A Hiatus For All Seasons

I've always been a fan of the seasons. There are four, of course, as is familiar to all, and they are called Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. So far, so good...

When Spring is here we know it's time to fall in love. "Birds do it, bees do it," and so do we. Spring is when we howl at the moon every time something in a short skirt breezes by, or for the ladies, something in a skimpy pair of underpants. I believe nature's technical word for it is fecundation.

Summer follows Spring and is also a time to fall in love, if you missed your chance in Spring. In Summer we climb the walls and make wolf calls every time something in a tight little bikini and saucy tan struts by, or, again, for the ladies, something in a skimpy pair of swim trunks.

Then there's Fall and Winter and they're not much good for anything. It's hard to fall in love in Fall or Winter, unless your hormones are wacky. But the seasons are what they are and there's no getting away from it.

One thing I've always thought was cool is to use the seasons as metaphors for the other aspects of life. Hear me out. Let's say Spring is like your childhood and teen years, Summer your young adult years (up to 39), Fall the mid adult years, and Winter your golden years, or, as it is with Grandma, last call.

So, thinking like that, we could say, I'm still in the late Summer of my years. Or, like in my actual case, I'm in the Fall of my life but sometimes it still seems like Summer. I actually believe I'm still not too old to cut the mustard if the opportunity were to present itself and could enjoy the sight of, hypothetically speaking, something saucy in a tight bikini. But I'm in the Fall years. True, but I'm not in the Winter years.

I'm wondering what the Winter years will be like. Already I know the Fall years are a time of some dropping off, some interest is waning. If you ever see Cialis ads on TV, look closely. You'll see most of the guys with this problem are in their Fall years. But one day I saw one who seemed closer to his Winter years, and I thought, You old goat! I'm thinking the Winter years will be a time to focus on the issues of morality, such as saying your prayers with more diligence. Not worrying about bikinis. Hope I'm wrong.

Well, I was thinking of the seasons in relation to my hiatus. The seasons relate to everything! A few months ago was the Spring, when I was bucking free like a baby lamb, feeling my oats and enjoying a bowl or two. Then came Summer, a great time to stretch out and feel the full sunshine of my time off. But quickly followed Fall, a cautionary time, still a time to try for happiness even if it means taking medicine. And now, it seems, I'm into the Winter, a time for prayers and diligence. I'm second guessing even what it's all about, what I'm here for, whether any of it was worth it. And thinking, to recapture the youthfulness of Spring I'm going to have to terminate the hiatus.

That's a great way to look at it. It's not that I personally am done for, even though I definitely am in my Fall years. But I can revivify myself mentally by bailing out on this Wintry hiatus, and change it all back to Spring and get into some halfway decent mental fecundation. I have a few spry cells left in my hiatus-addled brain. How could I imagine it if I didn't? I can see before me many many Spring-like days to come!

No More Flack On My Hiatus

I started my hiatus in an instant. I said, "I am going on hiatus," and it was done. I quit everything just like that and found myself with lots of time off. And people really noticed at first. I got a lot of flack, incoming flack lobbed at me by those who thought they knew better.

But my memories aren't that great to remember who everyone was and all they did. I didn't write it down, except maybe on bits of paper that have since been swept up and thrown away. All I have is the memory of a few of the people from the blog's real life visits showing up and giving me flack.

The worst flack of all, I clearly remember, came from Garrett Al. And I remember this best, of course, because his frustration with me came with a serious erotic component. Garrett Al is a very vile person, not ashamed to put his needs out there and to insist on his own way with someone he thinks could be his partner. Weapons were brandished, he gave me some flack, and the short version is the police showed up and took him away. As far as I know he slept that night on a metal cot with very tight mesh, very tight. Whether the other prisoners gave him any flack, I don't know, but he would've enjoyed it.

They always say that other prisoners keep track of what you're in for. And whereas they don't seem to have any scruples when they're out in society -- without conscience they engage in heinous crimes -- in prison these same individuals become very conscientious. Each crime is ranked as something they approve of, tolerate, barely tolerate, can't tolerate, or strongly disapprove of. They obviously approve of murder because that's the penalty they deal for any crime that's barely tolerable or below. They won't take flack from anyone. They're very censorious. They've always got their sensors in the air, listening for any gossip or appraisal of someone else's crime. Then they swoop in to exact the murderous penalty.

We've all heard some of this. Anyone who kidnaps a child, they say prisoners hate that. So you're dead. Anyone who abuses a child, they hate that. Really, anything that involves children, prisoners have a very soft spot in their heart for kids. Either they're very sentimental, which I doubt, or they're just looking for a good excuse to kill people, more likely, because they know society will not look unfavorably on them for killing a child molester. The prisoner's reasoning is maybe he can get an early release, which indeed does usually happen.

The way I've heard it is in prison the average guard just winks and looks the other way. Then you've got this child molester being pummeled behind him as he flips through the latest issue of "Guard Life," reading the cover article on "What's Going On When Your Back's Turned -- You Don't Wanna Know." The officials don't give him any flack. Everyone knows the score.

Now, what prisoners at the county jail think of a guy like Garrett Al, in the clink for lascivious liberties with an unwilling adult male and his grandmother, I don't 100% know. Probably the added bonus of Grandma suffering his thrusting advances would add to my case. That's barely tolerable for even me to think about. But I'd rather not settle the score on my own. I'll leave it to the police to rough him up. I turned my back so there wouldn't be any witnesses, plus I also don't wanna know. Anyway, I needed to get Grandma back to her room, whether she wanted to go or not. She gave me a little flack, but some warm apricot juice got her back to sleep.

