Monday, May 8, 2023

I Got Stung

I forgot what all the lyrics are for "I Got Stung," to me one of the greatest songs that Elvis recorded. Which is a weird state of being for anyone who sings the snippets of the song and can't quite get the lyrics right. I know, I could google it and memorize it, but I'm old. I'll reserve the rest of this paragraph for any future excuses I might thing of.

Anyway, I have a manic style in mind when I'm even humming this song. It's flagrant, the style I'm thinking, flagrantly improvising the lyrics, which for me, when forgetful, is to stock it up with sexual imagery, with thoroughly priapic apparatus and conduct in mind. If the real Elvis appeared in my room, I'm sure he'd enjoy the craziness of it all. But then he'd start singing and completely owning the song, leaving me for royalties a piece of chocolate out of my own pantry. Or, who knows, maybe he'd take me a few suburbs over and get me a new Cadillac! Anything from bright red to something less fun.

I can't go on, because I almost launched into a whole cussing thing, which would probably mean I'd be locked out of the system, a stinging rebuke from whoever owns Blogger, which I believe is Google. Great guys, but with trillions of blogs being their pride, I don't want them looking askance at me, not even for a minute.

I got stung by a cute honeybee.

Tuesday, March 28, 2023

Floundering with a computer about half here

Yes, when it comes to verbs describing me and my activities, there's not one as close to perfection, vis-a-vis ME, as "floundering."

I'd like to tell the whole story, but I think it only comes to me in bits and pieces, here and there. Memory lapses, memory faults, did I already mention that?

Anyway ... Speaking of "anyway," go watch a few YouTube videos of Don Rickles and count how many times Don says "anyway." Virtually continuously. After a joke, "Anyway...." 

What's one of the weirdest things about my computer? It was unused for maybe a year. When I went and opened it, there was something I wasn't expecting. Big black dots on the screen. Like it was ON with some intensity and burnt through the screen. Except no computer of mine has been plugged in for a year and had the capability of burning through the screen. Where would it get the power? Yet it's true, those big screen hogging black dots are part of the problem!

This might help me. How did I get memory loss? Two ways, 1) Old age, 2) Hit my head on a rock, I'll withhold the details.

Friends, I'm Half Whack

 I've spent the last hour or so trying to sign in. But it's been a mishmash of floundering and failing. Finally, now I'm here writing something

The big deal will be when I log out and try to do it again. The mishmash is still in sight.

This is A TEST. Not an actual blog post.

Thursday, March 23, 2023

From My Internet Bunker

Haven't got time for a fancy graphic to accompany this post. Screw it, I'm desperate. Listen to me. They're doing a real number on the internet, OK? Understand at least what I'm hinting at? They're coming to take me away, my blog, my hopes and dreams, and I don't know precisely how it's all going to turn out. Although I have at least a clue. It's similar to a bug hitting the windshield, it's unceremoniously wiped out, with its final word (not being consciously thought out but more of the onomatopeia-ick variety) "SPLAT!"

Let me introduce myself. No, wait, we haven't got time for that. I'm a victim, and you know what, I heard that victimhood was pleasant, something of the perfect egoic sort that it sees you through life with great meaning. I'm here to tell you, no, that's crap. This feels like crap. Like G--- and the Major Powers have taken over, putting us "little guys" out to pasture, which is not pleasant because it not only feels like crap, because in the pasture, it's actual crap you're subjected to. Chart your steps carefully!

I've already said enough, I know, and The Bastards That Be Will Be out to get me very soon. You know how the garbage guys come by the house and pick up your two bags full? They carefully tuck the bags in the truck. Well, this is different. The big guys crushing the little guy will not be so careful. They know we're behind the eight ball when it comes to torture. A dead Hefty bag has no feelings, at least none that we've been able to measure with various sensors. But a living body has those nasty nerve ends that provokes a hideous response to pain. The Powers That Be are screwing us alive, and it isn't pleasant!

Where was I? Need to look back and see if I can recapture the thread of the argument. (Nodding my head as I read.) OK, I think I see it. They're screwing around with our blogs. Including my old blog, which I just recently thought about reviving. It turns out it was just in time for new rules, new policies, and so forth, and none of it is fun!

