The Fields Of The North

The direction north, in relation to where I normally am in the house, begins outside the north wall. It takes in the porch, the yard, the tree, the other smaller, denser trees at the edges, the slope to the road, the road, then everything beyond the road.

Beyond the road are two fields. There is a fence separating them, and of course they are held back from the road by a fence running parallel to the road and an area called the ditch. The fields have occasionally had, in one, horses, maybe both have over the years. They extend, the one down to a house to the northwest, the other is more or less blank, except there are houses perhaps unrelated off to the east and northeast. Were you to go far enough north you would come to other houses and main roads for the town.

What I'm concerned with is what is directly across the road that runs east and west just north of our house. The two fields.

I've never ever been in either field. You would think at some point in the many years we've lived here that I would have been over there, but I haven't. It's reasonable, probably likely, for example, that a ball might have bounced down the slope and somehow have made its way into one of the fields. Or a Frisbee. But it's never happened. That is land my feet have not touched. And I really can't see it happening now.

I have definitely looked at the fields of the north many times. Not with any curiosity about what it'd be like to be there. If anything, my feelings have been just the opposite. I have been very content over here and not over there. I don't know who owns them, I don't want to know. I'm not interested in what they do, whether they have horses (I haven't seen one for many years), or what might happen to me if I were to encroach on their territory. I know I'm not going to, so it's nothing I need to worry about.

My contentment is completely here, south of there, and south of the north part of our own land. All the fields I shall ever want are somewhere other than north of our land.

The Illegitimate North Side

Here's something I've always felt but have never put into words, that I've always felt like the north side of our house isn't as good as the south. It looks weird seeing it in print, but it's a feeling that's persisted for decades.

We go in the south side. The pictures we've taken over the years are on the south side. It's sunnier on the south side. The garage is on the south. We get water on the south. All our outhouses have been on the south. The north is more or less forgotten, like uncharted territory, like the dark continent. Anything might happen on the north side. I might be taken captive by natives in the few trees over there. The north is no good.

We have the porch on the north side. Hardly ever used. There's a view on the north side, but everything is distant, except things up close, like the road, the trees. People pass by on the north side, but on the south side they come to visit. The north is wild, the south is home.

I mow the grass on the north side, but I feel like it's less worthy of mowing than the south. There are things to discover on the north side, I believe, but I'm not very interested in discovering them. If I were to see a block of wood on the north side, I'm about 99% sure it would be rotting. Things on the north tend to rot faster than on the south. That's the difference the sun makes. It's moist and buggy on the north. It's dry and domesticated on the south.

I look out the window on the north side, but I'm looking at the view in the distance. My eyes barely see the yard. You could get lost on the north side and no one would see you. I think other people feel the same way but never say anything.

There's some things I could say about the east side too. When I look at the east side from the north, I feel like I can barely reach the south. But when I see the east side from the south, I know I'm home, and there's nothing to see up north. The west side isn't so bad, especially from the south, because you have the sun hitting the west at more auspicious times of the day. But to see the west from the north is, again, to long for the south and to feel morose.

Me, A Senator

I dreamt last night -- technically early this morning before waking up -- that I was a United States Senator.

How exactly I got the position, I don't recall. But I know I was appointed. Maybe I've been thinking so much about Roland Burris these days! I haven't had a dream in which I was this successful since the days I used to dream about taking Ringo's place when he fell ill.

I got the position, though, but in the dream I was still generally unknown. There didn't seem to be a lot of acclaim about it. It was almost like a secret, or something that wasn't getting any attention. But I'm walking around thinking, "I'm a United States Senator," and it was an interesting feeling. I started thinking "This is only one step below being President, and who knows!"

But I never made it to the Senate. I was still around where I live, wondering what was to become of the whole thing. Would I know what to do? Was anyone going to say anything about it? Was I legitimately a senator? These kinds of issues clouded what otherwise was a feeling of success, of attainment.

The other part of the dream didn't have much to do with that. I was climbing on some steel pipes, trying to get up into a hole in the corner. One of the pipes bent down and I needed to get down and start over, wondering if I could make it without bending or breaking them. But that's just some extraneous details, not relevant at all.

Primitive Fish

I happened to see about five minutes of a fish show on Animal Planet. I wish I would have seen the whole thing, since I like fishing, fish, the whole scene.

