's drunk.

I'm going to have to check myself for bruises back there, which is going to require a good mirror, privacy, and some craning of the neck.

If You See A Red Dog Running Free

I woke up today in the greatest mood, with a song that I heard yesterday running through my mind. It's on repeat mode because it's the only thing I can think of.

The song is "Abergavenny," by Shannon. I have a 45 rpm record of it and it's also on an LP. I love it, stuff like this, "Taking a trip up to Abergavenny, Hoping the weather is fine, If you should see a red dog running free, Well, you know he's mine." And it's also got some great stuff about "Paradise people, fine by me." So, wherever Abergavenny is, "I've got to get there and fast!"

I love that "red dog running free" line. I take my dog for a walk and she used to run free. But now we have a roaming cop in the area all the time, who I call Deputy Dawgcatcher. And he's constantly on the lookout for vicious curs tasting freedom. My dog was running free one time and I saw Deputy Dawgcatcher coming into the area, so I have a deal with my dog, when I give out a high pitched shriek that only she can hear, that means "Come." Then we're walking along, my dog on her leash, and we crossed paths with Deputy D and he pointed out to me some other guy over there whose dog was running free. He's got to cite him.

Anyway, we don't want dogs running free that are going to kill us. But most wouldn't!

So I'm having a great morning, in the greatest mood, with the greatest song running through my head. If you know the record, it has that marching band in there. It's very nice.

Speaking of bands, tonight's the Friday night grange dance, Johnny Hotshot's band, the works, the grange people, the horses, matrons, farmers' daughters, black hooded Grange Brotherhood. I'm definitely going -- especially as everything's loosening up very nicely for me. I'm fitting right in, making some decent alliances, etc.

There are always ways of dealing with people to your best advantage. Put on a good face. Listen to happy music. Get yourself stoked up about your own qualities. See yourself divinely led, divinely inspired. Know you've got the entire divinity right there in your heart. Crap, it isn't rocket science, it's better. It's the secrets of the universe in a one inch cube right behind your navel. With the spiritual superhighway leading right by, with several on and off ramps to your brain. People look at you and they don't know what hit 'em.

Then you've got all the instincts it takes to arrange things, chairs, tables, gift baskets, flowers, smiling, touching shoulders, commisserating, strategic yielding, other people's wisdom taking your breath away...

That's the way I'm going tonight, with gift baskets and gift cards. A modest investment in gift baskets and gift cards will pay off handsomely. Wait and see!

But as for this morning:

Sunshine forever, lovely weather
Don't you wish you could be.....
Ah, taking a trip up to Abergavenny
Hoping the weather is fine
If you should see a red dog running free
Well, you know he's mine!

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"Abergavenny" music and lyrics by Jack Geller & Frere Manston, performed by Shannon, aka Marty Wilde, 1968 recording.

The Country Strikes Back

Another few days has passed. Time really flies when it's sped up. Now I can see why someone could live to be 104, like Grandma has. Because she's really only living every other day. So if she's only 52 in the actual passage of time, she's younger than I! A few more days of this time warp and it might turn out that I am somehow my grandmother's father. But I'll leave that worry for another day. If there's a paternity fight you'll be among the first to know.

My worry today is on some of the reactionaries among the country folk, who may be a little reluctant to submit to my ideas of bringing them and the city folk together. I did confer with some of the higher ups, in addition to numerous underlings. Each had a small but vocal cadre of people who are proving hard to sway. They want to protect their old ways, they say, but it could be they're just stubborn, hard to convince because they're also simply stupid. That's always something to take into consideration.

But when an immovable object meets an irresistible force something eventually's got to give. And it ain't gonna be me. I'll step up the expertise if that's what they want. Every group dynamics trick, not to mention the various tricks of human environmental science and the lifestyle sciences. I've been doing this since kindergarten. I saw the angles, like how my desk should be set in relation to the teacher's desk to make sure she noticed me. And the way my blanket should be oriented in relation to the other kids' to make it stand out. But some teachers were stupid too, and so along the way I got a few dings on my report card for being needy, clingy, etc. You have them in every group of people.

