The Mysteries of Outer Space

I watch a lot of space documentaries, a lot. Basically, if I see a space documentary listed, I turn it on immediately. For lots of reasons, of course, curiosity about what's "out there," about humanity's place in the universe, and even spiritual reasons. To me, there is no division between nature and us, which I think should go without saying, but we so often seem to make a differentiation between ourselves and everything else. The vastness of space is an awesome thing, and, in my opinion, makes any distinction between us and existence itself tenuous.

Ah, who am I kidding? It all has to do with my dog. The biggest reason I watch space documentaries is to give me something to think about when I take my dog out to do her business. We're out in the morning and I see whatever's left of the night, the morning star usually. She also goes out at night, and that's when it's really happening. On a clear night, such as recently, Venus is bright; the other night it was real close in the sky to the waxing moon. So I'm thinking, "You may be bright, but not bright enough for me to see her business." Yes, what I'm saying is my flashlight's brighter than Venus!

Of course Venus can't help it. It's far away, and my flashlight's right in my hand. You can't aim Venus. It's unidirectional, not fit to shed light on anything locally according to your will. It's just reflecting sunlight anyway, which if I want sunlight I can just wait till it's up and use it directly. The distinction is I can stare at Venus all I want, but I can't stare at the sun. You look at the sun long enough and you won't look at anything else! I don't recommend it...

In my own particular neighborhood, there's trees to the north, so I never get a good view of the North Star, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and whatever else is up there. When I see these sights, it reminds me of Grandpa Slump, who, they say, used the stars to help him never get lost. Let's say he was maybe lost, all he had to do was wait till night, and having looked at the stars so long, he knew which way to go. Which obviously would work. If you find the Dippers and the North Star, I guess you just walk that general direction. If you want to go south you need a rear-view mirror.

Wouldn't it be great to learn a language from a civilization on another planet? If they have civilizations like us, that'd be hundreds of languages. I remember in church, back when we had missionaries come around and tell about their work, they were translating the Bible even these days into languages that didn't yet have it. If we landed on other planets, imagine the work missionaries would have! Of course up there they might not care about Abraham, Isaiah, and all the rest. Their loss, because the Bible's great. But they might have someone similar, and that'd be interesting to read too.

As I write this, it's about time to take the dog out. But I'm afraid that tonight it's likely to be cloudy. It's been a royal pain in the ass winter day, which will probably continue to screw up the sky tonight.

My Summer As Tickman

I have come to learn that there's a movie about a guy who becomes a tick. Who then, presumably, goes about fighting crime by sucking the blood from every super criminal he happens to meet. If that synopsis, based on nothing more than my guess, is accurate, then I can relate. That is a true adventure I have experienced, and, fortunately, like the Tick of movie fame, I have lived to tell.

We have some nature trails nearby. I think they're about the best place to walk of anywhere I've ever seen. You can walk miles, and because it's so rough and challenging, with lots of rocks and hills and unevenness, it's always interesting. It's not like walking on a flat place and feeling like it's boring and endless. I can go miles and be sad when it's over.

The best times of the year to walk, I've found, are spring and fall, with winter not being half bad, if you can manage not to freeze to death. We've had some fairly mild winters, so it hasn't been terrible. The absolute worst time to walk is summer, which once upon a time used to be my favorite season. Now I hate summer, wish it'd go away and learn to be more pleasant like spring and fall. But of course it lingers, entirely unwelcome.

Why is summer so bad? Let the Tick tell you, because of ticks, that's why. At the crack of summer, this is true, one day after a walk I noticed a bump on my hips/front area, and pulled on it because I feared the black dot might be what it turned out to be, a tick. One big problem was my walk was a couple days before, so this thing had been there all that time, while I'd showered, eaten, and slept. Quietly munching, sucking, and making itself at home!

I got infected a little bit, though the details are hard to remember now. And whatever reddening popped up wasn't going away, meaning eventually I had to go to the doctor. The doctor gave me an antibiotic or something. After a couple weeks (!) it all faded away and was better. At this point I was less eager to go for a walk, but after a sufficient amount of time thinking about it and making a resolution, i.e., that I would check for ticks more diligently, I was off.

I took another walk. Then a couple days later I was on my way for another walk...

I started driving for the nature trails when something virtually imperceptible led me to scratch my back, around the hips. I'd driven a couple miles from home when I felt something. Since it was around back, I used my phone to reach around and take a picture, which was, yes, another tick! I pulled on it but it wouldn't come off, then I gave up on the walk. I went home and had help getting the tick off. That was it for walking in the summer.

Now, though, through the fall and winter I've been back at it and it's a joy. No more ticks!