So I know there's big CRAP coming down the line. Somehow the major search engines -- is there more than one? -- are acting within their own headquarters, and presumably are in league with any others that likely exist. With the brief conclusion being, little fish like me and littler fish like you are screwed, yes, up one side and down the other, with the center orifices -- one major one come to mind -- being about to be hideously packed with the length, breadth, and the whole solid girth of these sadistic monsters and their overgrown ilk even now standing at attention.

Are we gonna take it? What choice do we have? My recommendation is not to be taken literally. It's make yourself new underpants with 2" by 4" lumber, because these guys are not just naughty, but haughty, You'll see! Hang in there, Grandma!

Saturday, March 18, 2023

DB Kundalini Is Back, Baby

What you mean, Baby's all grown up? The Baby's my blog, and finding out it's "all grown up" apparently means it's had to be "grown up" when I was apparently neglecting it.

Thank you dbkundalini fans, I'll try not to wander far away from my calling here. But the way it happens, you think "I'm going to take a few days off," then you take a few more days off, then a few more, till it's been years. And every good habit you had in the past, such as daily updating, filling in the important information that my readers need, etc., is replaced by the bad habits of neglecting the basic mission. I understand, at least I can pick out the likely threads of truth, but going that far doesn't mean I'm free and clear, innocent. I spent a full three hours today literally kicking my own ass. With the unexpected result that my foot and leg hurt more than my ass. It's either an ass of steel or something to do with the foot and leg. Which I'm thinking has to be this, No one spends an hour or more literally kicking his own ass. That takes more of a toll on the leg and foot than it does the ass! An interesting discovery...

Anyway, I'll let it go at that. Put some ice on my leg and foot, etc., everything will turn out all right. 

Join me, if you will -- your religion doesn't matter -- in a group singing of Kum By Yah. 

Thursday, April 30, 2020

Sniffles, Gluttony, Virus

Part 30 of 30

It’s never part of my self-image to think of myself as a born loser. But what a month! The virus came in like a roaring lion and went out a defeated foe, and it really wasn’t that hard. Our political leaders led the way from victory to victory. They had what we haven’t seen in a while, good old fashioned selflessness, taking no account of themselves or future, but acted with just selfless giving, single-minded direction toward the common good. It’s been a blessing to behold, such a spirit radiating out from those at the top and continuing as an inspiration for everyone, from the cabinet, our representatives, all the way down to the lonely bum on 8th street. (I should take him a tract and convert him.)

I have to say, though, I'm busting with a great pride I feel for everyone -- what a country! What a world! -- but I do feel a little shame, a lot of shame and even existential revulsion that there was a time I was in a constant stir, a panic.There were times when I had my doubts, and not just split seconds of it. I was in constant mortification and desperation, oozing sweat, gallons of sweat. “What’s going to become of me? Am I lost? Is this my last hurrah? Will I die early in the month, only to have my rotted carcass blocking the door when the undertaker comes? They’ll have to push through, moving my body slowly toward the wall, blood and other bodily liquids making a mess of the living room and further shrinking the low property value the place already has. People will pass by crossing themselves, 'That’s where they found that bloated guy.'"

I should say in my defense, I am a lonely old man, single, all by myself with my fears. My imagination always gets the worst of me, and my paranoia is so crazy, running rampant to the point that with the slightest noise at the door I know I’m done for. But being old should be a reminder to me that, “What am I living for?” Am I living just to live another terrible day? No, that can't be right! Instead it's to be bold, to have the kind of mindset that I can do it, whatever it is. If others can live, breathe and prosper, why not me?

Just let me rank the enemies I’ve faced all month -- and thank God the virus is gone after today and I can get back to normal. The enemies included the sniffles. Right away when there was a toilet paper shortage at the beginning I convinced myself -- my paranoia -- that I was sure to get a runny nose. And just like clockwork, there it was. The sniffles were so bad, the sniffle molecules multiplied faster than usual, making it a torrent. I was trying to conserve toilet paper so I was using my sleeve, which tainted things even worse. I had to dig into my stash of toilet paper and took out just three or four squares. But those were quickly overwhelmed. Not being able to staunch my tears, I was completely overcome. Excuse me for saying this -- I’m usually a holy person -- but “Gosh darn them sniffles!”

