Old Faithful Settles In For The Long Haul

I was up early today and went out to take one last private look at the pieces of Old Faithful before they hauled it away. It was hard to see much because they had tarps and cables holding everything down. I could definitely see parts of the central tube, stretched down the center of one semi trailer. Unnaturally separated were the enormous steel water balls, cradled and cushioned in a big form crafted to keep them from rolling around. The other pieces were also carefully packed and tied down.

All three trucks were rumbling away, the engines still on. I was thinking how we could do it. Maybe Roto in one, me in another, and Grandma in the third. If we did it, it'd be better to have her in the middle, following one of us with the guy in the back making sure she kept up. But it'd be in vain. You can't have a 104-year-old woman driving a semi and a fugitive to boot. It'd be a black mark on her record, for sure, and would follow her the rest of her life. If it was just us two boys, we could probably vanish with the three semis somewhere in the hills, then back in the hills play with Old Faithful till we were old and gray, covering up the works only when the Google Earth people flew over.

But that was just a reverie. I had no intentions of doing anything vigilante. But I couldn't control Roto!

Around 8 a.m. the drivers arrived from the motel and there was no other business involving me. They looked at me suspiciously, like they half expected me to make a move. But I stood fairly still, looking as innocent as possible. I'll confess I was mentally trying a few things with the power of positive thinking, trying to conk out their engines, flip over their trucks, give them each a heart attack, rectal itch, something. But reality kept its repose and I was thwarted. Until, what's this?

Roto came around the corner about 60 miles a hour! He pulled up abruptly and parked his pickup catty wampus in front of the lead semi. He was out in a second, cussin', stompin', definitely worked up in a massive tizzy. (I'm going to leave out all the F-bombs he launched, but he schooled all the gathering in the fine arts of colorful language. As an artist, you might say he had colors on his palette that revealed several ghettos in the spectrum of light that were condemned long ago. If this had been the Jerry Springer show, the soundtrack would have sounded like Samuel Morse working the kinks out of his brand new code. Roto appears to know more slang for body parts, excrement, sex acts, and family relationships than English can possibly have; he's an international dictionary of filth.)

Plus, he was calling to me to join him, which I didn't. I pulled back further in case it came to gunfire and tire irons. Roto was all up in the face of the lead driver, provoking the others to come to the guy's aid. They explained to him -- amid the cussing and pushing -- that Old Faithful was being repo'd and he needed to back off, now! They were just doing their job. Roto looked over at me, like c'mon, c'mon, help me here... But I was brave. I made the cutting-my-throat gesture about five times. The drivers remained wary but went into more of an at-ease pose when they saw Roto was just hot air. He did go at-ease, but scowled at me like this ain't over, then threw up his hands.

The drivers exchanged clipboards -- the official paperwork. The third guy gave a clipboard to the first guy. The first guy handed a clipboard to the third guy. Then there was another clipboard the third guy had. He needed to pass it to the first guy. The first guy himself had another clipboard and gave it to the third guy. The second guy was there, like What? No clipboard for me? The first and third saw what was going on and, in kindness, worked through their large stack of clipboards till they found one for him.

I'm inching in a bit, because most of the excitement seems to be over. I'm getting closer to Roto, who's giving me some kind of hand signal that I don't recognize. The drivers are heading to their rigs, the first guy to the first truck, the second to the second truck, leaving the third to take the remaining truck. Now I believe I see what Roto's doing. He's pointing to a crowbar by the garage. Just as the drivers are finishing off the preliminaries of getting their trucks in gear, Roto runs to the crowbar, grabs it, and runs toward the trucks! They're barely moving, trying to edge around Roto's pickup, giving him time to climb on the one with Old Faithful's central tube. He's up there like a madman pounding the tube through the tarp. Then when the trucks start get to the corner, right where they'll be able to pick up speed, he jumps off, crowbar still in hand, stalking back up the hill.

So that's it. He went to his pickup, got in and drove off. Too bad I didn't have a second crowbar. I could've run after him and inflicted some massive dents in his passenger side door.

Old Faithful Is Moving Back Home

I might try to pin a new name on Old Faithful, like maybe Old Fickle. If faithfulness means staying with one who loves you, then faithful Old Fickle ain't. Being fickle, though, means you're not too sure who you want to be with. Instead, anyone who bats their eyes at you.

But to call Old Faithful by this new name -- Old Fickle -- might be doing it an injustice, since, it's clear to one and all it is not a living creature but just an incredibly complicated machine. Rather, there are machine components around it, while it is a series of tubes, spigots, knobs, and gauges. Just add water and it's good to go. And fire. It's like a TV dinner, just heat and serve. If you know how to boil water you've got a geyser.

