King Paranoia In Heaven

Paranoia

Part 7 of 30

Here’s a truth you should know, definitely worth the price of admission, zero. It’s biggest value is there’s nothing in it that anyone should dispute. But I fear some of you will and so go on your merry way to a well-deserved destruction. Got your attention? The truth is, It’s not love that makes the world go ‘round, it’s paranoia. Which you come to love, since however things are is what we should love. If we don’t love reality -- as bleak and hopeless as it appears -- we’ve lost the way.

I’ve been seriously pondering -- occasionally splashing my drink from nervousness -- whether to unleash the hounds of this knowledge. Because the whole truth is usually kept from us, mercifully, mostly for our own good, and in large part because it’s frowned upon to watch helpless morons colliding into each other, messing up their hopes and existence and reaping folly. Is it the great tragedy that we think of when that happens? Probably at some level, yes, but the basic gist of it is, it doesn't matter; existence always resets and is back on track with us or without us.

Sometimes I walk through the cemetery up the hill and wonder about the lives at my feet. Were they really anything at all, like this guy over here -- sentimental picture of him encased on the stone? I'd guess like all of us. Paranoid cogs in the machine. Then there’s the others, the vast majority, where vandals have smashed their pictures to smithereens, a terrible thing to see. Or is it? Maybe in the vast hereafter, once they've received their wings they've flitted to their eternal reward and it doesn't matter. Or, it could be, they’re saying, “I totally missed the truth, went in for counseling for paranoia when I should’ve seen it as my inspiration. I became a boring simpleton when I could've gone hog-wild and at least had a story to tell.” So they make the sign of the cross from their perch in heaven, a blessing upon anyone who would so graciously -- but without apparent wisdom -- destroy their picture.

All right, paranoia makes the world go ‘round, we all agree. But who’s in charge of seeing to it that it gets done? That’s one of my biggest complaints about co-workers and slipshod supervision; let’s cut the crap and get things done! In these matters, it’s King Paranoia, and whomever the queen for the day is, because King Paranoia totally suspects her of cheating with other anthropomorphic concepts.

King Paranoia sees those with the promise to fill the many important sectors of existence. And before you know it, you -- all us lowly peons -- are in a slot of society: farming, manufacturing, science, holding down the fort, screwing up, and the list goes on. Maybe you’re a list-maker, no one could be more paranoid, being a completist, but always a hopeless failure. I'm giving it my all and usually see when paranoia is about to trap me into spending the whole day on something. The best weapon against paranoia, then, are ellipses, you’re just saying … “Let someone else do the grunt work. There’s a whole sector out there for me to worry and fret over.” King Paranoia sees our good deeds and says, “At last, someone I can use!”

Test Tube Sample: It's Alive!

 Part 24 of 30

Self-Abuse September

I feel kind of nostalgic (and even a little amused) when I see this high brow scientist discovering once and for all how lively life is. I had something of a head start on at least intuiting that, because from an early age I used to swim in stagnant ponds. And my Grandma was entirely right to be aghast at that and warn us against it (me, brothers, cousins). But we did it anyway. And whether it was by immunity built up from years of dirty living or some other scientific explanation -- bacteria failing to get a foothold because of our sheer cussedness -- I yet live to tell.

Another reason for my apparent survival -- I have another theory that on your deathbed you relive in apparent real time everything in your life -- could be, you name it, trying to purge my karma, to teach me the true meaning of Christmas, or get me laid not in claim but in fact. Well, my karma’s so huge that a million yogis couldn’t atone for it, I know Christmas is a scam, and I may not be afraid of living breathing pond scum but getting laid would expose me to herpes, gonorrhea, and the flu, depending on whether she had the shot.

I feel I definitely have to stay on the same course I’ve been on. A persistently romantic personality, a deep attraction to myself, and self-abuse up the yin-yang, or the imaginary semblance of the same, maybe just yin one day and yang the next. Someone says, “How they hangin'?” Same way as always, of course looser on a scorching hot day. Are you keeping up with me? Are you down with all this? To thyself be true, OK, I shall.

Then there’s the unpleasant aliveness of it all. Which isn’t just my own personal aversion, but clearly that of the scientist and all thinking people. Forget the chicken and the egg, we have the mystery right here in our hot little hand. That’s gross, yes, I know. But the fact is, we’re never alone. We’re surrounded by life, occupied by life, in addition to ourselves being alive. It’s like we're the host, a host to a trillion colonists, giving us every right to be completely freaked out as long as we live. Then, even then, somehow, a trillion bacteria get in your coffin and-- I can’t bring myself to describe what scientists know. There are millions of micro-organisms always with the person, and each one has to eat. Google it.

Lunch break, thanks for reading this far.

OK, I’m back. A dead pig sandwich and some lightly browning lettuce, and an ordinary glass of embalming fluid, so I’m good for a couple years. In conclusion, look to the science of it all. Self-abuse is vastly preferable because you’re not manufacturing other human beings that will have to one day die.

Birth, Life, and Death

No. 23 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

As the school year winds down at Dump Overlook High there's a big assembly, with the guidance counselor offering his thoughts on the year just passed and his vision for the future. The natural assumption is that he has lots of wisdom and will draw something good from it for our inspiration.

The year I graduated it was a big production, with me even having a part in crafting the grand backdrop. I’m proud to say the backdrop hadn't always been so lavish. Some years it was no more than a few pathetic sheets of paper tacked to the front of the podium with illustrations like the sun, moon, and stars, a sky motif illustrating the passing of the years and our hopes and dreams.

My year was a much bigger deal, with a huge backdrop on Birth, Life, and Death. The scheme was almost philosophical. Birth is over here on the viewer’s left, the beginning. Life is the indeterminate span after Birth, which unfortunately leads — varying from person to person, depending on his or her susceptibility to whatever's catching, everything from polio to gonorrhea and its associated itching — to a possibly brutal and painful Death. It's humbling to think of some of the ways you can die. I knew a guy literally decapitated! Never knew what hit him. Only knew, whatever it was, it was fast...

For the assembly I was privileged to work on the DEATH sign. They even put me in charge of it! A little sop from the guidance counselor, I later thought, to give me a deeper sense of my native aptitude, a lesson in sticking to a job, and encouragement that I could oversee something successfully. And I had very little help with it. I hate to ask people to help, but there were a few kids who were also at loose ends and we were cobbled together for the project. A few of them mixed the paint and the rest of us daubed it in, making, I’m sure you'll agree, a nice tableau.

I had a lot of pride looking at it as he spoke. I kept thinking, It could’ve been better. I saw a few streaks that should’ve been touched up. But there was a deadline and we didn’t have the time we needed to pour into it, with classes and tests and the fact that people have a social life, dates, dealing with hormones, etc.

Still, I thought proudly, it looked pretty good! Especially if you figure in the guys who did the BIRTH panel didn’t put in half the sweat, and as far as elbow grease they also had the short end of the stick. The LIFE team did a great job, but they had a lot more people. And anytime a panel is central to a presentation, of course that’s where the resources will go. Like being born on third base, it’s not a great feat if you’re first to score.

And think of this, everyone’s down on DEATH. We’re not supposed to think of Death like we think of Life. So instead of being on third base, it’s like being stillborn from the get-go, having to claw our way up from the slime, hunkering down and pushing forward despite the obstacles, and having to even justify our existence! It’s obvious if it weren’t for the whole scheme of BIRTH and LIFE they would’ve left DEATH out all together. Which isn't fair but it’s a fact. Meaning, actually, as far as everyone was concerned, we were on the project by forced necessity, not something to be proud of.