Then there was gluttony, the deep seated feeling in me that I should eat more than my fill. We couldn’t get toilet paper, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have plenty of food. Canned goods, which never goes bad, except maybe after a hundred years. Every time I had the slightest pain, even my typical sore knees, I thought the remedy was another can. So I ate my fill. And with the eating only felt greater hunger, meaning I was up to my neck in empty cans. At night, after all the viral ghouls of the Big City passed by, I threw the bags of cans in the road.

Then last I faced the greatest enemy of all, the Virus itself. I made the mistake of not taking the discarded cans farther from home. Meaning the ghouls became three times as bad, craving the off scouring and even putting 2 and 2 together that the cans came from my house, so they were banging on the windows. Virus to the left, also to the right, and trying to pry into the basement and on the roof. I could do nothing but shout, “Virus! Virus!” The universal cry of taint drove them on to the next house.

In short, it was a terrible month.

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

The Virus Is An Imp

Part 29 of 30

I’ve always been one attracted to those who know what they’re doing, knowing the ins and outs of life and are certain beyond belief, and even expand belief until it's certainty for all. Naturally, I’m talking about religion, where it’s sketched out “In the beginning” blah blah blah all the way to what is revealed at the very tip top pinnacle of the end. Everything's resolved...

The weird thing, actually, is that we know all the stuff from the beginning to the end, but we still maintain, at least fictionally, a little doubt as to how it affects our day to day lives. When, as common sense tells us, if you already have the beginning and the end, all drama should then be gone from the interim bits. If I had anything to do with it, anytime someone came to me with a problem, we’d review the opening, then the end, and the person would be immediately convinced that the interim’s OK.

But as it turns out it’s not always like that. My own suspicion is it can’t be that simple because everyone has to make a living. And what better way to make a living, perpetually, than by allowing doubts to grow up and thrive, and finally see worry ester and spill out everywhere, bearing bitter fruit. So that people are like dry plants in the desert when they should be sprouting and budding, alive with moisture and certain faith and knowledge.

It’s a self-perpetuating machine -- and there’s always room for someone else to jump on -- whereby we could, if only we wanted (and it’s easy to get crowded out if you pose the slightest threat), settle everything once for all in just a few seconds. I tend to see all sides of everything, then choose my answer and keep it to myself. Because I don’t like the threats of entrenched interests, never have, probably never will.

We always think religion is “so good,” that virtue is the default behavior. Big mistake. Every time you hear some guy in the public square calling the whole thing into question, then proposing a simpler understanding, notice how he or she’s always gone the next day. Our quick assumption is that they have such a grand message that they’re wanted in other towns, with a big demand. No, these spiritual vampires against the truth are up late at night, hustling people on to their reward, whether by drowning, stabbing, overloading them with poisons, basically everything except “God bless you.”

But thank goodness there’s still a few who not only understand it but put forth the true doctrine for people’s good, like this one guy I know whose prayers are immediately effective. His teaching is that believing your apparent symptoms is always wrong, positing as he does a never-ending series of “imps,” whom we might think of as devils or germs, but germs with a consciousness. Of course all germs have to eat, but do they have to be gluttons? No they don’t. And when they are, that’s when they need to be confronted and cast out.

His quick prayers are the prayers of power, big enough to end the virus in a heartbeat. Were it not for the others, those whose interests are behind the persistence of evil! They’d milk it forever, whereas my guy, he puts an end to suffering. People arise immediately from their so-called "bed of affliction" and march forward in newness of life. So won't you plan on it? To meet me in a dark alley near here, and bring your best offering, and I’ll turn you on as to this guy's whereabouts. Satisfaction guaranteed or a small portion of your offering will be donated to your favorite charity.

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

The Best Urn For Me

Part 28 of 30

We’re getting near the end of this dreadful series and I just want to dedicate it to the sweetest lady that ever lived, my dear Mother. When it came to ladies, I mean forget about it. She knew all the ins and outs of life and taught me the facts of life. Not just the reproductive stuff -- which has been done to death, Amen? -- but the real lowdown, the real scoop, everything from how to cut the legs out from under the other guy to how to hide the evidence.