One of the big tricks I have for the country folks is what I call the art of commisseration. But commisserating with people is very time consuming, because to do it to maximum profit you have to do it individually or, at most, with two. That means getting them alone, like during a break, finding out some of their grievances, then piling on with, "Oh, yeah! I thought I was the only one who felt that way!" And occasionally catching my breath at some grievance they've stated. You look in their eye with a look that says "That's profound" and touch their shoulder, and immediately use your body language to lead them back to the group. What you're saying is two things: 1) I couldn't agree more; 2) We need to lead this group together in seeing things our way. They'll thank us.

So if these cretins give me any guff -- and it seems that's what some of them are up to -- I'll be commisserating fast and furious. Then when their guard's down, wham! They'll be spinning dizzy in their own dust, with no choice but to rejoin the group on my terms. Because in the meantime, I've arranged chairs, desks, sofas, bulletin boards, every piece of furniture. And when I present, those who are in most agreement with me, they'll all be subtly rewarded with better lighting, better ability to hear, fewer reflections from the sun through the windows, etc. Anyone left at the perimeter or in the inferior seating will have to move up to those least in agreement with them if they want the advantages. And so forth.

But I hate to make this a seminar in scientific manipulation. But I notice you're not complaining. And there are some very good reasons for that. But we shall go on...

I went to the second Friday grange dance a couple days ago, and there's another one tomorrow. Of course I was much more trusted at the second dance than at the first. I saw the whole set up of the orgies, all that, trying to ensnare folks who were clueless. I saw the horses kicking a few young men to death. I saw the dressing room for the farmers' daughters. And lots of other stuff. So, a few more weeks of this and I'll own the dance. And maybe before we're through I can test out some group dynamics and science on these horses in their barns.

A Friendly Vibe (Tweets 08-12-2009)

I'm devious when it comes to group dynamics, human environmental science, and lifestyle science. It's like going thru life with five aces!

Put on a few earth tone threads, blow dry my hair, sit to their left, and engage them with fascination for their lives, I can get anything.

It's this kind of cold scheming that will bring new life and happiness to our rural areas, the promise of a "New Tomorrow, New Today" for all!

I will convey to the Brotherhood a friendly vibe, and teach them we should make city folk comfortable, not run them through with pitchforks.

If you see my lips coming down the street, please take your lips and cross to the other side. Because, my darling, our lips must never meet.

New Tomorrow, New Today

Several days have passed. I've been in touch with several people from the country, including one I trust completely, Cousin Roto. I always wondered why he didn't invite me out to his place more often, and he confirmed to me that with changing times, the country had become a much more paranoid place, as they struggled to hold their own against what they took to be the encroaching moves of the city.

A lot of the pieces fell in place during our discussions. And in addition to visiting with Roto, who may very well come out of this sitting pretty, being related to me, I conferred with some of the underlings from the Grange Brotherhood, who wish to remain nameless for the present time. That fact alone shows the paranoia is running thick and deep out there. And they have other grievances, such things as there being very little movement in the ranks. Apparently once a tree sitter, always a tree sitter. So if I get the opportunity, I assured them I would grease the skids once in a while. I said this with a wink, and they got the idea.

I hate to say I'm making inroads, because I'm as a superstitious as they come about counting chickens. But I feel like I'm miles ahead from several days ago, the last dance now being a couple weeks ago. I sat and stewed, seeking guidance from within. Then I decided if the world was passing me by anyway, I may as well put forth an effort. What's the worst that could happen? That the world would continue passing me by? You can probably tell by my tone that I'm alive and kickin'. That's true!

Quite frankly I'm thinking we can make the country a showplace, something that will be the envy of the city. In limited ways, perhaps, we can open up vast areas of our great countryside and invite city folk out to it. I'm envisioning some loosening up of the paranoia -- not all the way, of course, just enough to make things better -- with the idea, at least, that there can be some exchange of ideas, even perhaps a free flow of trade.