The first one I saw, some guys hauled in a 200 and some pound gar -- an alligator gar, meaning it's head looks sort of like an alligator's. These are primitive fish, in that they -- I don't know why. They just are. I guess they have features, appendages that other fish have lost over the years. I think they said it had a weird kind of lung system.

The other one, I didn't catch the name of. But it also breathes partially with a lung or two. And the guy fishing for it noticed it was stuck. The fight was suddenly gone. So it was tangled up in some way. But since it needs to come up to breathe once in a while, it was going to suffocate if it were left at the bottom. So another guy wades out and dives down and untangles the whole works. This leaves the fishing guy a new opportunity to pull the fish in.

They have a big net basket they put it in. It's humongous. They look at it for a while, pose with it, then they let it swim off.

Those primitive fish remind me of rough fish. Rough fish can be good to eat, if you prepare them right, like carp. But for the most part, buffalo fish, gar, chubs, all that -- they're not good. Something wrong with them for eating is what Grandpa always told us.

We used to do a lot of fishing. Grandpa knew almost everything about fishing. I learned a lot of it when I was a kid but forgot most of it. A lot of it was just seat-of-the-pants kinds of information. If you went on TV and tried to do some of it, they'd laugh you off. I know Grandpa thought it was helpful to fart on your bait. And I haven't seen a show where they do that!

One interesting bit of fish trivia. My family (Grandpa, etc.) used to make some kind of doughball bait to catch carp with. It was cinnamon, with bread dough, and sugar worked in there. It was actually good to pull a piece out of with your finger and eat. Until you've had fish on your hands and are going back for more bait.

When People Ask

I've got an old expression I've said a few times now. I hate to make things sound too bad, like when people ask me "How's your grandmother?" A few people know her -- probably more than I know of, really -- and they know me by extension.

I'll be out at the grocery store, like I was today, and someone asks, "How's your grandmother?" (Hey, what am I? Don't you realize that I had a cold for four days? Why don't you ask how I am? I'm not chopped liver, you know! -- Sorry.) They ask the question, probably not realizing that I also have feelings -- which is beside the point. And here's the expression I've used, that she's getting along as well as can be expected, really, and she puts on "a brave face."

The more you say something corny like "a brave face" the more you feel like using it, and other corny expressions. It keeps people thinking that you're absolutely sincere, and that you want to hear them asking questions like this. When you'd like to say, like they say at the hospital, "Are you family? Then I'm sorry, but I can't give out that information. The Privacy Act, you know." People at the hospital are the least helpful people I know, and they hide behind that Privacy Act crap. It's their excuse, their crutch. I had a fight with someone -- this is true -- and I'm at the hospital -- and a nurse asked me what it was all about. I thought about snotting off at her, saying, "Are you family?" but I hesitated and said nicely that I don't think I need to get into that. She backed off right away, then I explained it was just a disagreement over certain matters... More or less true.

But people keep asking questions -- sticking their nose in where it doesn't belong, as to how she's doing, etc., etc.; it gets old! In a way I don't mind, as long as I have a ready answer, a corny one, that "Things seem to be better. She's showing a brave face."

Sometimes I Feel Like A Grandmotherless Child

This is one of those days when the doldrums took over. It wasn't completely unforeseen, but I thought maybe I could stave it off. The thing is, when it's time to do the pre-staving, I deny the need, or discount it, then when the crash comes I regret it. But the time for regrets is then!

It's the famous phenomenon of The Psychic Price, the price you have to pay for everything. You know, when they say there's no such thing as a free lunch, they mean it. I'm just afraid I might see angels or something, because if I do, it's to the bottom of the ash heap for me.

In short, anytime you think you're the center of the universe -- or there's even something as relatively mild as crowing that you have a front row for history -- what's so bad about that? -- it all has to come crashing down. I keep thinking, mulling it over, how to both pay this price as we go and not be glad to have it paid, which is also an inflationary conclusion. There doesn't seem to be any way, unless, and I dread to say it, it's to purchase each second with a second of pain, all the while not seeing the pain as painful, i.e., to be endured, but as a normal part of life. In other words, it's Equilibrium All The Way.