Good Behavior Is Its Own Reward

One of my New Year's resolutions, pretty much like every year, is to stay out of trouble. Because if trouble's looking for me, believe me, I'm not looking for it!

Of course you can never tell when trouble might find you. The police are around and they're looking for someone, anyone. I think it's helpful to be as paranoid as you can. This happened a week or so ago. I was parked in public, reading, messing with my iPod, etc. Getting there I saw two police cars off, parked probably 100 feet away, their red lights flashing. They sat there nearly the whole time I was there, running their lights. I could barely focus, I was so sure they'd come over and razz me.

Let's say they had come over, which they didn't. You have to be careful with the police. Because they appear to think everyone's up to no good. Thank goodness I wasn't! But you still have to take precautions. One precaution being to tell yourself, "No lippiness, no matter what."

Every time I've dealt with police, I try to set them at ease. Which I believe I come by naturally. My father was also soft-spoken, and truly a genuine patriot. He used to explain to me about the 13 stripes on the flag, the 50 stars, and the significance of the colors red, white, and blue. It's fascinating to find out this stuff isn't just arbitrary. But for the grace of God, we might've had an ugly flag, like a lot of other countries. Like Canada, a big red leaf... Hate to break it to you, Canada, in America we burn leaves.

Anyway, I try to set the police at ease. I keep my hands at my side, while engaging them with normal gestures as well as I can. This can be challenging. Mostly because they're trying their best to trip you up. They want you to expose yourself, so they're acting all tough, like they're begging you to get lippy and act out. And the temptation is there. You're thinking, "Look, Bozo, you work for me, I don't work for you. If you know I committed a crime, then out with it! If not, then drag your big flat feet back to the station and spend the next three miserable hours filing a report on this wild goose chase!" Instead, I say, "Yes, sir," "No, sir," and "Thank you for your service," etc., laying it on thick.

Have I ever done anything wrong in my life? I know my rights, I'm not saying. But am I a wrongdoer in any kind of ongoing way, as opposed to stuff like littering gum wrappers when I was a kid? Absolutely not! I truly believe in good behavior, whether there are cops or not. I'm proud to say I'm very well behaved.

And that's my recommendation for everyone: Always do the right thing. Maybe if we all did the right thing all the time we could eventually put the police out of business. Get them doing useful things like the fire department, helping kittens out of trees, etc. That'd be ideal, not so much because we have anything against them, but because it's best for everyone simply to behave.

2016: Tiny Small Year in Review

Day 2 of the New Year, I'm not worried. What, me worry? And worry's my middle name. It comes off me like sparks, lighting up the night. But this I'm not that worried about. Day 2? What is there left, only 363 days; this isn't a Leap Year or anything.

A fun project today will be to review the posts of 2016. Usually I might generalize the past year, but with such a small number of posts, there's no reason not to make a few points about them individually. What was behind these posts? Particularly when I was gone for months, then reappeared to post again, only to go back apparently into the Witness Protection Program.

1. Number 1 was coincidentally also on January 1, indicating my usual high hopes. It was called "New Year: Circle the Wagons." This was based on actual meditation techniques, but with a humorous edge, visualizing a circle of wagons at the top of my head, for protection and heavenly provision. As it turned out I never actually did that. Plus I recycled the wagon picture from an earlier post.

2. Number 2, from January 19, was also based on self-help techniques. This time thinking of "A Thousand Years from Now." This post makes a good point. Essentially this, you can have confidence and determination for what you do today, because a thousand years from now it's not going to matter. That's a cool thought, which I'd forgotten about. I'm so concerned about what the next 10-15 years of my life's going to be. But let it go: It's not going to matter in a thousand years.

3. For Number 3 we skip a couple months ahead, March 18, on "Mother's Brewing Company." I remember this. I was at a pizza place near here and there was a Mother's Brewing Company truck outside. I was saying to someone that'd make a good blog post, which I sketched out. We drove away, then I wanted to go back and take a picture of the truck. By the time we got back the truck was gone, so I had to go in a liquor store and take a picture of a beer package. The post was on each member of the family having his or her own brewing company, just like Mom.

4. Skipping ahead next to June 8, we come to "I Can Tie My Own Shoes." I woke up and was putting my shoes on in the dark and was reminded that I could tie my shoes without even thinking about it. I claimed I wasn't bragging, but I think I was, just a little anyway.

5. Now all the way to October 7 for Number 5. "It's Incredulous, But I Believe." I had gotten the song "I Believe" in my head, which I generally hate. This post was an attempt to belittle the song so massively that I would drive the song from my head. That song's a damned curse, and now I'm thinking of it again.