The city has been dying for new blood. And the city could use our crops. As it is now, with the paranoia, our farmers have used government subsidies to feed their families. Yet they've continued to plant crops, not as something to sell and that might feed the world, but to serve as better hiding places, outposts to guard against encroachment. And with paranoia, it's all fed on itself, to the point that most people don't even know the country is there anymore!

Amid this flurry of activity, I've come up with a new motto for the country. And if I have the opportunity to serve, I want it to be on all our stationery, fliers, TV ads, to be on T-shirts, etc. The motto is "New Tomorrow, New Today." I think it really hits the spot, because city folk, to the extent that they think of country folk at all, relegate them to yesterday. But this motto shows that we'll be thinking of tomorrow (future), while renewing the present moment (today). What could be friendlier sounding than that?

Along with the motto, I'll be seeking the help of design experts, graphics artists, to come up with a lively graphic scheme, which I'm envisioning as something like the sun about 20% over the horizon and perhaps we can work in a weather vane somewhere. Drawn in the current style of such things as informally yet as lively as possible, something playful yet serious, something that shows we're open for business and willing to engage. I love it!

Then down the road -- who knows when? With time sped up it could be tomorrow, but I hope not, because I need to prepare for this stuff sometime -- I want to teach the country folk to embrace their lifestyle. It might be like that commercial where the family in the old truck takes their produce to Kansas City for the farmers' market. Birdseye? Don't be ashamed of your old battle axe truck. Paint it and go for the charm factor. City folk love pride, which is why they make their buildings so tall. Then they go up there and look out over the country with binoculars to see if the country is also proud. And so far all they've been seeing is a bunch of black hooded guys in trees, flashing signals that interlopers are within 10 miles. That's no good.

With my design sense -- impeccable -- and my knowledge of group dynamics -- flawless -- and my abilities to convey the finer points of human environmental science, or as I like to call it, "Lifestyle Science -- Taking Life From Theory To Practice" -- outstanding -- there's really nothing that the country can't achieve!

I'll be conferring with Roto on this, and some of the Brotherhood underlings promised to get me some connections higher up, so we'll go from there. Speaking of lifestyle science, I'm thinking if I wear earth tone clothes that'll make them comfortable, and if I make sure to start out sitting to their right (like they're driving), then over time shift myself over to the power position, they won't know what hit them...

Right now I'm on top of the world, the Country World and the City World. I'm literally pumping my fist as I type this! Try it sometime!

"New Tomorrow, New Today!" So great!

Wang Dang Doodle (Today's Tweets)

As you are, I once was. As I am, you will be. (You wish!!!)

Wang dang doodle. I shall prevail.

The whole thing with the Octopus/Snake fight riled up something in my spirit, a fierce force that can't be dismissed. I've one thing to do:

And that's to listen to this record, as recorded by Joanie Sommers, "Johnny Get Angry"...

"Johnny get angry, Johnny get mad; Give me the biggest lecture I ever had; I want a brave man, I want a cave man; Show me that you care..."

Because I'm soon going to lead the Brotherhood (a rural mafia-type group), I went to buy some organic eggs. My connection to the country.

It's true, I did buy some organic eggs. First time ever.

I've Reached A Decision

I've been messing with the psychological mechanics of speeding up and slowing down time most of the morning and so I didn't get around to writing this update until now. Which means I have to rush because the slowing down function isn't working right as of this minute. Or 10 minutes ago now.

Just know that, whatever the calendar says, and it's dead on in sync with everyone else's, by the time I get done here, even if it only takes minutes, I could very well be old and gray. Let me pause a minute and kick it. There. Against all odds, I believe I heard some slowing of the wheels.

What's all this about speeding up time? I'll get more into it as necessary, just to say now that I can't be content to wait and drag this crazy situation out. I need to have it resolved as quickly as possible. If I don't, there's going to be trouble with "friends" and "followers." As I found during the hiatus, they don't like things stretched out. They're into instant gratification. And, if Garrett Al is any indicator, gratification is exactly what they're after, whether mental (not in his case) or physical, as was his perverse desire. But enough about him.