Whatever there is to say about that, I've got it bad today, the whole crash and burn syndrome. And as much as I'd like to see it pass, there's no way I can really root for it, or it'll be worse. Here it comes!

Give Me Facts

Having a front row on history, as is my experience, means paying close attention to facts. I want facts, not just the screwing around that people do with opinions. Those who simply have opinions want us to think there's no objective truth, that it's all just as screwed up as they are.

My own stand is this: I believe in facts. I remain convinced by facts. I want something solid to hang my hat on, something definite and objective by which to draw conclusions and come to judgments. I warrant ye this much, that opinions don't cut it. But facts.

Looking from the front row, I see it all, the good and the bad. I go to various websites -- it's all part of my unique experience on the internet -- and I see both, facts and opinions. I have what it takes to differentiate the two. But to parse it out and explain it in the prolonged treatment that the subject demands is to bore everyone stiff. I would lose half my readership if I felt compelled to explain everything clinically, with scholarly points, footnotes, and what have you. Not that I couldn't do it!

Some things deserve that kind of treatment. Matters of life and death, say. Some things don't. Such as what should be clear to any clear, reasonable person. The simple fact of the matter -- not just my opinion -- is: If you're not clear and reasonable enough to understand common sense, then you're not likely to be clear and reasonable enough to understand it better after an overblown scholarly examination. In other words, the intelligence the latter demands is the same intelligence that could have understood the former.

My front row seat on history -- I need to keep reminding myself -- is mine alone. So I don't truly know the full extent of anyone else's powers. Perhaps I am truly alone. Is this all just my own world? It very well could be.

The Front Row Mindset

Everything in life has its own mindset. It's funny.

I was looking at an old tackle box today at a rummage sale, and was thinking how very compartmentalizable everything in life is. You've got a spot for all this trivial stuff, a tray for sinkers, one for straight hooks, one for treble hooks, several for lures and rubber worms, etc. It's like a TV dinner tray, where the frozen corn doesn't get mixed in with the frozen potatoes.

Mindsets are like that. I talk to the doctor and I've got my doctor thinking cap on. I talk to the dog and there's no thinking cap involved, just feelings. Except I do think because of the necessity in life of being constantly systematic. I could illustrate by doing one of those robotic dances, moving my arms up and down, singing Neil Young, "We will prevail and perform our function."

I've been busy flipping through my mindsets. Another way to picture a mindset is to think of the faces we have to show. You think about a day. You have to be about 12 different people, depending on who you're with.

Yesterday I was lost in the mindset of the observer of history. That to me is a mindset of great joy and carries with it the feeling of lustrousness. I'm there, feeling kind of like one of those rap breaks in the middle of a song, like in the song "Stutter" by Joe, the Double Take Remix featuring Mystikal. Joe's piece is to calmly bliss it out there, but Mystikal has the more forward mindset. He's saying 'I'm observing this thing. I have a front row seat on the history of this song. I will express myself in happiness.' Or words to that effect.

Some of what I'm witnessing from my front row seat is giving me an angry mindset. Like everything I hear from these Republican clowns, like Alan Keyes, Rush, and other of the clown clique. They want to tear down our president. They spent eight years propping up actual criminality and now they're against good American decency. It's bizarre, and I'd rather not see it.

Local Man Enjoys Front Row Seat

I make my way into the theater, look around for a good seat, notice the front row is empty, in particular the very center seat, and make my way down to claim it. Here is where I shall sit, I think, and I won't give it up even to go to the bathroom. There will be no one in front of me. And if someone's behind me, they can lump it. If I slump down and get my neck situated just so, I will not only have an unobstructed view of the screen but my neck won't feel strained afterward.

I've been thinking about my place in this society. I'm obscure, I don't mind saying it. But there's one thing I know I have and no one can deny it, a front row seat to history. It's just like the theater. I showed up early, I immediately looked that direction, I went directly to it, I sat there, and I refuse to get up, even to go to the bathroom. That's the same thing with history. I'm here, I'm staying, and I look on from a unique vantage point, the front row.