6. The last post was Number 6, "Ug and Craythur, That Old Time Religion." Even looking at it I can't think what the point was. I just thought of the words and was making a big deal of it around the house, and thought I'd put it down and see how it looked. Seemed like it was funny for that one day.

It's Me Again, Your Holiness

All things are holy to whomsoever they are holy. That's what January 1 meaneth to me, a wholly new chance to make a fresh start. I look at the calendar and I say, Yes, I can do it; that is what I shall do! 

In that case, I resolve that, having neglected this blog for, lo, so many days and months in 2016 -- a wretched year in that regard -- January 1 of a different year shall be the time to let the past be the past, and old bygones forgotten (or n'er brought to mind). I shall once again be productive!

That doesn't mean everyday, of course. Life is full of surprises and many setbacks; you never know what's going to happen. Even lepers at one time were optimists. They were kneading their bread, feathering their nest, and giving it a go, until -- bam! -- leprosy. Now relegated to a pitiful existence outside the city gates, their family, themselves ritually cleansed, make arrangements with a cleaning service to remove all soiled things, bread, nest feathers, and whatever "go" they had going.

What a day, January 1! Reminds me how I used to get diaries for Christmas as a kid. Then how I'd write in them for a few days, until it was all forgotten. Other stuff got in the way -- school, play, sleeping, lack of interest. How depressing it was, then, to pick the thing up, say, on March 3, and try to continue after missing the first two months of the year! As far as I know, it can't be done. Nor, probably, should it be attempted.

That's the way I felt about 2016 -- somewhat -- except, as these things go, the Spirit hit me a few times, those blank dates, blank pages in the middle be damned! I'm going to write in a day or so about my posts of 2016. This will be in lieu of my usual year-in-review post. Since it's only a handful of posts, I'm going to treat them more as Spirit irruptions, similar to huge bubbles that rise out of a particularly nasty and very thick bog. You see them coming to the surface, pushing their way up, then the roundness of them rises, and in a few minutes they pop. The bog, being extremely viscous, doesn't allow ripples to approach the bank; it's just a dirty pop and it's over. Irruptions of the Spirit, yes, but more hidden than revelatory.

Did I not have ideas? Is that the problem? No, the ideas are always there, but fleeting. If I don't write them down, they're gone. If my computer's hidden amidst rubble in my room, which happens more often than I like, I can't get to it, and all is lost. I desire to flesh out the ideas, but the opportunity passes.

That's probably enough said for today. The picture represents me, dressed in one of my nicest ephods, working at my holy task. Wish me luck, wish me blessing. And if I see any luck or blessing, rest assured, you'll be the first to know.

Ug and Craythur -- That Old Time Religion

Everyone probably knows I'm heavily into religion, with a slight difference from your everyday fundamentalist; to me, it's all good, with a few caveats, a big one, that it be life-affirming. There's nothing like a little transcendentalism to start your day. That's the way I get going, with a big difference being that now that I'm losing my memory, I have a hard time remembering later in the day what spiritual stuff I did. I only hope it's still cumulative in my various spiritual centers without me having to consciously recall it!

That's not my idea today, though, although that would be a great one someday. Today, I'm thinking of a time way back, way back before any of us were alive, in fact even before Cain and Abel were around, when there was another pair of first brothers, Ug and Craythur. (Look in any good encyclopedia of religion for more on that particular dynamic duo. My picture of Ug or Craythur -- scholars on divided on which one it is -- has him tapping out a message, presumably a message of affection for the other.)

I mentioned religion. This memory hit me today: Ug and Craythur, like Cain and Abel, loved whichever deity was current in their time. There's an old song we used to sing in Sunday School, "Give Me That Old Time Religion," that had a interesting (and revealing) verse:

Give me that old time religion, give me that old time religion, give me that old time religion, it's good enough for me.

It was good for Ug and Craythur, it was good for Ug and Craythur, it was good for Ug and Craythur, it's good enough for me.

But enough about that. I feel the need to riff on their names. Ug and Craythur go into a comedy sketch, centering on their names:

I'm Ug.
I'm Craythur.
Craythur is craythur than Ug.
But Ug is pretty crayth.

How'd you get to be Ug?
My mom looked at me and said Ug.

How'd you get to be Craythur?
After Ug, anyone would be Craythur!

It's Incredulous, But I Believe

I made the mistake the other day of allowing the old song "I Believe" to strike my sense of hearing. It just happened. I was messing with my phone, then before I could stop it, it was playing this song. I heard the first few words -- which actually is all it takes -- before ripping the earbuds from the thing. It was too late. So since then, it's been with me. "I believe that every time I hear this song, there's no escape!"