Still, you know, as far as these things go, the guidance counselor gave one heck of a talk. Backed by one of the best damned DEATH panels anyone’s ever come up with! Then when it was all over, it was all tossed out, I guess. The landfill guy probably looked at it and thought, Not bad at all.

Keeping Mama Happy

No. 15 of 31 -- Thermometer series

I don't care which cog you think needs grease, if you don't keep Mama happy your labor's in vain. Is it Persistence? I will be persistent, Keep Mama Happy. Constancy? I will constantly rebut, Keep Mama Happy. Is it Stick-to-it-tiveness? Here's something to stick to, Keep Mama happy. (Staying At It is nearly synonymous with Stick-to-it-tiveness, but you'll agree, nothing functions without Staying At It, because it's connected to Keeping Mama happy.) Keeping Mama happy is our priority.

Sit back, settle in, and let me expound at some length on the wisdom of life. This will pay practical dividends over and over in many ways. Look how things are going for the blog and our great thermometer drive. They're popping off and spewing everywhere, 'cause Mama's one happy chick!

The first application is for children. The second for adults. The third for adult men. Uh, there may not be a third, but we’ll see.

Children, 1st. You children have a long ways to go till you're an adult. Life seems long and hard to endure. But you have to slog it out day by day and year by year. Enjoy! Don't get ahead of yourself. I used to keep track of the slow-moving time before I could leave home and be on my own. Those years just crawled. I was impatient. I still had to learn important lessons, a lot of it by trial and error. Persistence, Constancy, Stick-to-it-tiveness, and Staying at it were the minor lessons.

Every one of those things is utterly important, although I concede, Stick-to-it-tiveness and Staying at It are similar if not identical things. Be all that as it may, the absolute most important thing in the mix is Keeping Mama Happy. (If you don’t have a Mama, you most likely did have one at some point around the time of your birth. You can have lots of Mama-figures in the ladies in your life. Or even in aspects of yourself, the kind of Mama person or aspect who's loving, always wanting your best.)

Anyway, Keep Mama Happy and everyone’s happy. If you merely feel the need to Keep Mama Happy, that's happiness. If you see the priority of Keeping Mama Happy, it means you're putting first things first and other things will follow. If you ever fail, go back to Mama and say, "O Mama!" and let her caress you till you feel you can go on.

I’m an old man now. But not pathetic in any way, able to breathe, walk, sit up and take nourishment, avoiding trouble, etc. I could be pathetic. Picture this pathetic scenario:

Me: “What’s the f—'n use of even being alive?” People I know try to bolster my spirits. “Who would even f—'n miss me if I was dead?” And they’re bolstering my spirits again, “We’d miss you.” Then I have my constant doubts, “F— life and you and you!” I throw up on the dining room table and march out of the room, never to be seen again. Until months later I run into the old gang at the grocery store getting ready for the weekly meeting that very night, a meeting I’ve never been invited back to, and they all pretend not to know me. I’m begging for another chance, “I was just f—'n with your heads that night. I didn’t mean anything really, it was a joke. Yes, I threw up on the table, that was meant as a joke, but I immediately regretted it. The humor was too subtle.” Then they let me come back to the meeting that night, I suddenly feel sick at the table, but I have the Mama spirit/moxie in my spirit: I get up and march to the bathroom like a good boy.

Have you got the moxie on the ball? Mama's that moxie, what you need. 'Nough said.

I come back to the table and share with them the wisdom, the key to life I meant to share that other night but was unable to because I was prematurely evicted: “Keep Mama happy.” They’re at the table looking around at each other in kind of a mock disbelief: “Keeping Mama happy is the key to life?” “Yes,” I say, comfortable in my own skin because I know it’s true.

We dismiss, we go away, then the next week come back, and around the table the verdict is the same, “You are absolutely right! This is the secret of life and success! Persistence, Constancy, Stick-to-it-tiveness, and its near synonym Staying at it, are all vital, critical, needed. But setting aside that, the number one rule in existence — and to a man we realize this — is “Keep Mama Happy.”

It's All Been Done to Death

"Happy birthday, you!" Oh, and it's another day and another friend, so "Happy Birthday, you, have a great one." Oh man, this is endless. Yes, you were born, and today's your birthday. Hasn't it been done pretty nearly to death?

All these years you've been passing the time, enjoying regular meals. A little this, a little that. Cereal products, different cuts of meat, occasionally grilling. It's nice to see it on the plate, of course, and then you down it and it's all gone. What a lovely memory, unfortunately fairly boring to me.

Your life of growing up was oh so fascinating. You lived in a town much like other towns, or a big city, with challenges of its own. I had an upbringing too, with dear old dad working all the time and mom working as well, raising us kids. I guess my own experiences fit in with many others, which, to a certain extent are quite mundane.

School's one of those constants in life. You had Mrs. Smith in Kindergarten, Miss Jones in 1st, and so forth, right up the list, and those were great memories. But think about it, they're cut and dry, common, run of the mill stuff, basically tedious.

College is even less interesting, except for the experiences you might've had going crazy, which I'd leave out if I were you. Just say you showed up for class, did your work, kept your grades up, and eventually graduated. Yes, it's 100% boring, but some things don't need to be said.

In there somewhere you've had a few love interests. They've come and gone, as is true for the rest of us. When we come to sex, that's one of those areas like college you're not going to talk about. But even if you were to talk of it, we already know the basic moves, and definitely the way it ends. Every animal in the street could tell the same precise story, not even slightly interesting unless, and this is a biggie, you're getting revved up for next time.

Maybe you got married, maybe you had kids. Enjoy your wedding pictures while you can. Someday they'll look outdated. Your mustache will be out of style, your glasses will seem quaint, the colors will fade, the minister's toothy grin will seem out of place.

I like religion, except... so often the story ends the same way, trite, overdone with weird zeal or the lack of zeal. You walk into a church, virtually any church, and you say, "You gotta be kidding me! This is all it amounts to?"

Finally, there's death itself. You've lived all your life for this, your big moment. Even death, then, can be done to death. You're in an accident, you're decapitated, at least that's mildly interesting. Still, what a crappy driver you were. If you didn't know how to handle ice, you should've stayed home. Or you get a typical disease, which, even though there's tons of agony, you might've avoided. Or you have whatever, and you're laying there in the hospice room, listening to the soothing music, and you die. Just thinking of it's about to kill me, from boredom. Move to the Middle East, let them cut your head off. Then you'll have a story to tell.

The Most Beautiful Thing

I see a picture like that and my heart goes, "Bing bang boom, gimme gimme something like that, exactly that, that and in that same quantity!" It tells of plenty, like the horn of plenty. I can see the end from the beginning, of course -- it's one of my talents -- but I have enough short-term optimism to set all finitiude aside and say, "Yes, that will do me for a good long while."

Maybe it goes back to when we used to play grocery store, that we always wanted enough, a supply that did not quit. Or just the fact that everything that we have in hand, like the bird in hand, is that much we don't have to scratch for later. In fact there's no scratching, because the vital things of life are taken care of, freeing us to pursue the deeper matters of the spirit. And that's often been what's kept me from the spirit, the sense of lack, needing to get out on a zero degree day to procure toilet paper.