You may wonder, what is this front row to history? I'm there right now. Reading about history on the internet, that's one way of having a vantage point. But I'm looking at history also in the making. Someone said that the newspapers are the first draft of history. I read the various newspaper websites to see what they are reporting. They're right there when President Obama says something or signs legislation. I see that. They're right there in the midst of war and turmoil. I read about it and recoil. They bring it to me if someone has eight kids and is back in bed trying for eight more before the evening's over. I look on, I take note, I observe, I file it away in my mental file cabinet.

That I'm able to see it is good. And it's interesting that it all comes right straight to me as it does. I don't stand in line. I don't panhandle. I'm not begging bread. I'm just here receiving it all. I appreciate the opportunity. I'm not oblivious to the truth that a lot of people would kill to be in my place. To have the front row to history that I have.

Carving A Wax Penny

You recall my sacred sword substitute, a steak knife, was one that was used to shave candle wax, trying to get the candle down to a manageable height in relation to the depths the wick had eaten itself.

Today I was with a couple of my sacred candles. I have this one, poured for me by some lady, that acts up all the time. It can't manage the ratio between wax and wick/flame height. Somehow it gets more wax than it manages to eat, the wax overloads the entire system, the flame is just a tiny flicker, and it's buggy. So I have to tip it up, waste the wax by spilling it like Onan, then the flame gets back its life and we're on the right track.

While involved in this activity, I had my sacred knife. I scraped away some wax from the place I poured it the last few days. With the passage of many days the wax had hardened; it really doesn't take long till it solidifies. Now, this involves a penny, and I think was a fairly good move on my part. It gave me a real sense of things being reversed, and that's a lesson I can stand to learn (or be reminded of) occasionally.

I poured the wax out. It looked about the size of a big button. Then I went on with my activities, reading and fiddling with my knife. After a few minutes I suddenly had the thought, why not put this penny on top of the wax button? So without further ado, that's what I did. It settled in snugly. Next I pressed down on top of it gently. Finally I picked off the penny -- another task for the knife -- and I managed to have a perfect reversal in wax of the penny's face.

That was weird to see. Lincoln looking the other way. The date reversed. Liberty spelled backwards. It was a mirror image of itself. Blew my mind. And taught an important lesson, which I could summarize as this: Whatever is happening in your life has an opposite. Does that make any sense?

UPDATE (12:24 p.m.) - Oh, I think I just made a major boo boo. I was sitting here after lunch and reached over and used my sacred knife to pick my teeth. More than once. Once should have been enough, since it seriously smells and tastes like candle wax, whatever the fragrance is. Uck. There needs to be a separation between the sacred and the profane, and now I've transgressed. What might become of me? I haven't felt this bad since that time I used holy water to clean dirt off my shoes.

My Sacred Steak Knife

I've got my steak knife by the desk here. I had it the other day when I was studying its properties, its suitability to be a stand in for a sacred sword, the absence of which still plagues me.

The particular knife I have is a flimsy one, but still sharp enough to cut meat. This one has been used to shave candle wax, though, it's got a real waxy build-up. The blade is sticky and doesn't even resemble something sacred.

I bet it would look different if I were to run it over a flame. That's how to really refine a blade, get it hot. Then you put it on butter and watch it sizzle. In some religious traditions -- I'm thinking of Hinduism -- butter is used in sacred ceremonies. I believe they call it ghee.

What ceremonies? I'm very tired and not thinking clearly. So I can't remember. I think part of it is to drizzle it down your throat. But what else, I'm drawing a blank.

There was a commercial a couple days ago for a TV show in which the people were wielding a sword. It put me in a mind for what I want.

Sacred Sword Fascination

Why am I so fascinated with sacred swords? I don't know. I never was before. It just happened all of a sudden. It's an obsession. Gotta have a sacred sword, gotta have a sacred sword. It's crazy.

Except there's no place to get a sacred sword. No one sells sacred swords, except probably in some metro specialty shop, or online. And I just don't feel like I want a sacred sword coming to me without feeling it. It might be too unwieldy or not have the right vibe. I don't want a scimitar, or anything Turkish looking. I don't want one of those blades that flares out like a pirate's sword. Or any kind of hilt that's thicker than a loaf of bread. I'm feeling very particular, but not so specifically particular that I could fill out an order form and make it right.

What I need is a store with a vast array of swords, something I can eyeball and handle. Take it off the wall and maybe cut off a few heads. Or flip a few heads of lettuce up in the air and bring them down a salad. Stand back because I might do some damage.