Well, since I'm infected, let me invite you in. You must remember it anyway: "I believe for every drop of rain that falls a flower blooms..." And it goes from there, rising in intensity till the heavens are swaying in agreement; this one guy's wondrous belief makes the planets spin, the various rings that are their motions through space happen, and in the end all is right with existence. Starting with just a single drop of rain.

Now I'm singing it. The past few days I've been singing it, the bits I remember. And all day today. I've only come out of retirement at this blog to write this post and hope that it helps break the song's curse. It's got hold of me and bad. I don't make graphics anymore -- to tell the truth -- but I went back to it today to make the crummy pelican graphic above. Also part of what I hope helps break the curse. I think the song mentions birds, maybe it does; let's say it does; I'm not listening to it to find out. If you write in, don't give me the lyrics or the context, just a "Yes it does" or "No it doesn't" will suffice.

Today while singing it I went into variations on the theme. Such as, "I believe for every drop of rain that falls, it makes me pee." A little juvenile, I know, but everyone does it. I haven't got to the point that rain makes me automatically pee, but I suppose it could happen in a few years. Everyone's getting older. Then, continuing this version, it seems I was going, "Ladies, drop your pants, men your flies, and join me in this urinous song with a steady stream to show that all of us, today and evermore, simply BELIEEEEVVVE!" Then, magically, it quit raining and that was that; my pants were still dry.

That wasn't the end of the song and its curse. I'm hoping that comes tonight. Working through curses is not something I've perfected, so we shall see. But "I believe it can be done, the race is run, the peeing's done, so that's why I -- yes, I, that's why I, little old I -- I believe!"

I Can Tie My Own Shoes

Some of my handiwork

As I get older, I've been more appreciative of the lessons of the past that really "took." I'm the first to admit that I didn't learn everything they taught. It probably wouldn't be too far off the mark to say, in fact, that most of it ("whoosh!") ... went over my head. Even so, I can balance my checking account, change channels on the TV, and sit up and take nourishment. Life is good.

Everyday I get out of bed. And my dog Roughage is sleeping in the crate by my dresser. Because I want her to stay asleep -- which she usually does -- I dress in the dark. Which is harder than it sounds, because with the least lack of attention I'll get my shirt on backwards. Every time that happens, say I need to reach to get my phone, it looks like I'm scratching my armpits. Embarrassing when someone sees.

Part of dressing is putting on your shoes and tying them. OK, so there I am in the dark, literally tying my shoes without seeing them. It's amazing, but the lesson learned in school of tying my shoes really "took," since I can do it without the slightest difficulty. At least you'd have to admit they're tied good enough for a guy to pad around the house in the early morning hours, although, I'd still claim it's a good enough job even for public display!

In the photo, I believe that's a shoe I bought once when I was on an exercise kick. I seem to recall it was a Tuesday, after a long weekend of eating myself sick (probably a holiday), and resolving, "I'm gonna die if I don't do something." I bought the shoes secondhand, and who knew they had shoelaces long enough to make a sturdy noose. So I had to double-tie them. You can see the lump in the middle is twice the normal girth. Which I never actually learned, but I was still able to improvise and accomplish it.

My usual shoes, which I have on my feet even now, are tied in the classic single tie manner. I'm not tooting my own horn -- not much, anyway - but they're tied beautifully! And all done in the dark, again, so as not to disturb Roughage in her dreams. With me thinking, literally as they're being tied, "Wow! I"m very good at this! They taught me, perhaps someone said I'd never get it, I don't know ... But I did!"

I don't know what else to say about it, except maybe just to repeat as sincerely as I can, I'm not bragging, that's not what this is about. Maybe I'm encouraging someone. Say you're someone who had trouble learning, and now you wear only slip-ons, and you're afraid someone will find out your secret, that you just didn't get it about the shoelaces. The encouragement would be -- it'd about have to be this -- that you'd figure out how to tie your own shoes, too, and do it completely on your own. It doesn't have to be in the dark, unless you want your dog to stay in bed.

Mother's Brewing Company

I was just inches from the Mother's Brewing Company's truck. Leading me to think, Everybody's gettin' in on the act! With their own brewing company, since beer is so extremely popular, and has been ever since they overturned Prohibition.

Beer was never popular at our place, though, growing up. The idea of my mother having her own brewing company would be ridiculous. She hated even the existence of beer and never had a good thing to say about it. Grandpa was a mean guy when he was drinking, and Mom said he used to keep a bottle stashed in the outhouse and she'd pee in it occasionally. Which might've been what made him mean. I'd be mean, too, if someone pissed in my hootch...