But those days are past. And the hiatus at the heart of it goes on. However, and this is something I announced yesterday, I'm hoping to end it very soon and get back to work. But when to end it, that's something that's undecided. Maybe after the 100th day. That could be a significant marker, and I need to figure out when that is so I don't overshoot it, assuming I haven't already. I've put up with a lot of flack, that's for sure. And I don't need any more now.

A Fitting Hiatus

My hiatus is continuing on, at least technically, until I can think of some way to bring it to a fitting conclusion. Just to end it abruptly like biting off a piece of licorice is not my style.

But I'm roused to the idea that the end needs to be very soon. I'm well rested and, I believe stoked to what the future may hold. At this point it's just a matter of thinking of a fitting time, some significant day, to pull the plug or stick in the knife and going about it in the safest way.

I'm trying to think back if I started my hiatus in a fitting way. Probably not. I was just overworked, stressed, and feeling put upon -- and I cried out, "I'm going on hiatus." It happened just like that. With not much malice aforethought. Then certain things about it took over. It made itself at home.

As we went on, it really came to life. At first I celebrated it, relished it, and I even fought for it. We had plenty of good times. But a few times, as I recall, we had some real difficulties, and our relationship alternated between wrestling and rasslin'. I wanted to wrestle with it, but it wanted to rassle with me. Then vice versa, which is only fitting. We had a hard time knowing who would be top dog, knowing that no one can be top dog forever. I remember taking a few two-by-fours to its head, and, yes, I took a shiv to the gut more than once! That's what rasslin' is all about.

Having all that time off really did something for my day. I was able to fit in all kinds of new and clever ways of killing time. I got some sleep. I took leisurely walks. I was up in my citadel looking out over a very tiny world. I saw a lot of former "friends" and "followers" from there, all about the size of ants, very fitting.

Then there were times when the whole thing seemed like a bad fit, like when I was stewing to get something done but my hiatus was always in my face insisting on its own way. I can confess it now, there were a couple times I left the light on in my citadel and sneaked out the back way, creeping noiselessly past my hiatus as it kept watch there as a vigilant sentry. What did I do on these outings? I went and did some work and got a few things done, frankly, but then inevitably I'd feel guilty, creep back past the sentry and back up to the citadel. Then I'd come down as thought nothing had happened.

For the most part all the pieces fit into place. We've lived together, shared together, fought together, and grown together. But, as so often happens, what was once a cute, newborn pet, became an unmanageable behemoth. And that's when you just need to step up and put it to sleep -- kill it -- if you dare. I'm typing this with my hiatus surrounding me in this room like a blob. There's barely room to fit me in. Part of it's snoring in the corner behind me and another part's in the other room taking a leak. A couple more weeks of growth like this and it'll simultaneously be outside flying a kite and inside working on its stamp collection.

Outwardly I chuckle. If I don't kill it it'll die soon anyway. Pituitary problems, heart disease, hiatal hernia. But inwardly I'm seething, having fits while I wait. If I took a knife to it, I might escape with one arm intact, I don't know. Joshua fit the battle of Jericho, of course. But this final battle with my hiatus might not be so easy.

It's somehow strangely fitting that I would be overrun by it. I asked for it. But how can I overcome it? I taught it everything I know about both wrestling and rasslin'.

This Clamorous Hiatus

I've got some things on my mind and I need to get them out as fast as possible. So often, perhaps you know how it is, you feel like you have something to say but then you stammer for the right words. Or you feel like you're an empty slate and words are stymied for a whole other reason.

I think of this in terms of a foreigner, who's able to speak his language 100 mph, but what he's saying I don't know. Then he gets to listen to me speak English, again, 100 mph, and he has no idea what I'm saying. The point being we have a lot to say, and the words we use to say it with are there whether we can think of them at the moment or not.

There'll be no unnecessary pausing today in what I have to say, no searching for the right word, no second guessing, no doubtful judgments; my friends, I'm going to spit it out and it shall remain spat!

The simple fact of the matter is that my hiatus is clamoring to cease. I'm feeling all the commotion, all the uncomfortable, persistent rancor that transpires in a head when my inmost thoughts are engaging in conflict with other more public aspects of my consciousness. It's like a battle royale, but more on that later.

It's funny, really, how I have insisted on this hiatus. Right from the start I was insistent and said "I am going on hiatus." That led to the whole tussle, which started out as horseplay but escalated into this battle royale, between myself and my so-called friends and followers. Even my family got in on the act, although I've been strict not to drag my family into the more public laying out of the conflict or situation. But the more they dug at me, picked, and scorned, the more I felt I was justified and right to not only take the hiatus but to rub their faces in it.

Much of the conflict has been well-documented, and it would've made a great book or newspaper article had investigative journalists found themselves at the scene. I have put forth my own side of the struggle, including some insinuations about the various individuals doing the majority of the picking. One, Garrett Al, was mentioned by name several times, much to his chagrin and at great cost, I'm assuming, to his reputation among both female and male acquaintances and possible partners.