You really gotta love her, the mind she had, able to see the details of every scheme without missing a beat. It's with fondness I remember coming home from school one day and she was on me like a ton of bricks. The teacher caught me copying another kid’s paper and I ended up with a big fat red F for my efforts. Mom was pissed, totally P-offed, and put me in one of those baby chairs where you’re trapped in the middle and encircled by a plastic tray four foot in diameter. Strangely, though, all she did was withheld my dessert, and in its place impressed me with stern eye-to-eye instruction and wisdom. “I have told you and told you, a million times, ‘The getaway is the number one priority, not the loot!”

And that’s a piece of wisdom that was attained at a high cost, missing my desert that night, so I’ve never forgotten. To help my memory, I wrote it on a 3 x 5 card and memorized it, and even swallowed it in case I forget what it said. A cough, a quick paper towel run over it and it’s good as new: “The getaway is the number one---” and so forth.)

So say I’m getting ready to scheme out a plan, you know, a job, perhaps a swindle, I think about the getaway. Some of the easiest marks in life are guys who think they know it all. Which I love. Pawn shop dealers come to mind. These guys are so cocksure that they know it all, they’re the easiest mark. They make a huge mistake with their feeling of certainty. Naturally I don’t know what their mothers taught them, and how often they’ve swallowed that advice, but it obviously wasn’t the same as mine. They’re probably thinking of the points along the way in scheming -- which generally works -- and not the getaway. I got in, already picturing my getaway and they didn’t know what hit them. I’d love to see what they upchucked. It was probably their mom saying, “The getaway is…” then there’s a gap, where she must have been on the phone and forgot her train of thought, now with the meat-of-the-goody of her advice missing.

Anyway, Mom was great and still lives in me, her richest advice as close as a cough. And I’ll never forget one of her greatest jobs -- she saw the future -- when she swindled a funeral home out of a bunch of urns, our family being quite large. We used the biggest urn for her, then since her getaway was a priority we took out her ashes and scattered them to the four winds. Whoever in the family’s responsible for my ashes, someday, whichever urn's the best, that’s what I’ll have. This might even be coming up, say the Virus gets me.

Monday, April 27, 2020

Self-Quarantining With "Men"

Part 27 of 30

The warnings have been pretty clear, the more we self-quarantine the safer we’ll be. To be alone is safer in the sense of the germs others have not getting on you. That much is common sense. But it’s still up to each of us -- having the virus as a common enemy -- to take care of ourselves while we have a fighting chance.

Of course families have to stick together. Having a family gives the benefit of being able to look after each another, a kind of holding each other to account. I heard it many times growing up, "The family has to stick together." Or as the soldiers used to say, "We need to hang together lest we hang apart." I always heard that, and that's actually one of the biggest reasons I never "served," I didn't want to hang apart. On the battlefield that'd be a lonely death until they came across your carcass one day -- three weeks dead -- hanging apart, and after three whole weeks, very much alone.

In other words, this is serious business. And that’s the way it must be dealt with, 1-2-3, stepping through it, having a certain discipline and sense of perception about the threat. It's no time for half measures or treating such serious business with anything but a serious response. Speaking for those around me, we've taken the serious path, huddling together, watchful for additional threats but for the most part optimistic that we'll make it through. You'd be proud of me. Four months into the pandemic, I got my first face-mask yesterday!

And we've had fun, actually, sheltering in place. I can well imagine such togetherness will have its additional rewards. As, say, nine months from now when the virus has passed and new people will be raised up to replace the old. (None of them will be mine. I knew it'd be tempting so I dipped my undies in wet cement, the fast-setting kind.) But for the others, this is the way of life, holding great promise for tomorrow and -- who knows? -- maybe facing a different virus on a different day. Because if you get one, there could just as easily be another million coming. God forbid, I know.

But not all of us are surrounded by people, friends or family, but instead are alone, the minutes passing slowly as they rouse into defensive posture every time they hear someone passing. "Are the hordes here to steal what’s mine, my toilet paper, my canned soup, or worse, my paper towels? Will they take my life? They may as well. Without my stuff what would I be? Withering on the vine until the grim reaper makes it official, 'He’s dead.'"