But mothers aren't all equally made. Of course there's mothers who are up for anything. Which has to be the story behind this mother starting her own brewing company.  But can she stand the competition? Does she even foresee it? From father and the children.

That's the set-up. We now have a scene where mother walks into the room and says she's got her own brewing company, Now we're all set. But father isn't one to be shut out, since he's the man and thinks he's in charge; I've got the damned schlong and it'll be a schlong damned time before you get the best of me! He walks into the room and says he's got his own brewing company, too, Father's Brewing Company. Bold move, especially when he announces, Now we're all set, our family's complete. Because that only rankles the kids, who immediately get together with their pals -- the boy's club and the girl's little clutch of friends. The kids step into the room and announce they've also started breweries, the Son's Brewing Company and the Daughter's Brewing Company. Now, at long last, the family is complete. Everyone's got something they're in charge of.

I like this part. To me this is where it gets interesting. Because it shows it's basically endless. No sooner does it pass the lips of the girl that "Everything's complete" when through a series of doors come Grandma and Grandpa. Who announce that they also now have brewing companies of their own, or the intention to start them. Being shortsighted, however, through the same set of doors appear their parents, older Grandma and Grandpa, with older Grandpa cackling, "Don't put the cart in front of the horse; you're not putting one over on us!" Brewing companies for one, brewing companies for all!

Never let it be said that I myself am shortsighted. I'm nothing like this older Grandpa, who's thinking Now all is complete just because I and older Grandma have our own brewing companies. I can see the implications, with an even older Grandma and Grandpa -- withered and badly bruised from decades in the afterlife -- coming through the door, with even older Grandma cackling malevolently, "Not so fast! You've forgotten us that fast?!" It's true, why wouldn't they also want their own brewing companies?

OK, it goes on like that, even older Grandmas and Grandpas popping in from the afterlife, each generation looking worse than the one before. Until, when you get back too far the degeneration into corpse soup is so pronounced that someone just opens the door and flings in a bucket of slop. It's about there that the generations' desire to have their own brewing companies comes to an end.

A Thousand Years From Now

Here's a self-help exercise I thought of earlier tonight. Which has helped me put a few things into perspective, so now I'm not nearly as bummed out.

I was really feeling lethargic and even depressed. Everyone has "real lives," and in very short order they can become clogged up with various demands on you, this or that person holding something against you, criticizing you, and basically getting you in a corner. So every damned day seems like it's just dragging along. I'm still a bit depressed, but definitely not as much. Not as long as I'm daydreaming and singing about a thousand years from now!

This little song I started singing dirge-like to a very slow version of the tune of "You're In The Army Now." Thinking ... once again, of those glorious far-off days of a thousand years from now, when everything about me, everyone else, and every problem I either have or think I have will be so definitely forgotten ... it's basically ridiculous to even think about it now.

"A thousand years from now,
A thousand years from now,
Nobody then will even care...
A thousand years from now."

That's the basic gist of the thing, but I'm tossing in some riffing on the words, like "No one will even know my name," "No one will care and that is true," and "No one will give the faintest shit, a thousand years from now."

In addition to singing the song I'm thinking how true it is. A thousand years ago was 1016, OK? And I assume some guy like me, probably pounding out shoes for the horses of a village, was having some problems with others. Couldn't get the metal ... or his reputation had taken a hit; a horse crapped on him during a fitting and he shot it in the ass. Something harmless like that. Well, a thousand years has now passed, and we have no idea about that guy, who he was, who his friends were, what the horse's name was, whether the horse ever walked again, anything! A thousand years has passed and it's all completely forgotten.

Because a thousand years leaves zero witnesses. They've all moved on. A thousand years from now even Lee Harvey Oswald won't raise any immediate thoughts. But they'll speak his name and a computer will regurgitate something. But it's not going to be mentioning me ... with the relatively little reputation and problems I have. Even though they feel big to me right now. And even though I'm down in the mouth, going through the motions, all lethargic, yawning, etc. A thousand years from now heals everything.

"You did what???" "I don't know. Is it even gonna matter ... a thousand years from now?"

It actually won't matter -- none of it -- 30 years from now. I'm sure it won't. I'm 63, and as we all know I'm going to die when I'm 85. That's only 22 years away! Meaning, in 30 years I'll already have been dead eight whole years. And I find it hard to believe anyone's going to still be complaining about me then. The average guy dies now and you're immediately forgotten after they've scattered the ashes.

You got a problem? Put it in a larger perspective. What difference will it make a thousand years from now? It won't make any difference at all.