Everything came to a clamorous head, then it all trailed off, and I have been left very much alone. No one outside my door, visitors to my blog have departed. Friends and family, even those I knew quite outside the purview of this blog and controversy, have sensed the spirit of estrangement even without knowing the particulars, and have kept to themselves. Even Grandma I've had to coax to the dinner table a time or two, but the promise of apricots and a nicely executed tickle under her chin usually brings her around.

All that said, and now that no one is clamoring for my hiatus to end, my own thoughts, engaged as I said in a battle royale, are clamoring for it. And these I must listen to! I'll repeat that, I must!

A battle royale is what? I could look it up. But I'm thinking it's a battle like Armageddon, it's so royal that it's royale. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm thinking it means you bring out the good truncheons, for sure. Like the good china at Thanksgiving. The deadliest numchucks, nuclear cannons, the gnarliest battle axes you can muster, gold chains wrapped around your fist, and every spear's point whetted so sharp that it can only been seen under a microscope. And no one gets a tetanus shot before or after.

It's like the difference between wrestling and rasslin.' Wrestling is a battle for points. In rasslin' the point is to battle. In wrestling you take down your opponent, in rasslin' you take him out. In wrestling, you amble away under your own power. With rasslin' the ambulance has the power. And so on. Wrestling is executing quick moves. Rasslin' is executing your victim. In wrestling the ref's polite tap breaks all holds. But with rasslin' the jaws of life fails.

I don't know when it's going to happen, but this clamorous hiatus has to end soon. I'm hoping it'll be sooner rather than later. The day has to be auspicious. I must win this battle royale!

The Hiatus Life

I've been giving a lot of thought recently to my mortality. There's been some long livers in my family, like Grandma still going strong at 104. But there's been some short livers, too, shorter than that. Like Grandpa, who was only around 80, who went peacefully in his sleep, or maybe he was cracking hickory nuts at the kitchen table, I don't remember. And I'm sure we've had some, like one of my great uncles in Chicago, who was killed by a jealous husband when he was in his '40s. You just never know.

When I'm thinking about this, it makes me feel like having all the time off I can. And that's part of the reason being on hiatus is so important to me. Because I could be working like a dog and suddenly keel over. And that's no good. The only good thing about work is that they pay you for it. But then you spend the money to buy work shoes so you can go back to work. So it's a vicious cycle. And the place you work for, they don't care about you anyway. If you get mangled up in a punch press, they put you in a car and roll you over a cliff, then coerce the other employees to keep silent "Or you'll be next."

If you told one of the people working there they only had two months to live, they'd thank you, immediately quit, and really live. But the thing to do is quit now and really live. Why work just so you can afford work shoes? Stay home. Go barefoot. Live it up. Time is shorter than you think. Quit, and if you can't think of what to do then, just sit and stew and enjoy yourself.

As for me, I don't know when my time's up. But it's coming. Everyone's time is coming. It's as sure as having a number. When your number's up... I've heard people say that, how it's not in your hands. We don't know when. And nothing we can do will speed it up or slow it down.

If your number's not up you could play on the interstate, frolic out there in the middle of the night in a black suit, camp, sleep, whatever, you're not going to die. But if your number is up, you could be living in your doctor's guest room and it wouldn't do any good. (The fact that most people who play, frolic, and camp on the interstate do indeed die only proves that their number was up. So it could be that you can have some knowledge of when your number's up, in that if you do extremely dangerous, stupid stuff like that, your number is getting close.)

I don't know when my number will be up, but I don't think it's all that close. I have a good self image, I'm optimistic, and I don't engage in a lot of exercise that only saps your strength. I made a great choice going on hiatus. It's calmed my nerves to the point that I'm only a frantic wreck on the average of every other day. Before, it was like half the time.

Think on your own mortality, then guide yourself accordingly. Sometimes in life, like if the doctor tells you that you only have two weeks to live, you have to really pack it in -- life -- before you really pack it in -- death. To think, you're not going to be here. That you'll be stretched out in a metal box on satin cushions, your suit slit up the back and your lips sewn shut. It's almost too much. Someone could make millions with a simple Velcro lip fastener for undertakers.

All of it's something to think about.

The Hiatus Bloom Is Fading

Today I may sound a little wistful, as I feel that I could be lost in my own thoughts, with some regrets about the way my hiatus is going.

When I start comparing my hiatus with others, like I was doing yesterday, that's a thing of pride. Then when that takes hold, it's not long, obviously, before my self identification is wrapped up in a particular aspect of my day to day life, in this case my hiatus. Very dangerous.

Why do we pin our hopes on such fleeting nonsense, externals? I can't be known simply for my hiatus. Someday the newspaper will say, "Local Man On Hiatus Dies." That's ridiculous. So I shouldn't be comparing myself to others and feeling lifted up over them simply because I've taken time off and have made a big deal out of it. Need to get away from that.

Today I'm thinking rationally. Yesterday I was lost in the rarefied mist that encircles my citadel. I was up there looking down on the small, small world. And when you do that, everything up there seems a lot bigger. So much so that my pride got the best of me. When the fact of the matter is very clear, that this hiatus is actually consuming me. I'm going to have to try to break it off. But maybe its hold is already too great.

The bloom is definitely fading. That's flower language. That's language that florists, botanists, gardeners, and undertakers understand. A flower is nature's most fleeting child. That's why you never see a well rested bee. They know if they're not up 24/7 the flower's going to be gone. They have to suck the juice while it's there. Because tomorrow it'll be shriveled like a prune. (Maybe that's why flowers shrivel so fast. The bees are too anxious and are sucking the lives out of them unnecessarily, lest they shrivel. So if we could reeducate bees, maybe flowers would last longer.)