Anyway, I meant to say, all this breeding is happening where those equipped to do it are doing it. Meaning we’re just 7 or 8 months away from the dawning of the Q Generation, the Quarantiners in their youth. Their generation marked by the forever compulsion of stocking and restocking, "We never have enough! Take care of yourself with the uttermost caution. Plan way in advance. Anything can happen!"

For those who are about to pass on -- never to see the glorious days of nine months from now, let alone the adulthood of that future generation -- pass me that old copy of “Men.” Even if I'll never be a father, I can dream.

Sunday, April 26, 2020

I'd Leave If I Could

Part 26 of 30

A few years ago I had a life like this, traveling the country, camping, and roughing it. I thought that was the way to go, but, like always, my paranoia got the best of me and I decided to transition out of the more hectic lifestyle into the more sedate life of The Big City.

Of course Grandma’s place was out of the question, as it had been a house in shambles, completely rife with mold, other bacteria, smelly stuff, and rot. Then the City condemned the it and helped me (they insisted on it while still charging me) tear the place down and haul it to the landfill. And believe me, it was tough watching bulldozers cover the last of the place under the soil. The only revenge of the house against them was when one workman was scratched by a rusty nail and ended up losing a toe. You take small victories wherever you find them.

Between the landfill, then, and the Big City, there was that camping/roughing it period. And I should have stuck with it. Because if there’s the slightest trouble -- and say everything else is OK with your truck, camper, health insurance, issues getting your mail, knowing how to file taxes, etc. -- you can always pull up stakes and go somewhere else. In short, any little thing can go wrong and you’re stuck. Stuck? You’re screwed. I don’t know how people do it long-term, although I’ve seen a few who have; they’re just not worrywarts like me. O! if I could do it again, but the money’s all gone...

So now the Big City has to be the focus when it comes to dealing with the virus. We’re crammed in by the millions. I see people walk by my place everyday, people I’ve never seen before. And do they all look healthy? Not by a long shot. It’s painful that there’s so much traffic. At Grandma’s old place, way back when, it was at the edge of town there weren't 20 people walking by in a month. There’s 20 or more an hour in the Big City. But where they’re going? I don’t know. I keep thinking I should follow them and find out. But I’m afraid they’d notice and I’d end up with house guests, which would be certain death.

When I was scrounging for aluminum cans a couple years ago I met a guy and talked to him. He invited me on his porch to visit and get some cans and so I did. Then he told me, with trepidation, never step on his property unless he was there and invited me. Because his son is totally crazy and would kill me just-like-that. I still drive by that guy’s house and wonder about his son. Is he watching, is he waiting? Big deal, his loss! The chances that I’d stop there now even if the dad WERE home are zero. I don’t know what the son looks like, but he about has to be huge and ugly.

OK then, here I sit, with all the dangers of the Big City and nowhere to go. Say the virus breaks out in full force: I’m dead. But say it doesn’t, say we become the safest place in the world. Then everyone will want to live here, including those with the faintest taint, and then -- because of our great success -- the virus will return and we'll end up dead.

Saturday, April 25, 2020

Make Hulk Great Again


Part 25 of 30

It looks like there’s a lot of work to be done, if we’re up to the challenge. The world’s in a sorry state, it’s gone downhill with a vengeance. Whether by neglect or incompetence or too many bean eaters and not enough bean counters, everything’s gone to hell. I look out the window and of course it looks fine, the same old same old, as usual. But then there’s all those places where I don't happen to be, and unfortunately, due to worldwide communications, I’m able to hear how things are going, which lately has been uniformly terrible.

Certainly we’re having trouble getting people honest enough and hardworking enough to take the reins of leadership and commit themselves to doing a halfway decent job. A lot of halfwits and dumb-asses looking to enjoy the trappings of power, and of course after everything they can grab, instead of acting responsibly to do a good job with any decent ideals in mind. The way to look at it is that the world needs stewardship, good spirits doing a good job for the common good, at least a helping hand, but what we see instead is "Every halfwit for himself!", with the new standard being you’re entitled to everything you can steal and finagle for yourself. If you see it differently, of course you're one of the plunderers, or -- let's say you're not one of the plunderers (fat chance) -- you're at least tempted to put a crowbar through the hardware store window and steal something.