New Year: Circle The Wagons

Friends, I've taken a big step for myself. After all these years of being at everyone's mercy, being tugged and pulled, rather relentlessly, and being all things to all people, I've resolved at long last to "Circle the Wagons." From this point forward, everything changes. I'm going to make soul progress, find my perfect place.

This is a rather personal, spiritual statement, I realize. But having spilled my guts so often on the blog as to my dissatisfaction and dissolution, I feel it helpful also to note my progress, the things that will make for satisfaction and perhaps even healing. Maybe it will be of benefit to others also deciding to Circle the Wagons. I feel I owe everyone that chance.

The Wagons is my term for That Realm above. According to sources, you can profitably visualize it directly at the top of your head proper, or, as I've chosen, between two and four inches above the head. The connector, as it were, is said not to be merely imaginary, but an actual (unseen with the eyes) channel of the subtle currents of the body. Being seen in artwork as a circle made up of petals, and everything in wonderful order, containing currents/energy, those are my "Wagons," not just unconsciously but consciously Circled. Protecting and providing.

Sounds weird, I know. But, seriously, you wouldn't expect me to carry on the way I've been, not if I can make things better, whether it's weird or not. I look at it this way: Either you've got the tail wagon the dog or the dog wagon the tail. It's not just a case of six-of-one half-dozen-of-the-other; it makes a difference to the dog who's wagon who. If the tail's wagon the dog, the dog could end up permanently propped against a tree, the elimination instinct never satisfied. Whereas if the dog's wagon the tail, he'll pee and get on with his day. My dad used to say, "Piss or get off the pot," and that's good enough for me.

There is, however, a time for everything. Who knows the adjustments we go through? When it's mid-year, I might be mired down with the tail wagon the dog. But New Year is a time for a new start, and hopefully with a determined follow-through it will be so. And so, let it be stated: From hence forth, from this day, this dog's wagon the tail, the Wagons being decidedly Circled! I believe it shall be done.

I started it this morning, visualizing a thousand (alternately 10,000) Wagons in a perfect circular arrangement, a lot like in old westerns, holding off the slings and arrows -- mostly arrows -- of the enemy. "I am impervious behind my Circle of Wagons! No man -- regular guy or savage -- can pierce this line, this Circle!" (If you remember one of my earlier resolutions -- I believe it was 2009 -- I had much the same scenario, except it was based on the Gingerbread Man ("Can't touch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"), but this time I hope to keep it. And, frankly, I like a Circle of Wagons more than 10,000 Gingerbread Men; that daily suggestion led to substantial weight gain.)

There are wonderful truths at work here, much like Horatio or someone said in Shakespeare, "Something something something dreamed of in heaven and earth." Right there's the validation, all the validation I need, to press on, Circling the Wagons, and having all the defense/offense I need ... for January 1, January 2, January 3, and beyond.

An Official Tax Write-off Post

We're almost at the end of the year. And for the most part my blog has been inactive for a number of months. Which, according to sources, puts me in a rather precarious tax situation that, frankly, I would rather avoid.

My tax guy, Jeremy, the same guy who gives me most of my life counsel, including quite a bit of bad stuff, but mixed with much good, looked into blog law going back roughly to the 1600s. To be more accurate, blog law at that time was mixed in with newspaper law -- I'm trying not to be too arcane. Columnists at that time, then through the centuries since, were the same as bloggers, and newspapers came into full compliance with tax restrictions by writing "An Official Tax Write-off Post." That's what this is.

Jeremy counseled me to be more diligent in 2016 with my posts. If you post the bare minimum, the exact figure of which he doesn't know, presumably something between 1 and 31, you can get away with more. The officials will overlook a lot if they see some actual effort's being made. That effort, and keeping your nose clean in general, turns them away, smooths official ruffled feathers, and your tax bill is usually nullified. Think of it as Passover, he said. Objectively there's nothing sacred about animal blood, but if that's what they ask for, that's what you give.

Times being what they are, of course, and blogs having nothing to do with religion, once the force behind the most typical tax poobahs discerns an effort, that's when they lower their metaphorical guns of attention. I'm not saying anything that most people driven by instinct don't know. You might sweat out getting any particular task done if you aren't compelled, but once that compulsion is there, it's an imperative. Look at me right now! I'm fluent! And, honestly, I haven't been able even to whisper for the last month. I'm desperate to set the record straight.