I have reached a decision about the Grange Brotherhood, thinking back to the three options of a couple days ago. I came to this decision not lightly, but it's been a struggle unlike I've ever felt in my life. Because, think about it, the antecedents of this struggle go back generations. This is conspiracy theory stuff. Grandma and Grandpa had connections to the Brotherhood back when they were dating, probably. It could be they were moved around like chess pieces with the aim of bringing them together so they would eventually have my mom, who would eventually have me, who would eventually be sitting here as I sit today, either their Savior or the Antigranger they fear.

Think about my heroic dream yesterday, terrifying stuff. The Octopus creature versus the Snake headed man. I still can't get over the vision of that terrifying cobra hood. Cobras have the weirdest heads in nature. A few more years of evolutionary history and they'll be flying squirrels. Cobra parents always feel like they should trim back some of Junior's head but then their doctors tell them that's what brings the real pleasure later in life. So they fall for it every time, the child cobra goes to snake school, the other kids are always making fun of the cobra's hood. Like, "Don't whisper around him. He can hear you!" And "The slightest puff of wind and he'll sail away!" This is also why the cobra's hearing is notoriously bad. Every sound being accentuated, their ears wear out early on. So you see it in India, the owner has to play his flute right down in their basket to rouse them. You put a flute to my head the first thing in the morning, I'm going to bite you. But my hearing is also top notch.

Anyway, about the dream. There they were, in a death struggle. The Snake, I believe, wanted to wrestle. The Octopus wanted to rassle. Because snakes are used to writhing, wrestling comes naturally to them. Octopuses have the more chaotic atmosphere of the ocean as their natural habitat, so rassling comes more naturally to them. The Snake, though, being the subtlest of creatures, and very wise, was able to adapt to the Octopuses' moves. The little snake heads popped out and bit the Octopus very badly. Then I woke up.

But today I drifted off in my chair and saw the end of the dream. The Snake wins! By some very dexterious coiling, he had all eight Octopus legs pinned to the canvas. Later, the Octopus was seen -- time having been sped up -- old and gray in a nursing home, refusing to say much about it, but still signing autographs eight pictures at a time.

I am the Snake. I will prevail.

So my decision, the decision I have reached, based on this dream, is this: That not only will I join the Grange Brotherhood, one day* I will be the Grange Master who leads the whole organization!

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*"One day" could be as soon as tomorrow, thanks to the speeding up of time. But that really would be much too soon. I need some things to write about before we get there. So please be patient.

Tweets - 08-10-2009

Introduction:

My activity at that website came in one burst of energy, as I'd had the whole day to think about my revelatory dream, written about earlier.

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There's 1000 directions this thing with the Grange Brotherhood could go, but thank God for that revelatory dream last night. It was cool.

Over there you've got Super Octopus, seething, pulsating tentacles. Over here, Snake Head Man, with snake chambers like Whack-A-Mole boxes

If they ever make my 'Grandma Slump' blog into a movie, I'll get extremely rich just off the action figures.

They're in a death grip. Octopus has tentacle suction cups all over Snake's hood. But Snake darts out a metallic tongue and moves him back!

Then it's Arms vs. Tentacles, 2 vs. 8, the odds are in Octopus' favor, until the snake boxes open and the tiny biting heads each sink in.

Snake Man has to twist and turn to allow them to take Octopus, and says, nicely, "Let me know when you're done back there!"

With dreams like that I hope I never wake up. If I could find some reliable way to Velcro this bedpan in place, I'd never have to. Dream on.

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Do you know what Skoal chewing tobacco's slogan is? "Welcome to the Brotherhood." Is that a sign?

Personal Silence And Stewing

I ended yesterday's post with these words: "What I will do ... is something for me to contemplate ... in the counsel of my own heart ... with the light and dark alternately rising and descending ... in personal silence and stewing ..."