Yeah -- dammit -- it’s really too bad I'm not seeing the kind of pitch-in and help ideals I remember when I was a kid. Say the river overflowed and flooded the baseball field, every kid in town was down there carrying buckets of water back to the river. Then fan-drying the baseball field. Those were the days when you joined the scouts and you got a lot of merit badges. They worked us to death but we loved it. And along the way learned to tie our shoes, recite most of the numbers between 1 and 50, and could build a fire rubbing two sticks or burn ourselves trying. We learned the difference between different fish. And we could pitch a tent. Unfortunately there were a few prima donnas who could also pitch a fit if they were denied a single thing. But the good old days were good. We had a virus back then, we squished it in the dirt.

These days, the virus has some friends in high places, of course the usual crooked ones lining their own pockets from the common purse, all under the cover of being responsible, ha! Yeah, that’s how it is, but they’re not fooling me. I’m just not in much of a position for putting the clamps on 'em. I’d certainly insist on a fair trial, but then once found guilty, you know how it’d go: I'd insist on perfect justice, reparations, and prevention measures for the future. Make an example of the rapscallions and do away with their sort now and forever. And live happily ever after, dealing in the future with viruses (if any) according to wisdom and the common good, all hands on deck, with the usual cast of slimeballs sidelined once and for all.

Friday, April 24, 2020

Even Lincoln's Dissolving

Part 24 of 30

We know from the news on the current virus that there’s apparently no one wholly immune to it. But of course that doesn’t mean all is quite lost yet. You can get it and hope with all your might that someone just now -- preferably in your town, preferably on your block -- has come up with the antidote or cure.

The way my life goes, that never happens, but anyone else could be the first. You might remember, it seems like I blogged about it last year about this time, how I had a flat tire on the interstate. I felt the tire going rickety split and next thing I was on a particularly unforgiving narrow strip of blacktop about a mile from the next exit. I’m often afraid that’s how it’d be if I caught the virus; just my luck I'd be sidelined only to be passed by and nearly run over in the wild commotion.

Of course I have friends. And they were all very sympathetic to me when they heard what had happened. One especially helpful person said she had me in her prayers, even though the incident was past when I wrote about it from home. Still, it’s the thought that counts, and there’s no reason to open new wounds by scolding her for her callous misplacement of timing. I clearly indicated it was a past tense situation. So she’s still a good friend. But friends can’t be everywhere at once. And in that case, sidelined as I was on the interstate without notice, naturally none of them were there to help. I just don’t want that to happen with the virus.

The virus doesn’t care if you’re me, you, the last Nobel winner, the last Pulitzer Prize winner, or Moe, Larry, or Curly Joe. The virus is like the plagues of Israel, except it’s not looking for blood on your door before turning away. The virus doesn’t take breaks, coffee breaks, doesn’t stretch out in the bathtub in a hot bath, isn’t blackmailed or influenced by payoffs or bribery. It’s a steamroller, baby, guaranteed to blow your mind. Then when your mind’s blown, and you’re daydreaming all kinds of colors, visions, with such reality that you’re reaching out to them like treats from your kindly grandpa on your birthday, only to be clawed across the face by a rude viral swipe and left on the floor steaming, foaming at the mouth, and spinning in circles. Finally, you’re able to stand one last time, writhing against the wall, until you collapse and turn into a puddle of psychedelic foam, everything once straight and normal now seething and apparently distended.

Our illustration of Abraham Lincoln -- born solely to become my personal spirit animal -- is to portray this sad truth. You can be the best person in the world, or you can be half-ass, or you can be whomever-the-current president is, the virus doesn’t care. Check out his arms, the molecules are crazy, although the colors have a certain beauty; regardless, none of it bodes well for his health or future. And I might need a new spirit animal.

Thursday, April 23, 2020

BOOM! A Big Bang

Part 23 of 30

The sky was as empty as the day of creation, barely anything but a thought before The Great Mix-master, seeing nothing mixed up, bore the fruit we came to love, existence. Without fanfare, boom! Just another explosion, apparently -- a few angels went deaf -- although in this case it was the Big One and the damage was done. Existence happened, as we know it, coming into being and simultaneously also passed from being, at least in the mind of its maker. (We exist betwixt the two ends.)