I've been amazed over the years about the lifespan of flowers. It could be, like me, that it has nothing to do with anxious bees. It could simply be the penalty for pride is universal. Who's more prideful than a flower? They've got their bright, gay colors, happy-go-lucky attitude, cock of the walk struttin', talking trash to the weeds to the left and right. They think they're really bad (meaning really good). But then the bees come swooping in, nature's pride police, looking for the proudest flowers, and those they suck dry first. That's why you never see a well rested bee, because there's so many proud flowers to kill.

Or another possibility, and this one could be the best, is that flowers know when to give up a good thing. Unlike me. I get something and I keep it till I'm dust and it'll still be on the shelf. Like my hiatus. I've got it, then it's got me. I tend to it, keep it well preserved, exalt it, parade it around, display it, brag about it, and dis other people who have a lesser hiatus simply to make myself look more important. But not the flowers. The flowers think, "We are beautiful, but we must not glory in our beauty. We must simply be a cog in the great machinery of nature. And if we become exalted, or are tempted toward the same, we must willingly fade and fall, the quicker the better."

If flowers give up their lives like that, to avoid pride, we're back to the anxious bee theory. The bees need that flower juice for their young. So they're sucking like their lives depend on it, because they do! Those would be the largest number of bees. Then there's a few bees -- almost like monk bees -- who have foregone families and providing for families. It is their task in life to suck flowers only to kill them off with mercy. For monk bees know the flowers' plight, being so beautiful, yet eschewing pride. They come swooping in, their monk habits, cowls, and whips trailing after them and making flight extremely difficult. And that's why you never see a well rested monk bee. (But they like it that way.)

Well, nature has its way -- and I have mine. I hope to live and learn, and to know when the bloom has faded and when to give it up. But right now I'm too much in the grasp of something ... my hiatus ... and I can't give up now, faded bloom or not.

The Hiatus Gold Standard

I came down to earth for a few minutes yesterday -- descending from my citadel -- to check things out and make sure I'm still on the same page with the rest of existence. It turned out I was.

While I was down, I decided to look online for a few minutes and check out what kind of internet chatter there was about me being on hiatus. Any comments on the blog. In the few minutes I looked I couldn't find anything. It seems that the big news -- something about Michael Jackson -- was drowning out everything else. That and I believe I read they discovered a new species of tic in the Everglades. When I come in I check my head for tics everyday, so I can't believe I didn't discover this one ... Sometimes my diligent efforts actually pay off ... except I'm not anywhere near the Everglades, which would be key in this particular discovery.

So that's what the chatter was all about.

But in my Googling, in just a few minutes I was stunned to see that other people are also on hiatus. I'm like, What? Can this be happening? Are they mocking me? I looked a little more closely and it didn't seem to be directed toward me. None of the telltale signs of mockery were evident. Such as twisted quotes, parallel themes, or parody graphics. And mockery that's worth the name has to be direct enough that you know what they're mocking. I didn't see any evidence whatsoever that these people had a grudge against me or were poking fun. Further, they weren't fleshing out their efforts, so after a minute's reflection I came to a definite conclusion, that my hiatus and their hiatuses are nothing but a coincidence.

It's their lack of fleshing out what's going on that hit me. These people have to be really really down, really burnt out, really up against the wall as far as being worn out, haggard beyond the abilities of sleep to help them, or something. To just go on hiatus or be on hiatus without really fleshing it out as far as reasons and full explanation is something, as Nixon said when he took his hiatus from the presidency (which turned quickly into permanent retirement), is "abhorrent to every bone in my body," and that includes one or two that should not be mentioned.

Here's what I found:

William said: "I’m just not in the mood anymore to update this blog, so I will put it on hold for the time being. I will not delete it that’s for sure but I don’t know when I’ll be updating it again. It could be tomorrow, it could be next week or next month. Maybe I’ll never update it again. I just don’t feel like blogging right now. Maybe it is because of the heat, maybe it is because I need something else in my life right now. I am quite happy for the moment but still miss something very important, but overall I’m OK. See you all in the near future."

That's very interesting to me. He's not in the mood for updates so he's putting it on hold. Updates could be tomorrow, but since it's possible they could come next month or maybe never, I'm not expecting much tomorrow (which would be today). He says it might be because of the heat or some deeper personal need, although he is "quite happy for the moment." And so forth. That's a fairly detailed explanation, but as far as I'm concerned is still well below par.

Next is an entry from Roland. Roland makes William sound like another William, Shakespeare. He entitled his post simply "Hiatus," then says, "...on hols, little access to computer. More news soon!" I'm looking at that and I see the word "hols," which my mind corrects to "hold," since the D is right next to the S on the keyboard and I don't know any word called "hols." So all Roland is saying is that things are "on hold," that he has "little access to computer," and promises more news soon. Very simple. (I expect better.)

Next is someone who has a fansite for a celebrity named Demi Levato or something like that. I'm quoting this just because I've got it, not that it's an interesting hiatus post. She, I'm thinking, says, "the site is on hiatus it would be back soon. Please click here to enter my new site". Nothing to this post.