How tough it can be, too, to walk the bazaars, haggling over this much toilet paper. "Who do you think you are, needing that much, while everyone else goes without?" "I know, I know, on the face of it it looks like security issues, kind sir. But sell me this quantity and you shall not see my sort in your exalted shop for a good long time. I will husband each roll, I will keep it above the encroaching floods, I will say 'I shall use this much and no more!', everything knowing its limits, being divinely decreed."

That makes it right. Something that right can't be wrong. To have this much, arms full in hand, and to have it stored on the shelves, properly displayed, in the secret closet, to look at like Midas' millions, that's good. When I first see it, O how I linger, setting aside what I'm usually thinking of, the gnawing reality of finitude. But without really trying, I do mentally posit the limits of this stash. Six months if I'm lucky. I'm turning aside my fellow man for a six month supply.

But to each his own, right? One man hoards fine whiskey, or wine? Artwork, gold, valuable collectibles. Survivalists have their canned goods and ammunition. Learned old men hunch over tomes by their personal fire, guarding their treasure. Trolls are guarding bridges against goat encroachment. "There's gold in them thar hills!" someone cries, and everyone goes running. Except me, I'm not running for that gold, when I've got what I need right here in hand. Call me a Renaissance Man, appreciating the necessities.

I believe someday I will be endlessly happy, in the great forever. This stash of toilet paper goes a ways toward the fulfillment of that day, pointing to it. Were I to have not just these but another dozen rolls, that would be something of a topper, but I'm not sure I'd be happier. Tell not the looters! Maybe they'll never figure it out, even if I fail to make an appearance in the public square like everyone else, clamoring for rolls and using the communal cob chained to the bucket. I will be sly, making periodic appearances, trusting that the supply back home is safe for those moments.

Such worry only attests its worth. Because mankind, his back pressed up against the wall, is always smart. He know this is what he wants. And must have. And that's the rub. I spoke of looters. I hate it, but when desperation runs high, it's obviously easier to be found out. They could cry, "There he is! Get him! We divide the spoil, a little for you, a little for me!" Sorry to end on a down note.

But rejoice today, friends, for the stores are still full of it!

"Giftus Thinga" Learns True Meaning of Christmas

Since about August there's been real despair at the manger scene in Bethlehem. Despite the best preparations for Christmas, they could find no new creature to share the true meaning of Christmas. Which, as we've heard all our lives, is very important.

The Lord is born! Wise men came from the East, and then over the years various other characters appeared, representing all creation: Chipmunks, beavers, birds, Frosty the Snowman, Little Drummer Boys, Little Drummer Girls, misfit toys ... The very last of the ordinary animals to come was in fact just a few years ago, the mole. Being an underground animal, no one thought to dig one up and take it.

With the mole used, every year they've been looking for other new things. Even microscopic things. Last year was touch and go, until they discovered Grubby the Pool Virus, found in a dank corner of the dressing room. Related both to dirty feet and poor janitorial work, Grubby, like Frosty, "came to life one day," and Christmas was saved.

I've been keeping track of the search most of this year. They've been using some of my global contacts, thanks to the blog, meaning I've been scouring the Ukraine and a few of the other more exotic countries of the world. Remember Mauritius? I get hits there, too, and I'm always thinking it's almost obscure enough to have new life.

Manger authorities even asked me to get hold of any scientist friends I may have, not wanting to leave any stone unturned in the search. I thought "stones unturned," and immediately thought of Neil Shubin, famous for turning rocks and discovering that each of us is descended not just from other mammals, but reptiles, then fish. Someone in Sunday School a couple weeks ago (true story) said, "Jesus wasn't a reptile." I immediately thought of Neil, but was wise enough to keep my mouth shut. Anyway, I called Brother Shubin, but the best he could do was a fossilized fur follicle from a Tribble. We already got Tribbles to the manger in '68.

So the search has continued fruitlessly. Imagine, then, my huge shock, when just yesterday, right here at my place, one of the heads in a Christmas present I was getting ready to send to a reader was granted life!  How about that? I bought 40,000 of these gifts and, like, the tenth one I'm handling starts moving! One little snaky, floppy, head thing, now going by the preliminary scientific moniker "Giftus Thinga-ma-Whatsit," came to life!

Yes, it's small, dinky, extremely tiny and insignificant. It's actually little more than a head and stem. But there's a few strings falling from it, like delicate roots. Probably the beginnings of a spine. I thought I saw movement, but denied it. Then it moved even more and was even looking around, all very tentatively. The signs of life increased by the second. Twisting and morphing, morphing and twisting.

I sat it down and told it the true meaning of Christmas, just in case it died, then called Bethlehem and got it on a plane to the Holy Land, and they said it arrived at the stable about an hour ago. With beautiful light beams coming from the manger in response!

Friends, this is it! Whether you're a pool virus, a chipmunk, or a brand new Giftus Thinga, the true meaning of Christmas is here, love, light, greatness and power, the Divine Word within everything. What's in it for you? How about free plane tickets to Bethlehem? .... if your story's convincing enough to the powers that be.

Classic Monsters Face Environmental Crises

I've been diligently reading some very good esoterica stuff, alt literature, alt thought, alt reality, and alt non-reality. It's really done something to my thinking. Like with conspiracies. At the worst times of the day, everyone's out to get me. Then I recover and realize no one's out to get me. I get so lonely I can barely stand it. Here I am! Someone somewhere, anyone out there?

One of the things I've focused on is the reality of the classic monsters. These are the guys I grew up watching, and idolizing. Dracula, blah blah, always wants to drink your blood. And Frankenstein, the big guy, a man of few words, made of the parts of dead folk from the area. Who exactly started out with his head, I always wondered. One other classic dude is the Wolf Man, whose plea to the director had to be, "Don't forget my face," hence the closeups of him in swift transformation. I should mention the Mummy, although I hate the Mummy. My proclamation, first made at the tender age of 15, remains accurate today: "No one's yet made a decent Mummy movie!"

I'm not afraid of what anyone says about me when it comes to monsters. I not only believe they're real, I know they're real (except for the Mummy). They have to be real, they're so monumental, you might say Universal. I'll make another proclamation: "If they're not real, show me the proof. I'll never believe it!" So you can see, I fit right in ... in the esoterica subculture.

What I'm writing about today has been a growing concern of mine ever since I heard of the world's various environmental crises. My first question is, How will all this affect the classic monsters? There's terrible things happening. The melting of glaciers, the collapse of ice shelves, enormous volcanoes, La Nina (El Nino), near-miss asteroids, tectonic shifting and earthquakes, tsunamis, rising tides, Antarctica calving in half, a thinning ozone, sunspots, higher bacon prices, solar flares, and the alternating of night and day in unpredictable ways. I'm very concerned, in a panic. If I had one wish, it'd be that the Industrial Revolution had never happened! If not for my own safety, then the monsters'. I have a feeling they're screwed.

Part of my concern finds its roots in daily meditation. When I started meditating, the intention was to enhance my life, make me a little more clearheaded. Well, to say it worked is a huge understatement, because I'm so clearheaded now it's ridiculous! It's come to my clearheaded attention that the monsters aren't handling it well. They're like us, only more so; they need a predictable constancy in life. One big constant, as far as they're concerned, has to be the regularity of day and night. Instead of what we've witnessed in recent years, the sun and moon unable to maintain themselves in their circuits. With the coming and going of day and night being unpredictable.