I may as well say it, I've been down. I even qualified for a home health nurse to visit my house a couple times a week. I ate most of the sandwiches they gave me if I took it slow, but would only blow bubbles in the soup. Again, on the advice of Jeremy, to keep them coming. To put it bluntly, I've been virtually comatose, a few times to the point of twitching and babbling and messing. Not pretty. Cindy my Nurse tried to keep Jeremy out, but he came in through the bathroom window when she was out for a smoke.  And told me, It's the end of the year! The taxman draweth nigh! I roused, "How nigh?" He blurted out, "Like a wolf at the door!"

That was this morning. Since then I've been fighting with my occupational therapist, "I've got to get to the damned computer!" She protested, leading me to cry and kick and bluster, and mess myself again. Here it is now, early to mid afternoon, and I'm stuck! If the taxman was drawing nigh this morning, like a wolf at the door, what's he doing now? He might be out of control, looking for someone to destroy. And if I lose everything, I'll never make it. I need this house. It's winter. I can't be out in the cold, I'll die.

So there you have it. I don't want to be here, that's for sure. I don't want to spill my guts like this, for the gawking eyes of an ungrateful public. Hell with it, I say! What business is it of anyone, my travails? It's no one's business...

Thus I hath begun, and thus hath been published, and thus hath ended My Official Tax Write-off Post.

The Great Piss Storm of '013

I'm wistful today. You see, it's the time for the Holiday Extravaganza, a wonderful event that's timed every year to coincide with winter and Christmas. Which was fun to go to until they changed some of their policies.

Someone asked me to go several years ago. And they were right, the various handiwork holiday crafts were nauseating to see, but, as it turned out, were especially a delight to piss on.

This is true. It's one of the few Craft Sale/Holiday Extravaganza-type events I'd ever seen that had a lenient policy on pissing on the merchandise and exhibits. Which was especially welcome to me, because when I see a lot of that stuff, Santa Clauses with the rounded heart bored in his chest area, denoting the heart of Santa offered up to the world, etc., I experience one of two reactions: 1) A spinning feeling that makes me feel faint; and, 2) The need to piss on it, thereby expressing my revulsion.

But enough about me. Except to add, I went to the first Extravaganza I heard about, and was unprepared for what I would see. Which is to say I'd relieved myself sufficiently at home, then when it came time to express my feelings I could only muster a few minor tinkles, something like an eighth of a cup were it measured. Hardly worth my time.

The second Extravaganza was in '012 (Ought 12). Again I didn't make a production of it, just enough of an output to say I had one. Because, frankly, these days no one cares, really. You tell someone what you did and they always answer with something they did. Leaving my story to wither on the vine and get no kudos. I hate that about life these days. It's almost enough to make me strain real hard, like right now, till my face turns red, and, oops, there went about an eighth of a cup...

The third Extravaganza was in Ought 13. This time I didn't care what anyone thought. So I crammed for it. I knew -- by now I knew what they'd have -- I'd see lots of those Santas with the rounded heart, PLUS -- and this was really what got me going -- some touching sculptures of Santa kneeling at Jesus' manger. I had drunk probably three pots of black coffee. The level in me was something like this, starting at my groin and going to my nostrils. I was noticeably yellow with jaundice, the liquid I was packing.

Long story briefly told, I got to the Extravaganza and was amused to see a few of the better pissers taking little demur tinkles on the merchandise. Just enough, really, to season them, but not enough to put you in the books. But it's a big place, with plenty to piss you off. Like the little old ladies -- who were cool hippie chicks in the '60s -- fidgeting with their tablecloths, etc., and rearranging the merchandise for the best psychological presentation. I saw that -- and these are all things that push my buttons -- and went into a whirl.

When you go into a whirl, it's a brain function, I'm guessing. But it starts in the gut. You get a queasy feeling, kind of like what a volcano feels. You know you've got to do something; this thing is inexorable. Similar to having to sneeze when the sun's out. I took in the whole panorama of the place. The little old ladies, the holiday sprays, the "old-fashioned" children's horses, trees trimmed with ornaments, and especially those Santas with hearts bored in them -- tiny hearts, medium ones, and big hearts... Oh god!

What a terrific memory this is for me -- although for the others, I'm sure they regretted the normal liberal pissing policy. I went into a spin -- I was stirred in the depths -- and essentially lost my consciousness, having trained it nearly completely on the task at hand, destroying their Holiday Extravaganza with such a prodigious gushing output. It rivaled a small town's water tower rusting through, if it's not too immodest to say so.

I crossed my eyes and could see the yellow in my own eyes, the level sloshing back and forth as I walked. Walked? I strode, unzipping in a most determined, focused way. It'd ruin my pants if I didn't get it out. This son of a bitch -- if I'm permitted one vulgarity -- couldn't be stifled, couldn't be stymied. It was like a train coming through town; you might make an ordinance against it in the future, but it's vain to try to stop it in the present moment.