Speaking of Turkish, I might be put off at the sacred sword store if the guy had a big bushy beard and those huge eyebrows and is fat. I was watching Yellow Submarine a couple weeks ago and that Turkish look isn't my favorite. I'm not prejudiced but I have my limits.

Now, in the absence of having a sacred sword to twirl and poke about in a ritualistic way, I wonder what to do. My solution so far is to get a steak knife and make thrusts in the air with it. I'm checking out the handle. It's a regular steak knife so it doesn't seem sacred, and, honestly, it isn't. But it does have a blade, a sharp blade, and it comes to a point. So it'll have to do until the real thing comes along.

The Energy I Have

I'm on top of the world today. I could step out, put on a lightweight black silk outfit, then come back barefoot, kicking at the air, and I might win. That's how strong I feel. I don't know why that might be, unless it's the extra energy I've got after eating Valentine's candy bought today on sale.

How about sword fighting? I've been seriously thinking about getting a ceremonial sword. Or a sacred sword if I can find one I consider sacred enough. It's all on hold since there aren't any sacred sword stores near where I live. And to buy one online? I feel like I ought to try them on for size. But here I am, say, with my sacred sword. I'm whipping it through the air, lopping off the heads of imagined enemies, doing some forward thrusts (very relentlessly), a couple en passants, although I think I'd be better as a ninja avenja than a gentleman trying to tickle nipples by restrained swordplay.

I'd much rather pass like a shadow over the dunes, enter the tent, and take out the king's enemies one by one on the sly. Someone moves, turns over in their sleep, and I'm up against the side of the tent wall, blended in like a dark wall hanging. Then whack, whack, whack, my sacred sword finds its mark. Like Maxwell's silver hammer, except I'm a good guy. I don't like senseless violence. The ending of the book of Esther, it's not for me, unless you spell it out what all the killing those days was about. You kill 75,000 people who hate you in one day, I guarantee you're going to have three times that many who hate you the next day. Senseless killing isn't the answer. So I'm not actually bloodthirsty.

I just have the energy of a wild horse, that's all. And I think it's this candy. I got some Cella's cherry chocolates candy, which I've never had before. It says they've been making them since 1864, giving me that weird reaction I always have ... What? You've been making these since 1864 and I'm just now eating them? It makes me a child of destiny, that they had to wait that long to get one in my mouth. The company has to be going nuts now that they know I bought their product. Turn on the machines, we've got a new customer!

My review of Cella's product: Very good. The thing in my mouth feels a little weird. The top section caves in very fast. The candy muckus is very invigorating, the cherry nicely chewy. It's the floor that impresses me. The walls cave in, as I said, but the floor feels about three times as thick to the tongue. That's the piece of chocolate that lingers. And a couple of the cherries have had a bit of persistent skin, which is OK. It lets you know it's a real cherry.

Talk To Her, Cupie

Talk to her, Cupie, where'er she may be. Let your sweet voice of romance beckon, then secure my darling's love, that with me she will be, if not on this bright day of love, then at least on some other day, preferably ASAP.

Cupie, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, her absence heretofore; the courage to change the things I can, perhaps to be less of a hayseed and more of a stud; and the wisdom to know the difference, since hayseeds and studs aren't usually the same thing. Just get her here, posthaste!

What can I do on another lonely Valentine's Day but seek out the help of a higher power? She's out there ... maybe? Maybe she died by now. Since we never met maybe she did die. But putting her aside, surely there's someone else out there still alive and I wouldn't know the difference. Would this undying hope be pulsing in my breast were the matter hopeless? Never! That would be hopelessness, and life is more -- what's the word -- fecund? than that. Is that it? Fecund? Fecundity? I'm not sure what that means but my mind says it's the right word. And you're always supposed to go with your first impression ...

So, sweetie, out there somewhere, let's get together and ... fecundate. I hope I didn't just coin that, but it sounds classy anyway. A little dirty.

Cupie, I clasp your lithe little naked form to my beating heart. Hope I don't smush your wings or get your feathers out of joint. Please, please, please ... talk to her where'er she may be ... tell her to find me! I'm out there somewhere, my dear, lonely, waiting for you, if not today, then by Valentine's Day next!