It's too much. Dracula, to cite one obvious problem, can't even come out but at night. A few more slip-ups and he's a goner. He shows up, let's say, he's about to bite someone, drink their blood, trying to keep body and soul together (nothing wrong there), when the plates of the earth shift, the sun pops back to life and drives away the dark. It scares the devil out of him. He can't cope. He has to take cover. In the transition he loses massive mojo. No one benefits. As for Frankenstein, with his monstrous shape and need to be hidden, he prefers night. And the Wolf Man, it's hard to know you've got 5 o'clock shadow when you go directly from noon to midnight. The Mummy? Who cares...

All the old fashioned things of nature, if scientists can somehow get them back, we will be so grateful. I myself need regular biorhythms, dependable sleep cycles, breakfast at the same time every morning, and all the rest. I'd guess you do too. If that's so, doesn't it stand to reason that it's ten times worse for monsters?

I Laugh in the Face of Disease

I'm big, I'm bad, where others cry, I laugh in the face of disease. Ha ha! (Like that.) Of course I feel, just like in the Declaration of Independence, that such a claim demands an explanation to justify it in the opinion of mankind, my fellow withering-away organisms.

Disease causes lots of heartbreak, am I right? In fact, it's major Heartbreak City. But these are the things I don't worry about. I look at it this way: Millions of people have gone before me, and they're all pleasantly a'moldering. All suffering is momentary, relief relatively swift. Plus, que sera sera.

Of course, the best thing is to avoid all suffering, if you can, which you can't, so just hit the high spots and avoid anything prolonged. And if you can't do that either, then let it roll over you like the other balms of life, relaxing and luxuriating in the fact that you were apparently chosen, perhaps bearing the sins of the world. If you have to dream, dream big!

We hear it so often that we should not laugh in the face of disease, that we should not sneer in the face of heartbreak. I've heard that all my life; it's been very hush hush. But really, that's not a rule we have to obey, since we're all going to go. What really is suffering, but the breakdown of finite forms? Eventually our finite forms are so broken down that they appear to disperse entirely. Grandma had a disease, to give an example, and it got her. She broke down to the point that she died, and I haven't seen her since. I assume there's still bones or something, but huggable she ain't.

Probably it will actually be harder for me, assuming I ever get a disease that threatens to take me, to laugh in its face. But I shall try. I'm only reluctant to say I will because, frankly, I don't presently laugh in the face of the smaller things that come my way. Like heartburn. I strive to overcome it. I do what I can, as most physical conscious entities would. And I try to stave off the inevitable heartbreak. But I believe that if I get something really bad I will find a way to laugh about it.

I'll give an example of something I don't suffer from. Bulimia. I don't have that, so it's easy to laugh it off. I have a little song* for it:

Only a bull named Imic,
only a little steer,
He knew they wouldn't eat him,
and he would always be here.
But for me that's not a problem,
so eat him, yes, I must,
Only a bull named Imic,
he'll someday lose his trust.

That's right, boys and girls, Imic will someday lose his trust. He's thinking today I'm a mighty bull, and indeed a mighty bull is he. But there will come a day... it could be he will wait it out and fall apart and turn to dust. But let it be written: He shall lose his trust! Going beyond that fate, it will more likely be that someone will eat him. Someone who still has his trust, namely, me.

Or Cancer. Cancer is something I very well might get. If I had to bet, I'd say I will. My parents both died from cancer. Obviously cancer's something to laugh in the face of. My earliest memories of cancer is in the old joke:

TEACHER - Tommy, use the word cancer in a sentence.
TOMMY - I'm sorry, I can't, sir.

So far, cancer's not a problem I've had. I've been spared. Remember, I gave $50 to the anti-cancer society, so I'm hoping that gives me a certain immunity. I've had a lot of relatives die of cancer, those I've known and doubtless those I never knew. If anything major gets me, it'll likely be this disease. Yet I laugh in the face of cancer! I'm struttin' like a rooster, can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!

Join me in laughing in the face of disease. How can I do that? you ask. Start with a small smile, a tentative smile. Work your way up to a frightened chuckle, etc., then pretty soon you're bold faced, sneering, struttin', talkin' trash, philosophically dunking your way (basketball language) to rich and vibrant glory in the face of disease and suffering, your own and the disease others.

*Tune of Only a Boy Named David

Celebrating My 85-Year Lifespan

I'm really glad I'm going to live another 24 years, having recently discovered that I won't die till I'm 85. It's better than I expected, frankly, since I've been somewhat lethargic, tired, and feeling dragged down. But this news has really perked me up, big time!

Of course my resolution is really to live it up and make the most of my remaining time. Especially now that I know it's so much; I've been worried for nothing, but that's all over. I've changed my attitudes completely. No more wishing it was yesterday or tomorrow or next week and unnecessarily worrying over the challenges of the day. What are they gonna do, kill me? Not if I'm guaranteed another 24 years! I actually should've lived smarter all along, since wishing your life away only spoils the now.

So from now on, I won't even celebrate holidays till they're here. Christmas tree up on Christmas. Like that. Even boring things I will enjoy -- although I won't allow them to go any longer than I can absolutely stomach. I will enjoy everything. If people are singing to me "Happy Birthday," I will look from person to person, making meaningful, soulful eye contact. And so on. I will not make a bucket list, because it wastes too much time. My bucket list will be everything cool I can get to, not rushing one thing for another.

I will only do good in life, because I don't want to be known for bad, and because if I did bad I would waste precious time regretting it. But as for the credit of doing good, I will allow some quiet savoring, but not too much. If people want to pat me on the back for something good, I will allow it until it seems like overkill. And I will be the judge on what constitutes overkill, and the judge's decision will be final. There's really no reason to dwell on the past to the point of overkill.

I guess you could say I'm going to live the next 24 years like a Zen Buddhist. Which I understand to be like this: Appreciating everything to such a mind-boggling appreciative extent that some would say goes from the sublime to the ridiculous. Picking up a handful of sand and arranging each tiny rock, or something ... I can do some of that. The key thing is to enjoy it, then not grasp as if to cling to it.

I think this really applies to flowers. All my previous 61 years, I've taken a glance at flowers and said, "Next!" But now will be different. In my remaining 24 years, each flower will be precious to me, like children of God. And grandchildren. Everything will be precious. I will even encourage people to catch and release fish. Or to not even catch them at all, just release them.

OK, I think you get the point. This is a "No Overkill Zone." I've no time to waste. I'm off to buy the prize turkey in the butcher's window. Then after a delicious meal I'll spend a little time seeking out newborn kittens.

Great News! I'll Die When I'm 85!

I've got great news! I don't die till I'm 85! Isn't that great? That means 24 more years of quality life right here on good old green Mother Earth. I can lay back and really enjoy myself now, without the day-to-day anxiety that shkitttt [throat-cutting phoneme].

And I actually have been very anxious, basically to the point of sweating through my jogging clothes, which I use for pajamas. Tossing and turning, sweating, staring at the ceiling, the physical pain's sometimes too much. I pray, calling out to the Logos field, then I remind myself that calling out isn't necessary, that its presence is in every cell. That's comforting, but, still, who wants to die? Not me.