I'm right in my element with this thing. Personal silence and stewing is exactly what I like to do if there's an opportunity, and I've got something decent to stew over. And with this whole thing involving the Grange Brotherhood, the good and bad sides, I'm full to the brim with opportunities. It's all a huge wonder.

As for "the light and dark alternately rising and descending," to further quote that very nice paragraph (I give it 5 out of 5 knuckle polishes), the way I picture that is the idea of a man sitting in one spot with the sun rising and the sun setting on him. If that could actually be done, which I don't think it could unless you had a bedpan and a refrigerator right at hand. But apart from the literal light and dark rising and falling, I could take it as the mental/spiritual content of my own agonized heart. A situation in which I go through periods of light and periods of dark as the silence and stewing is very much prolonged.

At one point this morning, I was positively radiant with the light. I had enough good things going on that I could've healed the world. Had I so deigned. But then just moments later I was in such a fit of darkness that I could've crawled around on the floor naked like a crab seeking a drain for a faster descent. A shadow fell across my face. My eyes were darkened, bereft of light and life itself. Something vast and terrible is happening, because I don't usually have my shorts in such a knot, usually being in a fairly good mood.

What is the content of all this stewing, all this perplexity? The awful quandary I'm in concerning the Grange Brotherhood, whose besetting of me along the way, then testing (tormenting) of me at the dance, brought forth numerous issues, mostly of a negative sort.

I hope you can tell I'm worked up about it. So much so, in fact, that anything could happen. The options I presented yesterday, 1) Joining the Brotherhood; 2) Ignoring the Brotherhood; 3) Attacking the Brotherhood, are all still operative. I'm casting about for signs -- flailing wildly -- and I can't help thinking one will be coming very soon. A person can't function with this kind of constant turmoil. I need it to end! But exactly how it's going to end, I do not yet know.

I probably should mention a dream I had, which could have some prophetic bearing on the important matters at hand. I witnessed a titanic struggle of two superhuman forces. One side was a gigantic octopus, with enormous outstretched tentacles, literally with brass knuckles on each one. The air holes or suction cups you always see on tentacles were seething, in constant motion, as though trying to pull in its victim by an inner pressure with its domineering will.

The opponent was a snake-headed man, a head and hood like a cobra, then from the top to the back of his head was a swarm of smaller biting snakes. It's like they lived under small trap doors, the shingles or texture of the snake's head, then popped out when called upon. As the octopus reached out the snakes popped out in defensive posture. And as the bigger snake, the snake head proper, lashed out, also with sheer indomitable will, the octopus recoiled and spun with a backwards retreat, a retreat however that kept it in position to strike at any time. (There was so much hissing I might've hissed the bed. Forgive a desperate old man his joke.)

All in all it was a pleasant enough dream, but I woke up before it resolved itself.

Tweets - 08-09-2009

Preamble: Friends, and I do believe you are all my friends, I only have one tweet to preserve today. So of course you know it better be a good one. And I believe it is.

It is a very succinct reiteration of something I said on my post, basically the three options I saw at that time vis-a-vis my dealings with the Grange Brotherhood.

Without further ado here it is, and I will have something brief to say afterwards:

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It's quandary time: 1) I might join the Grange Brotherhood; 2) I might withdraw and ignore them; 3) I might take them on as an enemy. 1 2 3.
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That's nice. It reminds me of one of my biggest fears in life, which I know is beside the point, but since I recall it now this is the time to set it down.

I used to hear about guys going out to the rock quandary near where we lived. But I myself never went to one, at least for the same reason they went there. The quandary, I guess, was abandoned when the vein had run dry (I know the feeling).

Anyway, what they left behind was a big hole that was filled with water. The rumor was that it was 400 feet deep or something. The guys would be out there swimming, maybe drinking, and a lot of foolish horseplay would ensue. I heard of a few guys drowning out there. So it's very dangerous. 1) It's the middle of the night; 2) These guys are fools; 3) There's no supervision; 4) You get the idea.