I literally saw the heavens opened, but I cried out, "Not now, Lord, I've gotta go!" And ... I did. Everyone dove for cover and I did what had to be done. Spraying, dousing, flooding that arena with so much piss -- they've literally got a marker on the walls 10 inches from the floor denoting the level. I know it was such a mess I got some on me and had to wash my jeans after all.

This was no small deal. The merchandise -- the good, bad, and in-between -- was all ruined. Leading to the rules change in Ought 14 banning pissing on the merchandise all together. Which I heard about from others, since the bastards banned me.

Ah well, and today's the day. I saw it mentioned in the paper just as I was finishing my third cup of coffee, and thought, "If only..." But it could never happen. Not again. Because I'm a good guy and respect the rules. Live and let live. I'll just pee later in a more appropriate place.

Share The Cocky Coin

Yea! The story of me being cast into poverty and deprived of property has a happy ending! All is restored, all is right in my cozy little world! Thanks to the very real power behind miracle graphics like this great one, "Share the Cocky Coin." The Cocky Coin struts into view, everyone looking, everyone's pointing, "He's the man. A dollar that knows his worth. Gives wealth and happiness. And never been known to fail."

My troubles started in a similar way, but with the blessing reversed into a curse, when I foolishly posted the "Share This Empty Wallet" graphic. At that time you could've called me a skeptic, a non-believer in the various Facebook posts people make. Share pictures of wads of money and you'll have money, all that. But as I found, to my regret, there's actually something real going on there. The Empty Wallet graphic wiped me out. I lost my house, my garage, and 99% of my possessions, quickly, just like that.

In poverty then, it's remarkable that I didn't think of immediately counteracting it with a money-making graphic. Although it's entirely likely that the Curse Blob, the power behind these graphics, wouldn't have blessed me. It's more likely he clouds your mind to that possibility until, in the negative case, he's dealt you some destruction. Otherwise, as is easy to see, people would be trifling with him like an on-off switch. Still, he's apparently a lot more into blessing than cursing, since "getting money" graphics far outnumber those taking it away.

Whether there was any clouding of my mind that went on, I don't know, except in my experience I felt like I was kind of in a haze. But with the passing of time I really set my mind to making things better. Which led to my Elvis Presley pilgrimage, all the way to Mobile, AL. Frankly, I thought that would instantly restore my property. It didn't, although it turned out to be an important step in clearing my mind -- giving me Elvis-like powers to think it through -- which then opened my mind/heart to sharing the Cocky Coin.

How many times have I seen the Cocky Coin graphic on Facebook? Hundreds of times! Not necessarily from people who went from riches to poverty, but from those already in poverty. But I didn't know their experience. So I ignored it. This time, my mind completely cleared, and also blessed by Elvis, I shared it, then stood back ... and watched in awe.

OK, you have to picture this. I'm on the half acre of land I inherited from Grandma and Grandpa. The garage is gone, the house is gone. All I can see is a big patch of bare space where the house used to be, along with a hole for the cellar (not taking up the entire foundation). I shared the Cocky Coin on a neighbor's computer and rushed back across the road. What I saw next, you won't believe. But every word is true.

There was such a swirling of energy over the site, I nearly had to close my eyes in the glory of a presence. And dust. It was noisy, there was shaking, and everything started coming together, this piece to that piece, materials appearing and joining themselves. I beheld walls appearing from nowhere, and pictures on the walls and furniture. The covering of the outside of the walls and the roof and its covering came into view. It was like sinews and skin forming. I literally held my breath in fear. Behind me the garage assembled itself in seconds. And not to be outdone, although presenting a more humble spectacle, my old shed reappeared, as shabby as ever.

I went into the house and everything I had lost was restored, including my computer. But nothing seemed especially improved. The SHIFT key on my HP computer, which broke off less than a month after I got it, was still missing. Pretty good computer design, HP -- Huge Piece of crap. The Curse Blob, now the Blessing Blob, had a sense of humor there. But he was more gracious with the meat in my freezer. Nearly everything previously freezer burnt was immaculate and delicious-looking!

I checked my credit union accounts online. What previously was zeroed-out was restored, just as though nothing had happened.

WHAT THE CURSE BLOB MIGHT

HAVE SAID HAD HE SAID ANYTHING

Now I call you, neighbors, to rejoice with me! I'm a very good person, there's no question of that. I deserve everything I have. And I have learned my lesson once and for all: Whenever I'm not happy with what I have, I know where to get more.