Now, as you may recall, it just so happens that I have plenty of experience with Death as an entity, the force of death personified (see links below). I've been present when various ones have died. If interested, you can read about it. All that said, it's no big surprise that he appeared again, this time not in his usual black robe but in a white one, looking as kind as the Wizard of Oz in his human shyster form.

First, he thanked me for our friendship. I asked what he's been up to. He gave the throat-cutting phoneme, brevity being the heart of wit. Then we got down to business, my anxieties, with him asking if I really wanted to know. Finally, I nodded, adding, "I really really really really really really want to know..." At which point he said simply, "85. Mark it down." He touched my shoulder and imparted certain other knowledge without needing to speak. And with that he was gone.

"Oh boy! 85! Around 24 years of added life!" Because he didn't say it'd happen the day I turned 85. It could be the very last day of my 85th year! How about that! That's closer to 25 years! A whole quarter of a century! In joy, I sang the song "76 Trombones," knowing I have 9 more trombones than the title of the song, which is a ton of brass! The last time that much brass was in one place was when the Joint Chiefs told LBJ Vietnam was lost. Although it continued to burn.

OK, I said Death imparted to me certain other knowledge. In that were warnings, 1) that if I tried to commit suicide, the guarantee was off, and, 2) that foolhardy behavior such as playing on the interstate, deep-sea diving, and being a policeman in a tough metro area could be met by death. But "normal" foolhardy behavior, like eating wrong, not exercising enough, and quarrels at family reunions, would not be met by death, but could be met with physical/mental incapacitation. So if we get into it at a reunion next year I could be a vegetable for 23 years. Ouch. Reminder to Self: Leave weapons home.

Still, all this is OK; I can accept it. I'm not going to commit suicide. I'm not going to play on the interstate. I don't live anywhere near a sea. And I have no desire to be a cop. I will try my best to eat right. I hope to start exercising as soon as the spirit moves me. I'm going to do my best...

So 24 years left! Wow, that's great! No more anxiety. What shall I do first? You know what? 24 years is quite a while. I might lie in bed and read for a while. I'm a little drowsy. Then I've got the whole day before me!


Death Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up
Walt's Suicide -- Death by Water
The Gaping Maw of Death (Woof! Woof!)
My Picnic With Death
The Chilling Hand of Death
Her Parachute Didn't Open

Me Suffering Like Job

I'm going to tell you my true experiences in church today. The preacher talked about Job, the character in the Bible whose life went completely to hell. In a hand-basket, as Grandpa always said. Thanks to ha-Satan, the Hebrew word for adversary.

First, let me brag about it right up front, I used to be a go-getter. Hitchhiking across the country, roughing it, eating very skinny meadowlarks, sleeping under bridges, in culverts, and even in the men's room of a very busy truck stop, the whole bit. I rode trains, I was down and dirty, with enough dirt on me that anyone seeing me had to think I was a desperado. I wasn't, but they would've thought so.

Now, though, in recent years, as an aging man -- over 60 -- I'm not so rough. Part of me looks back on all of it like it was some other guy's life. I don't know, I could probably make it if I had to. I've always been resourceful. But with my aches and pains, and apparent need for sleep and regularity, give me the predictable life. A good deadbolt. Meals I can count on. And a lack of suffering.

I know someday they'll find me, dead, of old age and/or iron poor blood and lethargy. But at least I'll be under a decent number of blankets, in long johns, with socks, and securely locked in in comfort. It could happen a different way, but I'll try to not let it.

The preacher's message on Job, though, gave me momentarily the sensation that anything was possible. Job suffered all the stuff he suffered and didn't curse God. An alternate way of looking at that phrase, in my opinion, would be: He didn't doubt his own place in life, in the scheme of things. Complete despair wasn't an option.

OK, I started thinking of myself. Say my little bit of savings was taken away, the place I live crashed in, everything in my freezer thawed out, the city took my half acre, and I was suddenly drifting about, maybe despised and shunned, would I keep a good attitude? I was thinking, Yes, I would. But that was this morning, when I was still wide awake. I even saw it as something like a liberating idea. When you have a ton of fear, if everything's snatched away, there'd be less to fear. You'd be free!

But now, as it becomes evening, the day has dragged by. And I'm tired. Hanging out in my easy chair, trying to read, but getting very sleepy. Now I'm not so sure I'd like to be scraping my boils with a potsherd, whatever good that'd do. Do boils itch? Or is scraping just a good way to drain them? I'd have to figure that out. Now I'm not so sure there'd be a lot of positives to being on the road, at the edges, the extremes.

I want to keep the meaning of life, of course, come what may. Only, please, let the meaning of life have something to do with my own comfortable bed, a working furnace, and a well-stocked refrigerator.

The Death Pangs of a Locust

Holy cow, I'm leaving my ectoshell behind. Like a spaceship, we've got separation. But instead of falling into the ocean -- there's no ocean for miles around -- I'm just hanging on that piece of concrete I was on.

What a meditation, to go like this. I trained the inner eye on my bottom and drifted away. I'm free, sort of -- but what now? Probably shouldn't worry. It's an escape, apparently; separation comes with the package. Meaning life is a package deal. I've always gone a la carte, myself, making decisions to this point. But now it's happening to me, not so much me doing it. What's a me?

Everything is melting, including the ability to make strict, accurate judgments about the present circumstances, this immediate sentence included. All I feel is I'm drifting, drifting, seeing what must've been my life flashing before me.

I see now that I was one of 40,000 siblings, proudly among the top 10,000 in aptitude. Maybe higher, since I'm able to remember, think, and formulate actual descriptive sentences. Even the best of them offers nothing but an ongoing drone. Although it's possible that the ongoing drone is better than my present chatter. Or if not better, at least closer to the ideal nature.

Anyway, I could also drone. One of the best soprano voices in our treeload. I was so into it, I briefly wanted to end it all, forgo mating, I mean, stop the urges and keep my voice. Very vain, I know, and ultimately an unsustainable bit of vanity. There's no provision for such desires. Even for someone who could name every tree in the forest.

Like everything, fate is set out for us. Not strict determinism, mind you, but close. For example, I could choose which tree to fly to. Of which, in hindsight, I say ... big deal. I was still a locust through and through, with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereunto. Among them being, to get lost in the drone. If "All life is the play of universal forces" (Aurobindo), who am I to complain? To complain is ridiculous, unless that too is just universal forces having fun.

As a locust -- fark! -- it's all good. My ectoshell was on me, what joy! My ectoshell is off me, what joy! It's all the same. To be a locust and also to be the All is all joy. Like a cherry on a huge sundae, I'd say. It's great to see, but the sundae's still good without it. To be right there, as I realize myself to be, in the heart of everything, in the thoughts of all power, near to the meat of the goody, adjacent to the inner nub, and a favorite of the center enchilada, it's a great thing. Like the apple of its eye.

Separation is complete. We repeat, separation is complete. The locust has left this locus. A bird swoops down and studies the spoils, before carrying it away for whatever value might remain. As for Mr. Locust, his consciousness drifts farther away. There's a kind of nebulous light just ahead, with deep contentment and joy.

Our locust's last earthly thought: Someday, bird, you'll get yours.

Hez Heck: "Someday Doad'll Be a Dad"

Today, we get a rare glimpse into the life of rustic funnyman, Hez Heck, much deeper than we've been allowed before. Taking us well beyond the quips and jokes he's so famous for. The man is more like a philosopher, at least that's what he is in the way he thinks. But he always keeps us laughing with his suspenders-snapping routine. And yet, sometimes even funnymen cry; sometimes even philosophers are stymied, both in their understanding of life overall and in the common, everyday things that all of us know.