I simplify, of course. There's a lot of know-how that goes into working a geyser. Especially if it spews on schedule like Old Faithful. You've got to have someone in the belly of the beast monitoring the gauges, keeping the flow of water coming, stoking the fire, and manning the bellows. Plus, think about it, there's lot of other things to work out, like getting various government permits, qualifying for tax breaks and incentives on your water bill, fire department inspections, and so on.

So at first I was ticked off when I got the notice, but now maybe it's for the best -- that Yellowstone Park wants "their" Old Faithful back. "Excuse me, but it's my Old Faithful now," was my first thought. But it was patiently explained to me that the guy who signed off on the papers and gave it to me was not properly authorized under the circumstances, something about there not being the legal steps necessary for his actions, that Old Faithful has a whole board of directors, supervisors, captains, and assorted hangers-on, and there are legalities involving quorums, the publishing of the board agenda in advance, and a thousand different things like that. In short, I didn't have a legal leg to stand on and would need to "cede any claim to said Old Faithful without delay."

I did have them on one point, the fact that their monitoring of the geyser seemed very lax, as they had not missed it for the last couple weeks. That was something they were embarrassed to admit, but of course it didn't have any bearing on their legal rights. They did promise to keep track of it more diligently in the future, to which I gave a sober nod, not wanting to rub it in any more than that.

The last few hours they were busy at the south end of the half acre packing it all up. The trucks are now loaded, the holes are filled in. And it's getting late in the day, so the drivers have gone off to stay the night in a motel.

I hope I have a good night. I might not sleep that well, knowing my dreams are sitting on the back of three semis. You know, the trucks are running. They always leave these trucks running. It would really be a bad thing, I suppose, were someone to drive off with one ... or perhaps all three. But how do you drive off with three trucks? It'd be like that one chick, the one who rides six white horses when she comes. She can really spread her legs -- I gotta tell ya -- to ride six white horses at once. That'd be someone worth meeting.

Mystery Picture Of Old Faithful Appears

The picture you see is a mystery picture ... a picture that I did not take ... yet which appeared on my cellphone! Read on ...

You may remember the details I gave yesterday on the spewing of Old Faithful. If not, see yesterday.

In short, my cousin and I got the gas jets on, and with the required effort it takes to do it, Old Faithful was revivified. But one detail should not escape you:

I looked at it awestruck for a moment, then fidgeted with the camera and clicked off the picture [posted yesterday]. "I got it! I got it!" That was an historic moment. I paused, awash in emotions and literal water.

Then I heard the phone ring. It was Roto. There was a problem below. The water was massively spilling around him somehow, whether by seepage or a leak. Everything needed to be turned off, and so it was.

How many pictures does it sound like I took? Clearly it suggests one. The picture was taken, I paused, then I heard the phone ring. Roto tells me there's a problem and that everything needed to be turned off, and so it was. Admittedly, it doesn't say I didn't take other pictures. It doesn't exclude the possibility that I could have clicked off several more. Only I'm telling you I didn't!

And yet ... and yet ... this is crazy, I know ... when I checked my cellphone today ... there were two additional pictures ... weird. But to make it even weirder, in the mystery picture above, the intensity of the geyser is quite a bit more pronounced than it was in the first picture. And the angle is different. I don't recall seeing it in this way! That's part of what I can't get over.

How could it have happened? I'm thinking supernatural means. No, no, hear me out! There's a history of strange things happening with cameras and pictures. Strange hoverings of ghosts and demons behind people, or in the foreground of a picture. Deceased relatives suddenly appearing in a family photo. Ectoplasm blotching up a photograph in an unpleasant way. Weird double exposures -- apparently -- but the photographer swears that he only pushed the button once. Swears to it!


I was just reading a book on Saint Charbel (Sharbel) the other day, the hermit of Lebanon. He lived in the 1800s, basically alone, so there aren't lots of pictures of him. None that I know of. But it's on record that these other people were standing near his old "stomping grounds" and had a photograph made. But look right there in the foreground, seemingly coming up out of the ground or a shrub. That's him! They did not see him in front of them but he was actually there when they checked their cellphone. And as far as I know that's the only photograph of him!

Most people run for cover when they see a camera. This guy wasn't even there and he couldn't manage to keep out of sight! In truth, he wanted the faithful to see his apparition and to debate it forever whether the others Photoshopped him in. They claim they didn't ... and I think they sound sincere.

And just one other example in passing. My late father, who served as a monk, told me the weird story of Lahiri Mahasaya and cameras. A photographer tried to take a picture of the yoga master, but it didn't turn out. Lahiri said, "I am Spirit. Can your camera reflect the omnipresent Invisible?" The answer by implication would be no. Then he said, "Come, then, tomorrow morning. I will pose for you." An author explained the strange result, "This time the sacred figure, not cloaked with mysterious imperceptibility, was sharp on the plate." According to the photographer, though, the previous day Lahiri was having a bad hair day, so apparently any state we can attain short of mahasamadhi still allows for vanity.