Hasslington is also on hiatus, and gives more detail, like William: "It's the summer, I'm back in school (as a student) after losing my teaching job, and I'm in the process of trying to figure out where I go from this point forward. Obviously, attempting to find another job is high on my list of priorities." So we wish Hasslington well, both at finding another job and at learning to write a better hiatus announcement. Although we give good marks for relative detail.

And one other. From Jessica, at deerwomen, which sounds intriguing to a lonely old buck like me, "DeerWomen is currently on hiatus. We are working hard and will come back with an explosion of great articles and lots of divine pieces for you!" Now there's a promise! Their hiatus is nothing long lasting because they're working hard and promising an "explosion" of great articles. They're not settled into the hiatus, which gives hope to the rest of us.

My goal is not to be super critical. Not everyone gives their hiatus the full attention it's due. And I understand that. Everyone has their own thing. Were it not for me being so sensitive to every detail of life, perhaps I too could shortchange my hiatus. But that will not happen. I'm about ready to reascend back to my citadel, to mull over and otherwise tend to my hiatus and its needs. Because what I'm dealing with here is the gold standard of hiatuses.

There's been no other like it -- according to the Googling I've done -- and unless I myself am reincarnated as a four armed typist with two brains I don't believe it will ever be topped.

A Ticking Time Hiatus

I've been thinking -- mulling it over, rehashing it, revisiting it continuously, contemplatively stewing over it, and chewing it endlessly since yesterday -- about what I said yesterday about not ogling beauty because everyone's a future corpse...

Anyway, you see a lot of beauty prancing around at the pool, but, really, after a while I don't even notice. Because what's the use? They're all going to wrinkle up, get cancer from the sun and die anyway. Eventually. Why should I go around ogling a future corpse? In my mind everyone's being sized up for a casket, which is a major turnoff.

Going by that logic, why have any human relations? Why even be alive? So I'm thinking today maybe that isn't the best logic. I can't live like that, can I? Since I wrote that I've driven around and seen, you know, decent looking ladies, and have had to run it through my stated policy there. And as bad as the policy is for possible happiness and pleasure in the meantime, not to mention the mutual satisfaction that relationships are said to provide in other ways, no one can dispute the underlying claim, that everyone's being sized up for a casket or an urn (leaving out those who are buried at sea or will be frozen in some crazy guy's freezer or will be stashed in a cistern, etc.)

You see the progress that aging makes. It seems inexorable and obviously is. I think there's some religion and religious claim that's essentially this: The world is a corpse. Maybe that's the religion for me. I could look it up on Google.

Here's one, from a Muslim site that I don't know anything about, in case the government is wondering:

At another place Ali, Abu Turab (as) said: "The world is a corpse. Whoever seeks it is a dog."

Here's another:

Jesus said: He who has known the world has found a corpse; and he who has found a corpse, the world is not worthy of him.

So that's two separate traditions, two separate examples found in about 35 seconds, that somebody out there, apparently authoritative individuals and traditions have concluded, as have I, that the world is a corpse. OK, we've established the world is a corpse. So everyone walking around in it is a corpse.

Let me ferret out, or otherwise glean or grab and go from this statement, some conclusions for the living of life between now and the time we expire. Part of me says pull in, live like an ascetic because you need to be spiritually ready. No ogling, no cuddling, no looking longingly into those big beautiful blue eyes, no stroking, petting, pining, lusting. Kind of like Jerry Falwell's college except I also need to throw in no pants on girls.

Part of me says that. But the other part says, life's a ticking time bomb, why not enjoy it while it lasts? Because what's the difference if you did or didn't? If we're simply a corpse, friend only to the undertaker, who himself is only a friend to another undertaker, and so on, we may as well go out in style. Hence, ogling is not only good but de rigeur. (Yes, I do dialect.) "De rigeurmortis ess gwine t'git you, Boss." So ogle, grope, grasp, stroke, and pet to your heart's content. And if you can find a partner, so much the better.

Or, and this could be true, the saying that the world is a corpse -- while it resonates with me for immediate behavior -- could be only a philosophical truism and not meant to guide the day to day stuff. It's the same, on a smaller scale, of saying the world will burn out in a conflagration 5 billion years from now, but we don't commit suicide today. In that case, enjoy your life and I'm sorry to have bothered you.

But I've seen enough dead relatives to know that this business of people passing on is real. It's real today. A girl looks decent enough, but in 40 years she's your Aunt Frieda, like Yogi Yorgesson in drag. And next thing you know we're looking mournful, then an hour later eating ham sandwiches and laughing. Frieda's under the ground, six feet under, if of course the phrase can be proven literally true.

This is the kind of thing I'm wasting my hiatus on. But in the larger scale of things, life in general, I only have a few seconds left to live. And obviously it's not going that well.

Hiatus At The Pool

I took my hiatus on the road yesterday -- which happens once in a while -- and ended up at the pool. It was around 10 bucks for me to get in, which is money well spent when you consider the place is like the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated come to life.

The rippling midriff, the muscles flexing, a well-stretched bikini, the frolicking -- it's all worth seeing -- and that's just Grandma getting out of the car. Once you get to the pool you notice certain things, one, that there's a lot of people in their 30s and downward who don't have wrinkles like the rest of us ... yet.