But we're going to keep this on the up and up, with no crying. Because that's not what we're here for. We seek only the joy of laughter. But we know -- we have to know -- there are those times when a good old fashioned cry does a body some good. You're convulsing, basically, your body involuntarily taking over, with a big old knot in your throat at times, and there's a kind of pain in your chest, like something's trying to bust out, claw its way out. It shakes you up something fierce. You think, "Am I dying?" When, no, the answer is, you're just bummed out.

Hez Heck thinks about the future ... at times, with all that means. The big, vast, immense, looming future. But he's not always thinking only about himself, because he gets by, he's done all right. Instead, Hez thinks of the future coming for his nephew Doad, whom he's partly half-raising, since he was half-raised already when Hez took him in, and "partly" because Doad'll never be----- ... Doad is Doad. The boy's ... something ... of a glum specimen, in certain ways. That loose board in the chicken shed's hit him a time or two too many. And yet he is growing up before Hez's eyes. Soon Doad'll be a man, soon Doad'll be a dad, and soon Doad'll be everything else Doad'll be ... like it or not.

When Doad's a man, he's going have to face the same kinds of challenges Hez has faced. Like being the one to put a new screen in the door when the kids rip it open. It'll be Doad that'll have to kiss his son's or daughter's mosquito bites away. It'll be Doad that'll have to chase 'em over the hills, bringing them home. And it'll be Doad that'll have to keep the old truck going. The thing's been in the family for generations. They treat trucks here like Cubans treat cars, lots of maintenance for decades of reliability. They pass them down. And if there's a generation when there's no sons, the trucks stay in the barn, and they wait till they get one.

Hez thinks, "Someday, by cracky, it'll be Doad that'll be wearin' one of these beards, and shirts, and suspenders." In every respect, Doad'll be a man. So -- and this is embarrassing -- Hez thinks maybe it really is the right time to tell Doad about the birds and the bees. That's Ma's idea, and Hez said he'd get around to it. After all, it's mostly natural, and the parts that are confusing, if you just feel around, finally you get it.

Hez pulls Doad aside, and launches right into the main attack. "Doad, someday you'll be a man." Doad answers, "Yeah." They pause. "Someday you'll be a dad." "Yeah." Hez lets that sink in. "And that old truck'll be yours." "Yeah." Hez waits to see how that registers. "And you'll be the man in charge." "Yeah."

The older uncle wonders about Doad's understanding. Doad seemed to take it all in without flinching in the slightest. "You understand everything I said, Doad?" "Yeah." But Hez is wondering, so he runs a little test. "You think you need to hear it all again?" "Yeah." "Is all this going out one ear and in the other?" turning around the phrase as only a funnyman like Hez can do. "Yeah," says Doad, blithely.

"OK, son," Hez says, "Go play." Doad answers, "Yeah." Hez sees it's an interesting case. Doad's glazed over. Hez leads him to the door and points outside. Then helps him out the door and down the stairs. Hez withdraws and watches Doad finally catch a whiff of country air. His head seems to be clearing. Then, in an instant, Doad is gone like a shot up the hills and down the other holler. Hez thinks, "He'll just have to get it the natural way, whatever he hears behind the barn, and the rest, feelin' his way. It's never hurt no one yet."

Ma comes in, thinking she heard voices, and that their time together was very short, especially if they'd been talking about what she figured they ought to be talking about, looking back on it being her idea about the birds and bees. Where is that boy? "You been talkin' to Doad." Hez says, "Yeah." "Think he's got it?" she wonders. "Yeah." "Is he gone?" "Yeah." "Are you all right?" "Yeah."

Ma wonders, "Can't you just spit it out and tell me more 'n that? What's that boy up to, anyway?" Hez's answer, "No good."

Happy 90th Birthday, Horst!

One of our dearest friends, Horst, recently turned 90 years old! The big 9-0. Time to look back, for sure, and a time to look ahead to all the great years to come!

For Horst everything is getting better and better. Now he has lots of time on his hands at the nursing home, and that can be a kick.

In the long-ago far-off days of youth, Horst never dreamed he'd live to be 90. He was a handsome guy (still is), and all the girls had a thing for him. Especially one girl, the girl he would marry. (But more about her later.)

Take a look at Horst on their 30th anniversary. He's pictured here with his dear wife, Edna. (Unfortunately, Edna had to be cropped out because we wanted a uniform format on this page.) They not only look happy, they were.

Gettin' Better 'n Better in Every Way

At 90, Horst has nothing too much to worry about these days, just to take it easy and try to stay out of the nurses' way. Edna passed away a few years ago, and that was sad. But Horst's family made it much easier for him by having the newspaper print a poem, which read in part:

God broke our hearts to prove
He only takes the best.

What would people get Horst for his 90th birthday? Well, turns out there were all kinds of things he'd probably like. Like this "Footprints in the Sand" decorative thing. Horst's surprise comment on opening this gift: "What the hell is it?"

Of course, a singing bird clock is a gift idea that can't miss, whether your intended victim is young or old. And so it was for Horst. His comment after opening this gift: "What the hell do I need this for?"

And these days, the Boogie Blade is very popular as a gift item. It's kind of like the Boogie Bass (singing fish) or the Billy Bass (another singing fish), but this is not a fish nor does it have anything to do with birds, but it's a singing and dancing windshield wiper! Anyway, it was an obvious choice for an old guy like Horst, whose eye is just naturally captured by something so novel. Horst's comment on opening the Boogie Blade was touching: "What the sam hell — ?"

There was music and ice cream, and quite a few cards.

A nurse asked Horst, "Do you know how many people are here?"

He said, "200?"

"No," the nurse said, "50!"

Horst's beautiful reply: "That all?"

Horst, we know this is a happy time for you, with 90 Big Ones under your belt! Our sincerest wish for you is just this: May you have another 90 and then some!

---------------------------------

Note:

This post is from a webpage I had in 2000. It was based on a party I had recently gone to for a 90-year-old guy I knew. The guy's name was Fritz, but I changed it to Horst. Fritz actually said, "What the hell do I need this for?" when he opened the bird clock. And the line about how many people are here -- 200? No, 50, That all? -- is a true detail. I didn't include it, but Fritz thought he was either 100 or 110.

The formatting had to be different from the 2000 website. Here's the animated gifs I had of Horst at 90 and the Boogie Blade. The Boogie Blade originally had a soundtrack of snippets of various rain songs. I worked on the 30th anniversary picture with Photoshop to try to make him look around 90.

To learn about the actual guy in the pictures -- Elbert Macy -- see my post at THIS LINK.

Paywall -- You Just Lost the Daily Option

I heard an interesting quote, that I think really applies here: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Whoa! Let that sink in! That's "the mass of men," Joe Average, Walt Wimp. So applicable, definitely, to the situation here at hand! Whoever first said that surely had in mind the Wimps of our present day. How prescient!

It's in that awareness, and that spirit, that I announce an executive decision, made without consulting anyone, asking no counsel but my own inner authority: I have cut off and immediately terminated your opportunity to sign up for a Daily subscription plan. That option is hereby gone. You're out. We've already moved past it. You've been judged unworthy. Your inaction doomed you, as I figured all along it would.