So it was just another day, with the freshly minted sky showing the first word on the horizon -- BOOM! -- and everything appeared to be destruction. But it wasn't. Soon to come, then in a lingering phase, everything was an eyeful and earful, as all things were declared good in relation to nothing at all.

The same sort of thing thing happened just recently, giving us at least this month to suffer our bad fate -- O the joy of preceding generations and the misery of ours! Who knew the miseries we’d be compelled to suffer? I actually could probably come across with numerous “I told you so’s,” but if the lesson wasn’t learned the first time around, it’s unlikely that succeeding generations will know any better either.

Regardless of warnings, regardless of the spot we’re now in, what our destiny is and could’ve been, here we are. As I write this I sit in a cement chair in a thick bunker, itself encased in hardened wood, hoping to expose myself to society again someday and become once again the fount of confidence, spewing hope and grace to all who shall receive. The healing will come, and on that point I am sincere. This too shall pass, my father used to say, and a bright day of new possibilities shall be seen.

Yes, the virus is bad, plaguing the cities, plaguing the countrysides, making a mess of all our surroundings, and nothing can mask the truth. We must abide, though, whether hidden or exposed, perhaps never again to take for granted our lives and aims, until someday when it’s all passed and a new generation -- probably equally as cocksure of themselves -- shall rise and surmount our present fears.

Until then, until the blast has passed, may each of us find ourselves a secure place, apart from the rest, and do our flat-out best to pass the time, surviving, yes, but then, bit by bit, pulling together, to flourish once again! Amen?

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Virus: No Crowding Please


Part 22 of 30

Right this minute it’s Virus time at the OK Corral, the whole world, all of us gathered together, trying to avoid contact with the most minute creature, ants, roaches, people. Even eye contact’s discouraged because it’s a slippery slope, mostly with people. It leads to speaking and speaking to french kissing and french kissing to the rest of the slippery slope, crashing and burning at the bottom of a smoldering heap. I know if I had burning at the bottom I’d have it looked into, but with the virus it’s too late.

It’s one of the things we depend on in life, though. Not exactly the slippery slope but the many beneficial ways one things leads to another. We depend on it and make lists to remind us of the many one things that lead to others. Or we just know by experience. I don’t need a list to run my TV, although it’s a lot harder than it used to be, so many channels on numerous sources. And most of the things I eat I already know how to fix them, but if you have to juggle a dozen different things for a party, it'd certainly be a good idea to have a checklist. The more depressing the task, the more you need a list.

But also the more depressing things get, the more I’d rather deny it, change it, abandon it, and finally get the hell out of there. If they suddenly put me in charge of a prison during a pandemic, as a wild example, I’d be so freaked out I’d get the hell out of there right away. But being a prison, where they could lock you up, and say they had to poor judgment to put me in charge, maybe I’d have no right to object. In which case I’d confer with a few trusted associates and see what we could do to shut the whole place down and get out while the guards were busy shooting prisoners, essentially a free-for-all.

Like in the movies, then, I and whoever else was involved would be yelling in crazy celebration of our success while leaving, speeding past the sign at the outskirts of town, “Home of The Same Prison That’s Been Here for 100 Years.” I’m very paranoid about that prison, I think this is the second time I’ve mentioned it today. It’d certainly be a bad place to be during an epidemic, which is a given since it’d be a bad place to be anytime.

Obviously no one’s crowding in to be infected by the virus. Not now, not ever. We have a drive in us, usually, to keep going, always hoping for tomorrow and often even living for tomorrow. Which may never come, but since it always does, tomorrow will be no exception. Someday when it doesn’t come, I’m assuming I won’t notice, and my place will be taken by someone else waiting for it to come and it will. The key thing betwixt hither and thither is to avoid whatever plague there may be that’d squelch our desires. Be it plague, be it virus, even be it someone I don’t know’s birthday party that I’m inexplicably trapped into attending. That’s not going to happen, I know. But … what if it did!? The ugly fickle arm of fate would spell it out for me: “NEXT!” And there’d I go, No Crowding Please.