All I know, friends, is I did not take the above picture of Old Faithful. It just somehow appeared! You see it and you're amazed, as I confess I'm amazed!

If there are any stories of miraculous healing from gazing at this picture, please send them to me. I'm hoping to honor the photograph by cashing in on it.

Gas Jets On! On! On! On!

Cousin Roto showed up bright and early. We enjoyed a plate of bacon and eggs and discussed the doings of the day. I confirmed that I was fully prepared to allow a massive blowing of Old Faithful, pronouncing my affirmation that the geyser was good to spew the mother lode of moisture. Roto was happy, nodding as I spoke.

Of course we would be stationed, me above ground, he below ground in the belly of the beast. He is more technically astute about the internal workings of machines and can read gauges and things really, really well. He can react in a flash, let's say, if a knob needs to be twiddled or dialed down quickly.

There would be much give and take through the day, as the water pipes needed inspection, the flow regulated, the heat source ignited, the heating of the mechanism raised to a fever pitch, etc. I'll spare you all the technical stuff, since that's Roto's field of expertise. If he ever figures out the intricacies of blogging maybe he can write about it someday. Assuming he can type, which, I don't know...

We compared the time of day on our cellphones to make sure we were right on. I compared my more advanced LG phone with full Qwerty keyboard and virtually unlimited texting with color photos with his five/six year old Nokia with no features. I hoped his phone was up to the rigors of the day, since we'd be exchanging many calls from underground to the surface and vice versa. And it wasn't long till he was down in the belly of the beast for the final test.

I gave him a call, and wouldn't you know it, the same interference on channel 14! He was able to give me a "Roger" amongst the chattering and we went to channel 5. The static wasn't so bad on 5; thankfully some of the neighbors were doing something else. Of course we had a couple of the expected miscues, like trying to talk over the other with our finger on the button, till we relaxed and regained the discipline proper cellphone use demands, saying "Over," "10-4," and the like.

At one point he called me down to be with him. He was working with the heating elements. He let go with some technical mumbo-jumbo about the central tube needing to be heated before the big steel balls were red hot. He was afraid it could come apart at the seams, I think, or something might rupture right there at the connectors. He flipped a switch and the heat bypassed the steel balls. Then with that accomplished he brought the switch back into place and I could hear the sizzle of water spilling into the cylinders.

At that point, he signaled, and I let out the cry that gives joy to both of us, "Gas jets on! On! On! On!" He pulled down his welder's helmet and twisted the knobs up as far as they would go. The gauges at once went into overdrive. He pointed me toward the surface, which I attained in a matter of seconds. This was going to be it!

After a few minutes my cellphone rang. Pushing the button, my instrument crackled into life, a short burst of static, then Roto's triumphant voice. Fortunately the interference wasn't a problem. "I'm twisting the blow valve! This baby's got a stack it's gonna blow!" I hadn't felt this excited since puberty. I quickly pushed the buttons it takes to take a cellphone picture, thankful beyond words, actually, that I didn't have Roto's crummy old Nokia. With a phone like his, an Etch-a-Sketch would be a step up! But, anyway ... just a few buttons, and ...

Before I could get the camera function up, I heard a rumbling like a freight train about to take a leak; it was a roar with a sizzle. Then for a split second there was a hush, a silence, but only for a second. Next, the central tube seemed to buck right there where it meets the ground. I saw the grass around the hole go brown. Then without further warning, a spray, pure white except for a rainbow hovering in its midst, burst tall into the air, proud but exhausting. I was sincerely reminded of that old Kierkegaardian truism, that love wills its own downfall. The spray couldn't maintain itself. It gave its all and there was cooling spray hitting me from the breeze.

I looked at it awestruck for a moment, then fidgeted with the camera and clicked off the picture you see above. "I got it! I got it!" That was an historic moment. I paused, awash in emotions and literal water.

Then I heard the phone ring. It was Roto. There was a problem below. The water was massively spilling around him somehow, whether by seepage or a leak. Everything needed to be turned off, and so it was. Then he appeared at the door. Disappointed, I said simply, without excitement, "Gas jets off. Off. Off. Off."

I'm By The Fence -- Where Are You?

Yes, it feels good to feel good! Good for me and good for the whole good world! The half acre is greening up good with spring. I saw some little flowers thrusting their blooms forth for all the world to see. There's a sun in the sky. I think I heard a bird in the distance, giving a tweet or two.

I've been out and about. I went to the east side of the house and looked north. But before my mood was reversed, I turned and looked once again toward the south. There was the garage in all its glory. O good garage! Grandpa was so proud of you! We all were. To finally have a garage after leaving our car outside all those decades. The only downside is it blocked the greater view to the south. But if we walk to the south side of the garage we can look south and see everything that is south without obstruction all the way to the fence.