Does this mean the paywall for my blog is dead? No, how would you come to such an absurd conclusion? Did you do it on your own? What a leap! It certainly does not mean that. But it does mean that for those who might still avail themselves of one of the higher subscription plans, your time also is running out. Do not delay. The cutoff point could come at any time. Act now or possibly be left high and dry. Don't presume, the time remaining is short. Act now, with all haste. Due diligence must be your watchword.

With the Daily option gone, that leaves plenty of options: Weekly, Monthly, Yearly, and Lifetime. If finances are an issue, then by all means I'd say go with the Weekly plan. At $700 a week, it's your most economical rate, but it might not last. Lock it in now. The other plans remain more secure, Monthly ($2,800), Yearly ($33,599), and Lifetime ($5 million.) You can have a fair to excellent hope of those being available.

But who knows? Sometimes life's opportunities are fleeting. All the things we have to go through to exist ... most of it has nothing to do without our own conscious choices. But there are a few things, some of the things of happiness that the moment makes demands on us. My part in that is to experience it along with everyone else. But once in a while, as here, I have something to do with it. And I don't mind teaching a few dawdlers a lesson or two about life! Ever hear the old saw, Time waits for no man... ? Well, things happen.

So that gate is shut, that door is locked. May the money you might have used for the Daily option canker and rot. I wouldn't accept it now were you to throw it at my feet. The reason why -- and this is obviously a serious matter -- is Wimps are not worthy. There was a very good reason, as it turns out, why you were so labeled. Your failure to seize the moment was signal. Opportunity knocked, but you failed to answer. Forgoing your role in the equation was a crucial decision, and lamentable...

For me, the term Wimp always calls to mind a dreadful condition of spinelessness, and in this case the allusion is deadly accurate. It's weird that you share life with me. It just makes you realize, we're all that close. We breathe the same air, we see the same sky. Day is day for each of us. But there's huge differences in how people seem to function.

Maybe it's not entirely your fault, although I'm not looking to prop you up with excuses. Newborns sometimes lack just the right oxygen mix, then years later pay for that in failing health. However true that might be, I'm convinced most of our problems are our fault. How much oxygen would you have needed to do the right thing in this instance?

So, yes, the paywall's still going up. That won't be stopped. But something has been stopped, something has been terminated. The Daily subscription option. If you have only $100 to spend, keep it -- we'll do without your meager contribution.  The clarion call that you somehow missed has now gone silent, what was warm is now cold, and your chances are through. What a terrible thing it must be -- I'm trying to imagine it --  to realize how close you were, how your opportunity was right there at hand, and you were unwilling.

The Life of a Chigger

If you look up chiggers on Wikipedia, you find some great scientific information, which I always have a hard time processing the first three or four times through. But the basic thing about chiggers, according to the truth, is that they're only parasitical in the larvae state. The rest of the time they're content to leave you alone and simply eat normal food. So it's that larvae state you want to avoid.

What must it be like to be a larvae state chigger? I really think they have to be more or less unconscious of what's going on. Like us, when we were in the larvae state. I don't personally remember a thing about it. But we're a little different in that our mothers didn't lay us prematurely in the lawn. We had the peace and safety of an inner sanctum.

The nascent chigger, on the other hand, is simply in the grass. It has no plans, no outlook. All it has -- and this is major -- is the beneficence of existence, that takes care of every little thing. Which I'll take comfort in the next time I'm short on money and long on bills. The chigger larvae is simply there and needs a meal, which is going to be your dead skin cells.

It seems obvious to me that they're extremely small and could hardly foresee a person coming by, at least with enough clarity to make a conscious jump from the grass to the ankle. If they make a conscious jump, that's awesome. But more likely they're just swept up in someone passing. Although that brings up the interesting question of what good insect repellant does, since they'd already be along for the ride.

OK, they're on your ankle. No thoughts, no plans of being there, but now they must do what comes next. Which is to feed. Because they want to make it from the larvae state to the point where they can be full grown and a parent on their own. This seems like quite a journey, where a million things could and would go wrong. But there's safety in numbers and in incredibly small size, because enough of them are going to make it through to create a nuisance again next year.

Once on you, it's time to feast on dead skin. They make some sort of little suck hole, feed on you, then at some point fall off, where they develop further, become adults, etc., and the cycle picks up again next time. They're gone, let's say, and you continue to itch. All you can do is scratch, or get some of the itch stuff -- Chigger Rid, etc., -- which may or may not help. I've been getting them on my legs for a few years, and now my wrist. It's a bastard, but that's life. Fortunately, I'm learning all the time how to fight them.

I've traced back some of my problems from three summers ago -- when this problem became so bad for me -- to wearing the same pants forever. I thought it was a cool thing, and I hear there's some young people who do the same thing. I thought, "Why do laundry?" But now, after long, terrible experience, I've learned it's better to go through the pain of frequent laundry than to lie awake at night with unrestrained itching up and down my legs! I recommend you do the same...

The doc said these chiggers -- she probably meant the larvae -- can keep living in your pants. So you're picking them up and putting them on daily. And how many dead skin cells would there have to be in a pair of pants that you've been wearing for three weeks? Enough for chigger Thanksgiving and every other feast. Then you put the pants on and they're on you again. You're helping grow the biggest larvae in the world. Terrible.

So, it's something to think about. Even though I hate chiggers with a purple passion -- and I actually might go out and burn the grass on my half acre, if the wind dies down and the county lifts the no-burn order -- I have to sort of begrudgingly admire their precarious life cycle. It's very dicey what we go through to exist. Chigger larvae have to be like meteors colliding in space all day, everyday. It's a battle.

For me, no doubt many chiggers have ended up drowned in the laundry. Or spun to death on the side of the washer. And that's how it's going to be from now on. Once I learn of something -- in this case the life of chiggers -- I'm not likely to go back to my old ways. The new ways are always best.

Part 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

PART 3 of 3

The vision of the naked child, having been revealed as signalling a potential rebirth of Father Time, seemed to mean one thing: Father Time was somewhere in the area.

In his last sermon, Walt promised the people they would kill Father Time, and further rallied them to, "Chase Father Time to hell and back if necessary. However far it is, however long it takes, we will ensnare him, and once ensnared, we will kill him!"

Then it all happened quite quickly. Father Time was just over the next hill, standing there on his one remaining leg. The leg Walt had severed with the scythe was a healed stump, which would've been tough to see under his robe, but he had hiked the robe up momentarily to scratch an itch. When he saw the people coming out with swords and staves, and Walt there in front, the most prominent, with the scythe, he showed his vulnerability by dropping the robe. By dropping the robe, I mean he dropped it to the ground, then on his remaining leg, hopped over it.

Father Time stood naked and proud! He seemed a sympathetic figure. The people stood there in a phalanx, not knowing what to think, while Walt proceeded forth alone. "You have come to kill me, haven't you, Walt?" "Yes, " Walt said, "and not only to kill you but to send your soul to damnation," not understanding the nature of anything. And with all those years of contemplation in the mountains! What a dope...

Without delay, then, in rashness, Walt charged ahead. But Father Time stood firm, yielding himself to the scythe, simply allowing Walt to hack him to death. That was simple, Walt thought. And he kept thinking it, until the pieces of old Father Time's body vanished, and a new Baby Time appeared in the same place, this time not just a vision. Walt had unknowingly reinvigorated Father Time, being lured into it.