There were a few tubolas to be seen, of course, and I'm in that category, mildly speaking. I can still pull it in if I have to, and it's not that painful to do. I start holding my breath when we get the wristbands and I don't let it out till the car's out of the parking lot. But I'm always struck by how many people there are in good shape, because I keep reading stories about the prevalence of obesity. Which can only mean most of them aren't at the pool. Or all those guys are holding their breath.

And another thing I notice: No one wears rubber swimming caps anymore, just in swimming competitions. And no one wears those old nose plugs we used to get all the time. Maybe we figured out how easy it is to just reach up and pinch your nostrils together for the three seconds you need them plugged.

Anyway, you see a lot of beauty prancing around at the pool, but, really, after a while I don't even notice. Because what's the use? They're all going to wrinkle up, get cancer from the sun and die anyway. Eventually. Why should I go around ogling a future corpse? In my mind everyone's being sized up for a casket, which is a major turnoff. Including myself, although I'm certain my mind/spirit will live on and continue somewhere on its merry way, with a complete aversion to everything in the spirit world and an undying hope for something even better.

Back to the pool. Get rid of the beauty angle for a minute. The ones I like to watch jump off the diving board are the little kids. Their parents are over on the side of the pool, maybe with a camera, trying to coax them off the board. They're trying to give the kid complete assurance they'll be OK. The kid has floaters on each wrist, and maybe a big poofed out vest. They're tiny anyway and would float on the surface like a feather, but you can't be too safe! You've got lifeguards all over the place too. But there they are, all poofed out, inching toward the end of the board... Then in they go! And they barely make a splash. The water rouses from its slumber and moves simply from a sense of duty. And certainly they don't go under. Then the parents quickly beseech them to dry safety.

There are some little kids whose parents aren't hovering over them. Maybe they should be, because some of these kids have a nasty style on the diving board. They're up there hemhawing around, taking forever to jump. They're tempted to climb back down. Then when they finally decide to jump, it looks like they're staying so close to the diving board that they might hit their head on it on the way down. I haven't seen any problems so far, but even the lifeguards look concerned, like maybe they'll have to jump in the cold water and earn their keep in a minute.

Speaking of lifeguards, these are the ones who are going to get sun damage and die young from cancer. They may look young and vital now, but just wait till they're in a nursing home at the age of 30, going, "I used to be pretty." They have some killer tans, and I mean that in more ways than one. I wouldn't take the job of lifeguard if they threw in a free casket. An urn would be more appropriate, since they're literally burning up out there. I know we need lifeguards. But this is not a job for the young. Hire senior citizens. A lifeguard's only needed about once a season anyway. We're killing our youth for those long odds? And someday their children will be burying them, asking, "Why does Mommy have leather for skin?"

I can't solve the problems of the world. So I just pull the towel up. Maybe you saw me at the pool. I was over in the shadiest part of the complex, covered in a towel, a big pith helmet on my head, and holding my breath. I'm on hiatus and don't want to die during it.

Hiatus In The Crowd

I was at the holiday parade yesterday, watching the various displays, floats, and personalities that make it up. Thinking, Here I am on the sidelines again, a face in the crowd. But it's nothing to mourn. There's a certain skill in being able to blend right in so that no one notices you. And I do that very well. I'm like a ninja in ordinary clothes, with a cloak of invisibility.

I think that when I'm in stores, that I must look sufficiently human that no one would be looking at me, for were I a lion or a dog, surely someone would coming running up with an anesthetic dart. Once in a while it's nice to be reminded that you're a human being. With no noticeable pieces missing so that you'd stand out. With no noticeable mental handicap so that people would be telling you how normal you seem.

I am normal, in certain ways. Normal enough that I was at the holiday parade yesterday and you didn't see me. And if you're normal I didn't see you either. People who are stupid enough to bring their dog(s) to the parade, they're not normal. People with weird colored hair or face paint or really strange hats or outlandish tattoos or they're spastic or something, I notice them. It's their eccentricity that helps me on the normalcy curve.

Of course I wasn't the Grand Marshall again this year. Being the Grand Marshall goes to someone who has been Super Normal and has done it for years on end. They usually want someone who is so old that he or she is not likely to disgrace the town by doing something abnormal now. (Although that guy who shot up the Holocaust museum. I think he was 90-something, meaning we're likely to see fewer Grand Marshalls under 100.)

The guy who's the Grand Marshall always has a proven track record, and like I said has been Super Normal. But he's also been abnormal in certain ways, which is what Super Normal means, because if he'd just been normal, he'd still be over on the sidelines with me. The difference is that his abnormality is a matter of being normal and excelling at it. He's joined clubs, made friends, served on committees, volunteered for things, then has been Super Responsible in following through on commitments and responsibilities. All the other normal people revere these folks, because it allows us to be normal and fairly lazy at the same time. Let Ken do it! He's got his eye on the Grand Marshallship someday.

So I'm standing there on the sidelines. And here comes the Grand Marshall. And all these thoughts are going through my head. I could've joined clubs. I could've served on committees. I could've put myself forward as the go-to guy for civic jobs. Then occasionally I would've been in the paper presenting a big check to one of the other go-to guys. But it didn't happen, and I don't think it's going to happen now. Because if there's one thing that Super Normal people are watching for, it's interlopers from the sidelines. You've got to start very young so they can't accuse you.

Anyway, it's kind of fun being the normal ninja guy in the crowd. (I find my glory where I can.) I'm standing there. Sometimes I'm sitting. And I'm thinking, There's not a soul here who knows I'm the famous blogger from the internet who's on hiatus. Only I know that. What a precious, precious secret! It's vain, I know, but everyone needs a pat on the back now and then.

The Declaration Of Hiatus

There's a line in the Declaration of Independence that says something like, "It's always a good idea to tell people why you're doing what you're doing, especially if they ask." Note that it says, "especially if they ask," meaning sometimes (but not necessarily) it's still a good idea to tell people why you're doing what you're doing, even if they don't ask. But wait a second, I think I just spotted a contradiction there. It says, "It's always a good idea ... then says especially if they ask." If it's always a good idea, then there can be no especially to it!

I'm afraid King George might have us there on a linguistic technicality. Either that or I'm quoting it wrong, since I did say the Declaration says "something like," then the quote. By which I'm admitting it doesn't say precisely that, but if it did say precisely that and I still said "something like," well, there's no points off for unknowingly or inadvertently getting it exact. If I did, that'd be a point of pride.

But the main point is that, in general, you're doing something, you have reasons for doing it, and if someone asks, or perhaps in anticipation of them potentially asking, sometimes it doesn't hurt to just be up front about it, what your reasons are for doing it. Maybe you have a guilty conscience and so you want to explain. That's what I always think -- I often think it -- if people are trying to explain themselves overly much. You see kids in your yard skulking around. You confront them and they're all "innocent," saying they were just coming over to see how Grandma was, etc., but then later you notice a couple of your fishing poles missing out of the garage.

These days we have a policy called "Don't ask, don't tell." So if we had all that trouble with King George, we'd figure he didn't ask, we're not telling. Which I think is a pretty good policy to go by generally speaking. If people aren't that curious about what you're doing, why go out of your way to tell them? It's a good policy just to keep your mouth shut unless they ask.

They come up in your yard and they're standing there. And you're standing there, chewing a weed. I do this. Of course my mind is racing 100 mph and I could really say a few things, but I just chew the butt end of that weed.

This guy is fidgeting nervously, looking at me, shading his eyes from the sun. He looks at me chewing the weed. I've got the lower half of the stalk chewed into messed up, ripped up, wet strings. And I'm glaring down at him. Possibly his bionic eye focuses on my mouth and all the chewing, and, were I to see it from his point of view, I'd see all those little labels and things breaking down and analyzing the components, mouth, teeth, weed, tiny separated weed membranes stuck to my chin, as well as the look of intense disdain in my eyes as I glare down at him. But if he's not asking, I'm not telling.

I agree with the Declaration of Independence. Sometimes it's smart to tell people what you're doing, sometimes it's not. It all depends. But I'd take it a step further. Why should I have to answer questions? You're a guest in my yard. It's up to you to keep your mouth shut until spoken to.

I'm on hiatus, dog. Why should I be subject to your scrutiny? Why am I on hiatus? Is that what you're asking?

A Dizzying Hiatus

Where does the human spirit goes when it's tired of the same old same old? That's a question that has occurred to every person at some point, except maybe newborns, who are probably already there, until they get diaper rash and then they suddenly awaken to normal life.

We're all into alternative consciousness, when conceived as something beyond the sense that daily life is a bore. (It's not, of course, but to discern this is itself alternative consciousness.)

I know all this because of course I'm an expert. I'm on hiatus, giving me all kinds of time to explore the regions way up there, then the regions way down there. I have no real responsibilities in life except to devote myself to experiencing, relinquishing experience, ascending, descending, cutting weeds, feeding the dog, taking care of Grandma, and the like. I wear many hats but they're all set on the same brilliant head.

What's so brilliant about my head? Well, first, it appears to be the only one I have. So I treasure it. I keep my collection of thoughts in it. And I'm very busy, even with all my downtime, in running around with a butterfly net capturing new thoughts and adding them. That's why you have holes in your head, so your thoughts can get fresh air.

But getting back to alternative consciousness. I don't mean alternative in the sense of something foreign or different. I simply mean aspects of your consciousness that are already and always there but you're just not always aware of. And to tell the truth, I don't want to be always aware of them, because I want there to be many more surprises down the line. The thing about awareness is not to discover, conquer, and colonize anyway. Because all this stuff is very easily spooked, like Garrett Al that night the police showed up; you never saw anyone so innocent! Right, now zip up your pants and maybe they'll believe you! LOL!

I remember we loved this consciousness when we were kids, like when a flashbulb went off and we were running around trying to catch the spot in our eyes. Or when we were spinning till we got so dizzy we fell down. The sun and the sky are spinning around. You feel the lightness in your head. The blur of the trees is like a green smear. Other kids spinning around you have already fallen. A few of them can't stand it at all and one gets sick. And there's some very interesting consciousness when you get sick.

Today is the day to get dizzy! This is National Get Dizzy Day at the Slump half acre. I'm going to burn some of my hiatus time getting dizzy. I'm going to go out in the half acre and spin till I fall down!

Thus Spake Hiatus

The lone figure pulls his mantle up over his face, the lower bits, leaving his eyes free to roam over the world and see his path. These are the days of his going up and leaving behind.

He passes the trail to Zoar and turns up an unmarked path. The ascent will be difficult, but any hiatus worth taking brings its challenges.

I can't convert the dog-bloggers and their fans. I can only withdraw and find my peace among the falcons and the raggedy mountain goats.

I turn back to look over the world I leave behind. Bogs, fens, sloughs, muddy puddles. Off in the distance are the smoldering ruins of my town, set ablaze by the people running riot. Halfway between is a priapic figure frozen in salt, all that remains of my one-time friend, Garrett Al.

The figure pulls his mantle up again, and, because it keeps slipping down, takes an extra moment to pick the lint out of the Velcro fasteners so it will stay up. There's also a drawstring around the hood that he cinches. This is a foul land, full of bubbling pitch, acrid sulfuric smoke, wasting decay, and saltpeter. He must ascend. I'll repeat that, he must!

Ascending, I rise above it all, and finally the sense of peace dawns on me. This hiatus is more than time off; it's a time for awakening, above the din and roar of those on the wide road leading to destruction. Perhaps I shall return one day to look for survivors. Perhaps they will have found a cure for the disappointment of glory. Perhaps I will be named Blogger of the Year by someone with credibility in that field.

For these moments he sits alone, alone except for a falcon and a raggedy mountain goat. The falcon soars over head and brings back a piece of fish for him to eat. This goes on for many a day. Finally he has enough dried fish skeletons he's able to fashion a comb with which he can groom the raggedy mountain goat. He does groom it and now it may be termed simply a mountain goat.

Two of them share an oversize sleeping bag, he and the mountain goat keeping each other warm at night -- just warm, nothing untoward or scandalous whatsoever. In part this is because he's strict about not letting him eat any horny goat weed. The worst that happens is the goat makes some unconscious pelvic thrusts while dreaming. Eventually the man will see if UPS delivers up there and get another sleeping bag.

The falcon takes his perch at the crest of my pillow, a beautiful figure, like The Maltese Falcon.

Up here in the mountainous regions, I am at a high peak, too high for mortals. So I must go down somewhat, and look for a cave with internet access. There the three of us will live, where we can spend our hiatus in comfort, eating fish, grooming the goat, sleeping in our sleeping bag -- plural "bags," hopefully very soon -- going to the bathroom in our three very different ways*, and, of course, blogging the deeper matters of life.

*I need to train the falcon to face forward on my pillow, and the goat needs to learn the value of clean, dry bedding.

A Dog's Hiatus

I've been thinking as I go around town, What if someone asks me about my blog, how it's going? Nobody has so far, but I keep thinking it's still possible. I made a big deal some months ago about being "the local man" with his own blog. I thought that would generate some positive publicity, some interest in what the common guy thought, but somehow it fell through the cracks.

Since then, one day I was stunned to look in the paper and see that another guy in town, suffering badly with cancer, has his own blog. He apparently writes it, but it's written from the point of view of his dog. So it's his dog's blog! The dog writes concerning his master's sufferings, what medicines he's taking, his treatment regimen, and the various ups and downs that go with sickness. So they had a big story in the paper about a dog having its own blog!

And here I sit! What's my big failing? Apparently that I didn't turn over the reins to my animals. Some unusual twist like that. Like they always said about journalism, if it's "Dog Bites Man" that's no story, but if it's "Man Bites Dog," then you've got something. Well, maybe I will take a bite out of this dog. I could write in, call it fraud. And a rip off of Barbara Bush's original idea, "Millie's Book." But then the other day I saw a book written from the perspective of Bo Obama, so maybe dogs are the way for an enterprising blogger to go.

Everybody needs something creative, I guess, to get them noticed. And if it means subsuming my ego in that way, sharing the credit, being the ghost writer for a brute animal, then that's something I might have to consider. But not now. 1) It's already being done and would have to be done better, like not just one dog but maybe a dog and cat bickering back and forth like "Crossfire." And, 2) I'm still on hiatus and shouldn't even be thinking of these ideas. A good hiatus is meant for vegetating, not conceiving projects and themes.

I'm looking over at my dog right now. She's just lying there on the floor. It's foolish to consider. But as for this cancer guy, whatever gets you through the night. Or whatever gets you through your life. If you want to ascribe all these feelings and opinions to your dog, go ahead. To me it's too cutesy pie. Your dog looks up at you with those puppy dog eyes and you start reading all kinds of things into them. The love that perhaps you don't get from people. For people are forever passing you by whereas Fido's right there to keep your leg warm at night.

Anyway, there's no real glory in a newspaper article. It's like all glory, fleeting and basically worthless. What do I care if a bunch of townspeople know about my blog? Who are they? Give them a pitchfork and a few torches and they'd be happy. That's the mob mentality. That's why this cancer guy's putting it off on his dog. So he can throw his hands up and say It's the dog! Because when the mob gets there they're not in any mood for negotiating. You're the one! they might say to me. Because they don't know about the emptiness of glory. And anyone who tips the balance, who siphons their potential glory away, they want to destroy.

My dog lying there on the floor -- oh, I'll say the word I want to use! laying there on the floor (may the English police be d----d!) -- she's got the right idea. Sleep on! Take a hiatus! Enjoy it! If anyone notices, so much the worse. If no one notices, so much the better. Let other phonies take the worthless glory. As for you and me, let us lay here -- lie here, whatever -- and let another day pass us by.

The old phrase, "It's a dog's life," has it right, if you leave the dog well enough alone and don't try to garner for her any unwanted publicity. "It's a dog's hiatus" goes right along with it as honest truth. And that's what I'll be spending ... today certainly, tomorrow likely, forever maybe!