Now when I look south, from the south side of the garage, I see the piles of dirt and the works for Old Faithful. It's kind of an eyesore really, especially now that it's in a hiatus state, not spewing but laying dormant. But no matter. Nothing can spoil this day!

I walked over by the east fence, near the corner post. There I took out my cellphone to call my cousin, hoping to get him back to help me revivify our geyser. I could picture him with his cellphone in hand as I rang him. We would converse -- a two way dialogue, just the two of us, man to man.

He answered and we talked. I walked as we talked. Everything seemed fine until I heard some interference on the line. Someone else on that channel, I guess. I suggested we go to a different channel. We found a clear one and I pushed the button to speak, informing him of my desire to revivify our geyser, if he could come over. It turned out he was trying to talk to me at the same time, which meant he didn't catch everything I said. I waited a second, then his voice came over. I gave it a "Roger," and responded, repeating my desire for him to come over and for us to revivify the geyser.

Pretty soon there was some more crosstalk and static on the line. We went up to channel 14. And I don't know, we must have been reliving something from our childhood, those kind of conversations we had, because he was asking, "Where are you?" I waited and clicked the button, responding, "I'm by the fence. Where are you?" He told me where he was, just going outside to check on his dog. It was interesting that channel 14 was so clear today, because we have some neighbors and that's one of their favorite channels. But they might have gone to town.

I clicked the button, "Uh, roger on that. I copy. Checking the dog." At that point I decided to broach again the idea of revivifying the geyser, to which he came back, through the static, to say, "10-4," that he read me fine. I answered that I was now walking over toward the geyser works. He simply said, "10-4." I looked down the dark hole, knowing I could never do that were the water spraying forth. We talked like that for a while and he indicated he would be over in the morning. We exchanged whereabouts all the way to the house, at which point I had to hang up my cellphone because the interference was a lot worse.

Now that I'm back in, I'm happy to be happy! It's such a great day! The half acre is greening up in fine fettle. All is right with the world! And finally we'll be able to revivify our geyser and break its imposed hiatus once and for all!

I Hope The Worst Is Over

As you can plainly see, this has been a tough time for me. It's really not the picnic you'd think it'd be to have something as magnificent, famous, and awe-inspiring as Old Faithful all as your own. Like having anything, it's a mixed blessing.

Possessions and me don't necessarily go together. It's like a teeter totter. You think you're up but then you're down. To have anything is to suffer. It'd be better to be wandering naked like the Ahimsa. But then we acquire what we have. Easy enough until it's something gigantic. It reminds me of an old friend from high school who owned a guitar too good for him, he thought. You'd think someone with the great skills this guy had would know that guitar was lucky to have him, but he didn't see it that way.

This could be why I barely step it up as far as possessions. Not to imply that I'm all that careful. I'm as busy accumulating as anyone. But look at the house. We barely make improvements on it. The garage is about as Grandpa left it. The lawn mower is an old auction sale lawn mower. We stepped up to a flush toilet but that's about it.

OK, here's the thing. Yesterday I was at the bottom of my game. Hence my rant. This morning things were still pretty bad. I was laying on the floor for a while, until it got too hard. Ouch. But I forced myself to get up, sit in a chair and stew. "Wah wah wah wah," went my mind -- with no apparent way up. Until something happened, I don't know what exactly. And it broke just like that. I snapped out of it. Whatever price you have to pay, I guess I did.

Now I'm thinking what? I think I've written it before, like the guy who pulls his mantle up to his face and looks across from the hill. You just stare at the horizon. Like Kierkegaard's Abraham, looking very askance at what is demanded him. Like it's something to tolerate, not to understand or accept. But if you don't have a certain amount of acceptance, what you're called on to tolerate next time might be much tougher to bear.

The worst may be over. It's time to pump it up, Old Faithful. It's time to fetch Cousin Roto back to his station. Let him fidget with the knobs. Keep the gauge out of the red. Keep the smoking down to a minimum. Attach the gas jets, fills the steel balls with water, scrub down the central tube, duck and cover. Hit the switch and let it spew. Old Faithful shall rise again!

The Worthless Glory

I can't stew any length of time without everything turning on its heels, so now I'm quite down on the whole project. I hate it with passion and prejudice. I wish I'd never heard of it. Yesterday, it seems, I was gaga over the size of the Old Faithful works, even spinning it out in my imagination as bigger than Marvel Cave, much bigger than it is. But not today! Curse it!

Today, you could say I'm sated on all the potential glory; I see more shame coming out of it than anything. I'm not trying to picture it as bigger than it is anymore, I'm just trying to picture it gone. Like everything, it is the size it is, made as big as it needed to be to get the job done. It's the law of efficiency. Why spend more money on resources than it takes to accomplish a task? There is often some glory in size, with whatever value that is to you.

Anyway, what is glory and why have it? Glory is the result of people's acclaim. You get enough people shouting out their praise, then you get to sit there in the front row waving, being hugged by the First Lady, getting a dozen roses, signing a couple of autographs. It's over in an hour. Then you're back at the curb in the dark and cold, dragging your luggage out of a cab, being strip searched in an airport before taking a midnight plane back to your pathetic hometown, only to have the plane be late and have them lose your luggage. Someone else finds it, steals it, then you're sitting at home making a list of things you need to shop for to replace what you lost.

There's other aspects of glory. News articles, TV appearances, the mayor gives you the key to the city. To which I say: 1) We're cleaning fish on newspapers tomorrow, or over time they're yellow and brittle, a fire hazard. They also have articles on perverts and thieves. Is that the kind of company you want to keep? 2) TV appearances are worthless, because now every pervert and thief knows your name, face, and where you live. And wait five minutes and you're keeping company with Billy Mays selling orange flavored soap. 3) If the mayor wants to give someone the key to the city so badly, why doesn't he come around on his own initiative? It's ludicrous that I have to live in this town all these decades and he doesn't give me the key. But as soon as I have a little media scrutiny, there he is at my door. Plus, I know he doesn't really care. The only reason mayors want to give anyone glory is so they themselves can bask in it. Before the hour's out he's at his own pathetic home, surrounded by enormous keys, watching the news for who's going to be his next parasitic host. Those keys are made in China anyway.

That glory's worthless, and I'll tell you another one, what the Chamber of Commerce does. And please, no one give them notice of my Old Faithful exhibit or they'll be here, with booze on their breath! They'll come around with their ribbon and three foot pair of scissors, taking pictures of someone cutting the ribbon. It'll be me on one side, the Chamber president on the other, holding hands in mid shake. Then we'll be flanked with other members and well wishers. They'll snap the ribbon, take the picture, and all be back in their cars on their way home in 15 minutes.

They'll rush in their doors, some of them stripping down to nothing, then getting drunk to dull their ongoing personal pain. They've got thick and heavy curtains to keep the light out. They don't want to see you, your store opening, your exhibit, or to know you. They're watching the phone, hoping it doesn't ring, so they don't have to sober up to face reality or get their picture taken with someone they don't care about. Don't write, don't call, don't wake me from this haze. This is what they say. We don't want to hear about it, we don't want to know about it. Unlike the mayor, these folks don't even see it as reflective glory to bask in; there's too many of them. But they lock up the scissors so no one steals them, just the same, because someday the phone will definitely ring.

Glory is essentially someone else's worthless opinion. Today I say lock down the exhibit! Let the grass grow around it! Cursed be the day I ever got the idea! Now I know what they're thinking in Wyoming: Thank goodness someone took this thing off our hands; finally we're home free!

I don't need anyone's opinion on anything to feel better about myself. It's fleeting and worthless.

Mentally Faithful

Here's an odd juxtaposition of reality and imagination, that I'm preferring the mental Old Faithful to the actual geyser. Fascinating!

I was in the belly of the beast a day or so ago, but then I came up. Of course I have full awareness and complete memory of what it's like down there. With a few lights strung around, attached to electrical cords plugged into a long drop cord, I could see quite well. The shine of the central tube is most impressive. It glistens as it rises to its full length. A good word to describe it is 'insistent.' It rises and stands tall. You can look at it -- it's so shiny -- and see yourself like in a mirror. It's also fascinating to touch it, to reach as high as you can, knowing that it strains toward the surface. What's so fascinating about it? That it's so cold, for one, freezing. And knowing that it is normally so hot, scalding hot.

The scaffolding and stairs and other necessaries are around. The giant steel balls for water with all the flaming apparatus, gas jets, knobs, gauges, water pipes, and bellows rack are standing in place as well. But I've left it and have returned to the house. I locked up the works, to keep out neighbor kids, and have been in the house these hours since, meditating upon it as a beautiful thing, in fact and in my imagination.

But what's coming to me now, as I sit and stew over the details, is this, that it's also a beautiful mental construct. Meaning it can be as big and awful as I want it to be in here, while out there it is as big as it is, which of course is not bigger than it needs to be to carry out and perform its function. It's big but not spacious. And I'm even having a hard time saying it's "big," when it's simply the size it is to get the job done. There's no credit in having something be a larger size than it needs to be to get its job done. For example you wouldn't want a car that took up two lanes of traffic just for the status, because they wouldn't let you drive it; it wouldn't be practical. Similarly, you wouldn't want a dinner pail that took three men to carry it.

But size is a good quality when it comes to the imagination. You can recall it as it is, but the more you stew over it, mulling, spinning out ever widening mental pictures, the larger it can become. Until you've got Marvel Cave in your mind for width and depth. And you've got scaffolding and structure that leads off ten different directions. The central tube has to have several relay boosters, perhaps reheating units for the water along the way as it travels from the original thermal depths. The steel balls are more like massive drums, set in frames with steel bars to keep its integrity, lest the weight within distend them at any (perhaps) weakened point in their outer arc. You not only have the heating unit, with its practical size, but now it's so big and generating such heat that you know it has to be wasting fuel.

And how do I envision myself within this massive structure? As very very small. Surveying it from all points in a hard hat. Wondering how it ever happened that I, a humble local man, ever managed to get such an enormous thing in my yard. I must own the county!

If You Would've...

If you would've told me a month ago the personal jam I would've been in a month from then I would've told you you were crazy. There would've been no way you could've predicted it. No one could've known. It would've seemed absurd. I would've laughed in your face. You would've been tossed out on your ear. It would've been ridiculous.

If you would've said Old Faithful would've been in my back yard, that alone would've been enough to've made you certifiable. I would've said that would've been impossible. No one could've guessed they would've actually shipped it to me. It would've been a ludicrous guess. If you would've said it, I would've said you were cracked. Nothing like that could've been foreseen.

But when we knew it was on the way, if you would've told me that I would've had so many problems with it, I would've been up in your face. You would've gotten a piece of my mind. I would've taken you out, and I could've, with several cutting remarks that would've left you twitching and babbling. I would've dressed you down and you would've come across as very embarrassed.

I could've never guessed what would've happened or that it could've turned out as badly as it did. I could've pictured Roto easily enough, underground, twiddling with knobs and gas jets, and that would've been fun for him. I should've turned out in life more like him, a man of the fields, acquainted with the hunt and stream, and I could've except I was sheltered and made a gentleman. They should've left me to nature. Then things could've been different.

But what could've been is not very useful now. We can always dream of what could've or should've been. It would've been nice but we're left with what is.

Gas Jets Off! Off! Off!

The gas jets are off. I went out, then down into the bowels of the beast. The gas jets have been turned off and locked in place. One thing we don't need is for the half acre to be on fire, then threatening the houses around. I sat there and cried.

The gas jets would be on if I had a normal person's follow through. The whole thing of "On! Off! Off! Off!" is a personal matter, worth crying over, really. I put my hand to the knob. Unlock it, and one twist of the knob would spark it into life. Two twists would be a moderate stream. Three twists would be almost there. Four twists would either be life or suicide. What do I know about gas?

I rested my hand on the knob. I took my hand off. I walked through the structure, down the stairs to the steel balls, looked at the coldness below them and felt the steel. Freezing. I clunked one and it sounded full. Four twists of the knob would heat them, assuming the pilot light's on. It could be death, seriously. If this hole filled up with gas ... then let's say I stumbled on the stairs and broke a leg ... then let's say I stumbled again and hit my head and passed out ... the gas would take my life. It'd be a disaster. I must not turn the knob. Gas jets must stay off! Off! Off!

But still, could I do it? I want there to be some ceremony to it. I need there to be some official words of inauguration. To mark the historic occasion. That's why I must be above ground, not under. Being under the ground is for people like Cousin Roto. He will turn the knob. He will respond to my call, "Gas jets on!," just as he responded to my command, "Gas jets off! Off! Off!"

Wrestling Or Rasslin'?

What a struggle. I personally know what it felt like for the Titanic to go down. It broke in eight separate pieces and it wasn't pleasant. There's a similar titanic struggle, a dilemma playing out in my spirit. It's a combined show, three rings, death-defying, as painful as shingles.

I'm on the verge potentially of one of my greatest successes. Likewise I'm on the verge, probably, of one of my greatest failures. I'm so keyed up I feel like cussing. But I will refrain from that -- come what may -- because I don't like anything blue. Grandpa was the mad cusser of our family, F-bomb this, F-bomb that. But I vowed that I would keep my mouth pure and not traumatize my own grandchildren, if I ever had them, which it is starting to look like I won't.

No, instead of settling down with a good woman 35 years ago, I'm out here on my own, everything I got basically shrivelling up and worthless. I had such stupid ideas as a kid, like thinking I'd have to go downtown and stand on the street corner and ask women at random, "Would you marry me?" I don't know where I picked that up. Anyway, that's all past; I blew it. But past is sometimes prologue. And so here I sit, wrestling with the various demons of my soul. Or is it rasslin'?

Wrestling or rasslin'? Which is it? Wrestling is what they do in school. But rasslin' is what they do in the mud. You wrestle in a ring. You rassle in the slop, you rassle an alligator, you rassle when the stakes are to the death. Wrestling is a dainty sport. Rasslin' is two men or two women doing a take-down for all the marbles. Wrestling, you have rules and stick out your little finger to let the judge know you're refined. Rasslin', you put a finger in someone's eye with about a can full of mud. Wrestling is like a waltz or a minuet. Rasslin' is grinding it out like a cigarette butt. Wrestling's what they do in the Olympics, then have their urine test. In rasslin' the only test is survival.

Will Old Faithful blow? Will I look like the town's biggest fool. This is what I'm rasslin' with. Every day is torture, every night torment. My bed is swimming. I sweat through my clothes. I can barely hold myself together.

All Gas Jets Off

I barked out the command to Roto to cut all gas jets to the firing mechanism. He balked, as I knew he would, but I made it clear that that was an order. We're not going on with the firing, the heating of the water, or blowing the geyser just yet. This is something that needs to be done step by step and not all at once.

The serious stench of failure is in the air. I'm walking around smelling it. I'm seriously suffering from olfactory hallucinations, but this stench is all too real. The consequences of failure are too great, involving my self esteem and sense of worth. I am tied into deeds, the working out of my thoughts. I know it's wrong but I'm in a bad place. I know I should let it blow and not worry about it, but I'm not there yet.

I want to know my motives, expectations, the whole personal slate. Cousin Roto may be a savage beast driven by a lust for action but I'm a softer man, not a man of the hunt or field but a man of the salon, the house. I can swing both ways, since I was a boy, but with refinement and the polluting influences of education I'm torn. I look for nuance where others see clear cut distinctions. Roto wants to get it on, I want to step back and understand the implications.

You might say I'm a mental vivesectionist. Ha ha, kind of an amusing turn of phrase, no? Well, that's one of the big words I learned while away at school. I learned several big words, now that I think of it. 50 cent words, a dollar words. I still have a collegiate dictionary that I bought at the bookstore. It was $15, and since it's chockful of 50 cent words, I definitely got my money's worth. You flip through the pages and it's amazing. Like look at the section on "un-". They have lots of words with an "un" on the front, and that usually negates in someway the basic root word that follows. The only one I couldn't find was "Un-cola."

Old Faithful can wait! It must wait! I have all these head games to work through, the mental gymnastics that all geniuses step up and take their turn at.

This Is Where I Fail

Keep me in your thoughts. Think something positive about me, please. Aim your good wishes my direction. I can see it building.

Everything is exactly in place as I said it was. I have made a vast technological stride as far as my yard is concerned. The mechanism is stewing. It's only a matter of time. But I can't hit the "fire" button yet, not until I've reconciled certain personal matters, aspects of my personality.

This is where I fail. If all holds exactly as it has in the past, I've come to this moment only to see it all fizzle out. I don't consider myself a failure. In fact, I'm the one guy I feel can get the job done. I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it. But as great as my success gene is, as many successful vibes as it emits and radiates, I tend to come to a moment of truth like this ... knowing ... that we can go one of two ways, and the one way is likely to be failure.

It's like "The Honeymooners" come to life, if you will. Or any show that's premised on the idea that the main character is the dreamer whose dreams are bound to come to nothing. I think "The Life of Riley" had that same premise. You hate to watch them because you know they're going to dream it up big only to have it come crashing down. Alice has the role of naysaying on the ascent, and encouraging on the descent.

Maybe you've been where I am. I hope I'm not simply shouting into empty space. Maybe you can identify with a person who senses certain success just before inevitable failure. That's a very torn perspective. It's a tragic flaw.

I know what success looks like. In this case it looks like a spray of water 185 feet high every hour or so. But I know what failure looks like, too. In this case it looks like dribbling water, an exploding mechanism, or the half acre on fire. The headlines will either proclaim my victory or my demise.

What Goes On Underground Stays Underground

There are mysteries underground that are best left unexplored. Every evil things goes on below the surface. Worms, grubs, bulbs, hell. I've noted the psychic parallels, that what you think is best not examined too closely, lest you find that you're a pervert. The way I picture the human mind is a lot like a Halloween haunted house, but none of it's pretend. The cobwebs, mental ectoplasm, and drippings are real. There's a mill wheel splashing through our brain fluids attached to a stone that grinds our thoughts down from larger kernels so that we can fit them through our ego and seconds later spit them out as words.

Underground, it's cavernous. You can crawl or walk vast distances and get lost. I serious believe there are statues down there in nooks, meant for us to see, but they frequently disappear. In places you can dig and dig, but beware, turn your back for a second and your backhoe will also vanish, perhaps never to reappear, perhaps to reappear somewhere else on the planet. And you with it!

We found some soft ground at the south side, backhoed it out, got the wooden scaffolding in place underground, installed the firing mechanism, the spewing mechanism, the giant steel balls, the water supply piping, the central tube, the rack for extra fireplace bellows, and after all that I was ready for a good night's sleep. It's amazing, you know, what you can do in a day. Usually nothing. I sit and watch TV, read the internet, take a nap, watch some more TV, eat, and that's it; I'm a vegetable. 24 hours speeds by like a wink. But then, you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. If faith can move mountains just imagine what it can do with geysers. It's no big deal.

Of course the local paper ignored the whole thing. Being ever the optimist, I figured they'd have a headline something like, "Local Man Transplants Old Faithful From Yellowstone To His Back Yard," but they must not have gotten my email. It's their loss! Since it seems like something that would sell newspapers. But one day I will get my due! Every devil does, right?

Cousin Roto stayed underground with the geyser last night.

Old Faithful -- The Actual Geyser

If I tell you what I wished for and that it actually came true, you're not going to believe it. I could tell you how it was accomplished but I don't expect anyone to believe it. So, how about I just don't bother to convince you? If you don't have faith in my word, you're invited to leave now. A man's word is his bond. That's what Grandpa always taught me. I remember asking him what that meant, "What's a bond?" He wasn't sure what it meant either, but said the point was that what you say is supposed to be true.

So if you want me to put my hand on my heart, I will. Or to swear on Grandpa's grave, I will. How else can I say this? What you are about to read is true.

I contacted the owners of the Yellowstone Park. I literally did. I told them that I was dying, and maybe I am, from olfactory hallucinations, and that my last wish was to own the Old Faithful geyser. I knew I had a good shot at getting it, but even with that I was amazed that it was no problem to them. The reasoning makes sense. When something is as faithful as Old Faithful it also becomes boring to the owner, because "Familiarity breeds contempt" but "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." They were happy to give it up, and when questioned as to why they didn't get rid of it before they said no one else had ever had the optimism to ask for it before.

Having Old Faithful might do me good on two fronts: One, the fame I'm going to have and the extra income from tourists at my place; Two, the healing hot waters might help clear my nose and head. If I'm sniffing near it right when it blows, I will get a noseful of water and that will clear my sinuses like nothing you can get over the counter.

Anyway, there's a widespread misconception that Old Faithful is a thing of nature. They've kept that up as a myth to fool the tourists and I might want to keep up the facade. I heard them hinting around on "Mythbusters" that Old Faithful was a fraud, but they had trouble constructing a full scale model of it, so it was never proven. As it turns out, it was built in the late 1800s by an eccentric millionaire. It has a whole mechanism under the ground, including two enormous steel balls that hold and heat the water, then a central tube that leads to the surface that spews it as far as the eye can see.

It was lucky that I and Grandma now own Old Faithful, because we've had lots of digging experience, digging outhouses over the years. I can show you the half acre right now. If you see all those 4 by 4 patches where the grass is especially green, that's where we used to go. That's a lot of holes!

With some digging -- and with Cousin Roto's backhoe -- we got the big steel balls and the heating mechanism installed, then the tube, the timing device, the rocks to surround it, etc., and it's been heating up for a while. I don't know what's taking it so long. It seems like it should be blowing pretty soon. I might need to go out and stoke the fire or use one of those fireplace bellows.

My Bemused, Gracious Wave

First, a tirade: Rotten, stinking thing! Couldn't get this blogger to come up! So I'm sitting here like a bubble about to bust and can't get on.

Second, back to the show: I was just in the center of my living room, working on a bemused, gracious wave. When everyone comes to see the Old Faithful geyser spouting off, soon to be located at the south of my half acre property, they will want to see their host. I will occasionally wander out, in bathrobe and pipe, to visit with some of my geyser's well wishers, sign autographs, and tell where I got my big start.

It was right here, in fact, where I learned the values that I live by. Hard work, honesty the best policy, family, friends, service to one's country. And of course the rock solid conviction that wishing can make it happen, if you're young at heart. I make a wish and the forces align to bring it to pass. It is written, it is done.

Fate has conspired to make me a success. I tried to shrug it off. You've heard the story of the king who walked in rags, trying to avoid his destiny. Been there. And there's the story of the king who was slated to be killed, but he put a servant in his royal robes. Yet the arrow, shot askew, hit the right king and he died. That can happen. The first one, I mean. How do I know? Hey! [making self referential gestures and smiling].

ONE THING FURTHER -- That's the end of this particular post. I just wanted to note here, for posterity, that my favorite appliance dealer is retiring. So if you bought his appliances in the last couple years because you thought service followed the sale, you're out of luck. But that's a downer. What I want to do is actually pay tribute to him. He's out there, one of my regular readers. I'll just call him "P," because I didn't clear this with him. P, baby, you always did a great job working on my appliances. You were there when I called and I won't forget that. I always chuckled at something you did, the way you acted put out or incredulous that people didn't know more about appliances (1) or their place in life, working, not taking welfare. You had a couple things to say about immigrants. And I didn't completely agree but you're welcome to your radical views as an American. The whole appliance thing was funny, though, laughing with you. Like if someone didn't know how a dryer worked, etc. At first I didn't know either, to be truthful, but I watched you a few times. And now I believe I grasp some of the concepts. Have a great retirement!