The baby spoke: "I am Father Time. The idea of me ever being old, or for that matter, young, is nothing but a crock of crap. You cut off my leg, yes. But you see now I have two legs. And I could grow back six more if I wanted!"

The people in the phalanx suddenly sensed themselves withering away to nothing. They were being judged. They wrinkled up quickly, something fierce. In a moment, they were all dead. As for Walt, he was granted several minutes for his final contemplation, but death for him would also be swift. He complained, "So you got me, did you? Now I must die, having never had the privilege of someday seeing my great great grandchild graduate from college. If I have only one regret, it is that I ever thought of 'killing time.' Now I see, I should have set forth better goals for myself, then knocked myself out trying to reach them."

Baby Time aged quickly and was now Father Time again in appearance. He raised his scythe in a kind of salute toward Walt, sort of like what you see between bitter enemies in Star Trek, a nice recognition of spirit and life being held in common, regardless of how apart they are in values and background. But suddenly there was a frown on Father Time's face, and his grasp on the scythe was intense. Walt seized up in excruciating pain and fell dead.

Concerning the townspeople, it's very interesting that the ones who died were the more high-minded, involved ones of the town. Only the ones who'd been oblivious to the whole struggle of life, who didn't care, were able to live happily ever after ... till they would eventually die of such old age that they were content to go.

Finally, in the lore of all this, there went this saying abroad, that from now on Father Time would appear not only with his two normal legs but six other legs besides. But he had not said that he would grow six legs, only that "I could ..."

PART 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt
PART 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel

Part 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel

PART 2 of 3

Years passed quickly, lickety split. You know how time goes. Sometimes it seems like it takes forever, then 40 years are gone. Cute little kids are suddenly ugly adults. It's a slippery slope, like ice. No one likes cold, but what can you do? There's plenty of things I don't like, but I still have to put up with them.

Walt had his complaints, too, but he could only press on, clutching Father Time's stolen scythe in his hands. He was like a fugitive, his life completely changed, forever on the run, always looking over his shoulder, never getting too comfortable. Because Father Time's vow had been that he would kill him. And now that he had cut off Father Time's leg, it might be hard to get back into his good graces.

But then quite a few years went by, and in all that time he never once encountered the old man again, so he started to think maybe the scythe had great powers of protection. He toyed with the idea that the scythe was the source of Father Time's power all along. But he was never comfortable.

It went on like that. Then, after 10 or 20 years wandering and hiding, Walt sought to regain his confidence and went far up into the mountain, where he contemplated the whole thing. Then, while resting on a precipice on one knee, and watching a circling eagle, he came to an inner knowledge that his time of going down had come. His old fear was gone. So down he went, arriving in a small village and appearing in their marketplace. As the townspeople gathered around, he gave a sermon on time: "The idea of wasting time is a lie. Your ambition to redeem time is the true waste. Do whatever you want, it's all the same."

The people of the town figured he was just a crank who had been exposed to too much of the blistering sun, either that or he was crazed by love and feeling, and internal thoughts protracted among endless solitudes. And now he had come to ensnare them in the same craziness; that's why he came down, they reasoned, to give us this obviously false message.

But suddenly, in addition to the prophet being there with them, there was in a beaming vision a naked child in a barrel, who appeared in their midst without warning. Walt felt himself go faint, nearly a dead faint. Could it be? Was it? Yes, it was Baby Time in an unformed, nebulous state, like he was out there somewhere, craving to be reborn. The barrel covered him like the protection a turtle gets from its shell. Also, he had no scythe ... and was so helpless he wouldn't have been able to use it anyway.

None of the greybeards in the town had been able to silence Walt, but this naked child not only silenced him, he made him go completely mute. In fear, Walt raised the scythe, motioning the others toward the child, as if to say, "Let's get him!" But none of it worked, the people apparently transfixed and in too much fear.

In that instant, Walt's prophetic voice returned, and he implored the people. "It's you or him!" But the child vanished, leaving the barrel behind. The townspeople had now been worked up enough to kill the child, had he not vanished, but they could only destroy the barrel, breaking it down to its constituent parts, several staves, which also vanished as if they'd been mist.

Walt rallied their flagging spirits with one final sermon, ending with these ominous words: "He's out there somewhere! We shall find him! We shall kill Father Time!"

PART 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt
PART 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

Part 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt

PART 1 of 3

This story didn't happen to me. It happened to a guy I'm calling Walt. Walt came just that close to Father Time, he of the mighty scythe. Very close!

Father Time appears from time to time. Usually around New Year's, but that doesn't preclude other visits. When he appears, it's most often bad news. Like his own temporary death in late December. If he appears to an individual any other time, it is said, it's usually bad news for that person.

Well, Father Time did show up before Walt, scythe in hand, with a word: "You've wasted me. You spoke of 'killing time,' then followed through on it. I felt myself weakening, and it was only because of many other people, good people, passing me in the proper way, that I regained strength. Now you die!" With that, he raised his scythe...

Walt yelled, "Wait! You're Father Time, please give me just a moment. Let me explain. I thought I needed to waste time, for my own well-being. I didn't know it'd hurt you. By 'killing time,' I meant taking time for relaxation, chilling out, and taking time to play with the kids."

But Father Time would not be reasoned with. "Kids have all the time in the world. You were simply wasting your time playing with them. Let them go outside. They can play outside. They'll entertain themselves. You've made very unwise choices." Walt tried to object, but Father Time slashed his scythe through the air and nearly took off his head.

The old timer then paused, "I am stolid in my conviction that you should die. But I am also merciful. Use me wisely, or next time I won't miss! After all, you're the one who first spoke of 'killing' me. It'll be your turn to see how it feels."

Walt moderated himself, not wanting to incite Father Time any more than he had to, as he was clearly unhinged. He raised his hands, conceding the point. He thought, 'Give him his space. Keep calm. Let the old bastard state his case, then I'll get the hell out of here.' He asked, "What should I be doing?"

Father Time's will for Walt was this: Sleep deprivation, staying on the treadmill of life, burning the candle at both ends, striving endlessly, hungering to see another day, and creating meaningless goals. "Your prayer should be that you will live to see your great great grandchild graduate from college. Then knock yourself out in order to make it happen!" He further directed Walt, "And buy nursing home insurance -- you're going to need it."

Walt saw in this some kind of omniscience on the old chronographer's part. "So I will live that long?" Father Time was quick to answer, "I didn't say that. I'm Father Time, ever in the now, never looking ahead. I couldn't if I wanted to. But what I have said, I have said."

What an admission! He may as well have lifted his robe and just let one fly in the breeze. It'd be worth about as much. Walt concluded all at once that Father Time is just a worthless old personification of the inexorable slipping of one second to another. The old bastard doesn't know anything, and if he does, it doesn't amount to anything. Basically just a pompous old poser.

Walt was nothing if not bold. With that quick insight, and knowing he had the upper hand, he was quick to the ground and back up, throwing dirt in Father Time's eyes. In a flash, he grabbed the scythe, and with equal quickness whipped it through the air, cleanly cutting off one of Father Time's legs.

As Father Time writhed on the ground, a bloody mess, Walt ran away, yelling back, "I will waste you if I want, I will kill time! Your ideas of the future suck!"

PART 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel
PART 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise