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!

The Hiatus of Hiatuses

Today, with all the free time I have, I plan to celebrate, to whoop it up big with a celebration of my hiatus. With the end of another month (June) and the beginning of another month (July), it seems a fitting time to get excited.

All through June [Cheers] I insisted on maintaining my hiatus, despite some temptations [Boos] to terminate it early. But thankfully, as month after month drags by, the temptations have become lessened and my resolve has been steeled and reinforced. [Cheers].

(From here on I will leave out the cheers, boos, and other expressions of my favor or disfavor. But you may imagine them along the way. Anything that is pro-hiatus will be something to cheer. Any enemy of the site, attitude, or factor opposing my hiatus will be something to boo. But for the most part, I'm going to keep it positive, not allowing those sad voices of the past drown out the joy I feel over what really could be called The Hiatus of Hiatuses. [Cheers].)

I like that ... The Hiatus of Hiatuses. But it's such a great descriptor and such a great title, maybe I ought to save it for a more auspicious day, like July 4 or Christmas. No, I'll step out today. This will be the auspicious day to celebrate my hiatus as The Hiatus of Hiatuses.

Look, who's got a better one? No one that I've seen. I think it's official by now, that my blog has the most consecutive posts on the author's hiatus. And certainly, by far, the most thoughtful, heartfelt, and varied. For I not only took a hiatus -- anyone can do that -- but I put my heart on the line for it, I've worn it on my sleeve, and now I'm staking a claim. I heard there's another site that's done the same thing. But I heard that all their posts are robot-generated. Such worthless things as "Day 36 of My Hiatus," with a robot-generated paragraph of gibberish following. I would put my heartfelt thoughts up against an ignorant robot any day! [Cheers].

So how did I get this far? That's a great question. When I started the hiatus, back in April I think it was, I had it projected out as essentially a 15-day thing, two weeks tops. Someday if I ever get back to work, I'll find the original file and set it forth as a part of the archives that the general public can access. I saw it one day and was thinking, My Lord, I had no idea. I was a little naive. Because little did I know, I would shoot past two weeks and leave my original plans well in the dust.

I don't entirely know how I did it, to be honest, except Grandma always gave me during my upbringing an attitude of sticktoittiveness. (My spell check says that's not a word. Isn't it a zigziglarism?, which my spell check also says isn't a word. But hey, I can't be bogged down by the spellchecker. The spellchecker is the equivalent of a robot, an automated device just like the guy uses on the other hiatus site, and, who knows, maybe he's up to "Day 37 of My Hiatus" by now! [Guffaws]. Yeah, when you've got a robot, it's no problem; you program it, it spits out your gibberish, and you're lounging on a beach somewhere.)

My time is up. I post to one of those egg timers, and when the sands run out, that's it.

Just let me sneak this in. Celebrate with me. Wherever you are, lift a glass or coffee cup to my achievement, and stay with me to celebrate -- who knows how many more days -- The One And Only Hiatus Of Hiatuses.

[Cheers drowning me out, then trailing off, as a lone figure pulls a mantle over his face and leaves the crowded hall, looking back on the lights of the building, then ahead to the rippling sea. Hat tip to Sinclair Lewis.]

Billy Mays Dies During My Hiatus

I know I just said a few days ago that I'm not concerned with celebrity deaths:

Up here, on this higher plane, I'm not worried, bothered, or disturbed by the day to day affairs of the world. This would include all concerns about whether famous people are sick, whether they've died, or what their legacy is.

But that was before Billy Mays died, which is something I need to comment on. For you see, Billy Mays was a sworn enemy of this blog. But it was a friendly thing, and we never meant to suggest that we actually disliked him in any way. It just was unpleasant seeing him on TV is all, and hearing all that shouting.

Billy Mays was mentioned a few times on this blog, the first time going all the way back to July 19, 2008, in a revealing post on my problem with rage. Because then, as now, I have lots of rage. In that revealing post, I said:

And beyond that, I have TV rage. Grandma rage. Internet rage. Chatroom rage. If I see couples dating rage. Rage at Billy Mays. Printer cartridge rage. Pipes leaking rage. Freezer burn rage. Lake algae rage. Greasy pepperoni rage. Garage sale dickering rage. Dead batteries rage. Pimple rage. Body odor rage.

Very revealing, isn't it? It looks like almost everything enrages me, and that's true. Including Billy Mays. But now that he's passed on, I want to make it clear that I was just having a little fun at his expense. Because he was just someone everyone hated to see on TV. In fact I couldn't get the remote fast enough. But now that he's passed on, really it was all in fun.

Next, on March 22, 2009, I mentioned Billy Mays, in the context of how worthless glory is. I went into the glory that a person can get from being in news articles, being on TV, and from receiving the key to the city from the mayor. Specifically on the glory that comes from being on TV, I said:

TV appearances are worthless, because now every pervert and thief knows your name, face, and where you live. And wait five minutes and you're keeping company with Billy Mays selling orange flavored soap.

I still can't see the glory in being on TV. And for the same reasons. Certainly you don't want every pervert and thief knowing your name, face, and where you live. Then I said that about Billy Mays, which, now that he's passed away, I should say was said all in fun. The fact that he sold orange flavored soap didn't affect a person's glory of being on TV all that much, since there really isn't any glory to it in the first place. Because if it isn't Billy Mays piping up with a sales pitch, it'll be some other guy. So it was all in good fun...

Then my last mention of him (before today) was just the other day, June 24, 2009, in an already classic post on "The Deadliest Hiatus," in which I skewered the show "The Deadliest Catch" (all in good fun), and had this to say, which included a reference to Billy Mays:

At this point the show went to a commercial and I lost interest. Billy Mays came on selling some kind of orange scented chamois so I went outside to cut weeds.

The implication was I would rather go outside and cut weeds than sit through a commercial with Billy Mays selling orange scented chamois, even if it meant that I would miss the "Deadliest Catch" crew bringing in the Great White Whale. And that's true. But now that he's passed on, let me say I was saying all that with tongue firmly in cheek ... firmly.

Also in that post (June 24), I mentioned him again, as I related the theme of "The Deadliest Catch" to my ongoing hiatus:

But looking back on the show, sometimes that's exactly how I feel about my hiatus. All is calm for a while. A few friends, like Charlie the Tuna and the Old Man and the Sea might show up and say hi. The tension is broken. I'm feeling pretty good about my time off. Then suddenly, as if from the depths of hell itself, I'm carried right into the gaping maw of the Great White Whale, or, worse, the gaping maw of Billy Mays -- such tension -- and I don't know what to do. It threatens my very existence.

That one comes across as fairly mean sounding, comparing the gaping maw of the Great White Whale to the gaping maw of Billy Mays, and even saying his maw is worse than the whale's. But seriously, I meant it only in fun. I was just ribbing Billy in a friendly way.

Yes, Billy Mays was a sworn enemy of this blog. But we truly treasured the friendly rivalry, and that's all it was. He was a spokesperson for some kind of orange cleaning product and needed to shout about it to catch our attention. Because whatever he was selling, we weren't buying. But we always hoped the best for him, especially now that we see how terribly things turned out.

Stagnating In Hiatus

Maybe there's something to be said for working like a dog. For me it might be the thing to do.

A hiatus is nice for a while, but after a while, like now, I feel like I'm stagnating. Something stagnates when it just sits around for a while without any kind of flow, like a pond or Coke in a glass. It loses its fizz. It goes flat. All the fish come to the top and are gasping for air.

Grandma used to tell us kids not to go in that pond because it was stagnant. Then we'd go in anyway, kicking, playing, splashing each other. Somebody would get an open sore and be sidelined for a month, because bacteria apparently like these bacteria traps. Yet they're always trying to escape, like into someone's open sore, so whether they like it or not is an open question.

I myself was always fairly lucky. Either I didn't have an open sore or I just had a natural immunity to flat Coke, I was barely ever sick and also usually felt refreshed. But still, given a choice, I would've preferred a nice, pristine pond and an ice cold Coke. I feel for nature -- that's part of it -- so if I see fish gasping for air, I know that can't be good.

But now, I guess those years of avoiding stagnation are coming back to get me in full force. I wanted this time off to do whatever, just take it easy, get rid of some of my duties, responsibilities, and work. And it's been a blessing for much of it, but there have been plenty of times I've felt down, at odds with myself, flat, no fizz, and stagnant. Those times tend to pass, but then they're right back the next day. At least when I was working like a dog I was still more or less content.

What to do about it, I don't know. I was thinking about moving into full retirement, but I'm not so sure now. And I hate to leave my hiatus at this point, because I have so much time invested in it, it'd be a shame to have such a great streak going and to lose it without knowing how much longer it would've lasted.

I know everything comes to an end. And perhaps it is better to end things that have become unpleasant sooner rather than later. Since it's going to happen anyway! Alternate realities can be fun as well.

We don't swim in the old pond anymore. We've grown up and never make it out there anymore. The land was sold anyway. So that came to an end. And any Cokes that have gone flat, of course someone's emptied them out by now. And whatever fish there were gasping for air, they're dead.

As for now I'm still on hiatus. But we shall see.

Cosmic Mind On Hiatus

I've come down, reluctantly, from the higher planes. Of course anytime you start messing around with the file cabinets and ways of heaven, someone gets the word and you're expelled.

It's a hard fall, but in my case it was made much easier by the fact that I completely expected it. That's the main thing, let's say if you're a fallen angel: Get a clue. Expect it that you're not going to prevail. Get tossed down and be happy. I know I am.

Of course someone up there's always looking. They're a paranoid bunch. But there's a lot for them to keep track of. That's when you slip back in and have another heyday. Just blend in as best as you can and enjoy it while it lasts. Then go willingly with a laugh and it's not so bad.

Dwelling on a higher plane, as I have been doing the last couple days, thanks to the time off this hiatus has given me, I've checked out some of the various mysteries, riddles, and conundrums of the cosmic mind at play. It's very wild.

Not that I'm personally immersed, mind you. I've gotten just the edge of a single molecule of one big toenail wet. Intuition says none of this can be snatched, and my normal way is that of an old lady at a rummage sale. But existence at those levels is like a wilting violet. It withdraws 100% of the time, receding some completely that it's not even worth talking about. Like I said, you get tossed out.

Fasting doesn't help. Nor any kind of asceticism. Eat all the pork you want. The thing is to be mindful, attentive, while living and enjoying your normal life. There's no essence that needs to be conserved to get you closer. It's in the files! I saw it!

The best way to live is on hiatus.

A Higher Hiatus

Being on hiatus, if not quite yet permanent retirement, I find that I dwell on a higher plane than this world.

Up here, on this higher plane, I'm not worried, bothered, or disturbed by the day to day affairs of the world. This would include all concerns about whether famous people are sick, whether they've died, or what their legacy is. It's not my mission, while on hiatus, to strew flowers in their paths, to lionize them, or really even to care all that much.

On the higher plane, up here, for me it's a matter of taking time off, of being unconcerned about the spinning and shifting of the earth, whether we're speaking globally, as of tectonic plates, or locally, as in the affairs of every celebrity who ever hit it big, then was stricken and perhaps surprised by mortality.

I'm not mentioning names, because up here, on this higher plane, such things are almost meaningless. A higher plane gives you a terrific perspective. I can look down and see everyone scurrying along like rats, or, smaller yet, ants. It's quite a sight! Someone dies, then someone else. I glance down and see it, then I may turn away. Or I glance down and see it, then I look to see the crowds gathered. Then I sit back in a chair and gently tap my fingers together, shaking my head.

The biggest thing I wonder about is how high can I go? Because I'm way up here now. Looking down. If I go higher I don't know what might happen. Someone dies, I might see the powers of the heavens pulling their 3 x 5 card and checking it. For them, I'm imagining, there's no shaking of the head, not even a thought of seeing any of this philosophically. For them it's simply another day on the job. A few rats, ants, and people died. The cards are pulled, they're already forgotten.

But going higher yet -- this is almost as high as a person can possibly go, I'm guessing -- there are things up here that man may not speak. But I believe I can hint around about it. Up here, in the highest place you can possibly go, everyone is remembered. Every ant, rat, and person. Quite a thing, huh?

Yesterday I had an ant on my desk, oblivious to me sitting there. From a higher plane, I observed his ability to run very fast. And I could see ahead to what his likely path and destination would be. Then he was on my computer mouse. Then down and across behind the keyboard. Now over here on the left side. I thought I should probably catch him and release him outside, because what if he is a she, and she's looking for a maternity ward? There was the tiniest little puddle over by my mouse, so possibly her water broke.

It being a nice day out, I felt I could safely catch and release her without any injury to her young. But she was way too fast and small for me. Dodging under papers, around books, wires, other junk, and finally over the back of the desk, where it's too dark and hard to get to. So I let her go.

Perspective. It's very much a function of life. And with a hiatus, I've got it good! I'm way up here. So that whether it's you -- or the latest famous person to experience passing into the heavens -- I'm observing, watching, scouring the countryside for your slightest movement and purpose.

Hiatus By The Numbers

There's no perfect hiatus, it's starting to seem. It's all very irregular. It could very well be one of those zero sum games, like where you have a whole column of numbers but at the bottom line they're all canceled out.

Just saying I have joy one day and sadness the second at this point is to repeat myself endlessly. And it's like checking your oil every five minutes; you can chart it exactly but it's hard to enjoy the trip. For me, what I should do is just accept it as an axiom that additions and subtractions are the normal arc of life and quit worrying about it.

But you'd think that being on hiatus, having all this time off, would multiply my happiness quotient, and that whatever fractional division there normally is in the give and take would see some borrowing from the bad and some addition to the good's column. Why can't I come out on the plus side? I've checked my work and can easily calculate how things ought to come out.

I try to reconcile myself with comparisons, such as a baseball player can be hitting .200 and still be considered an asset to the team. Which, at least in that area of his game, is failing 80% of the time (I know there are other factors at play). Right now, for me, it's at least half and half, and that's not really such a bad average. But the way I figure, and I've been through this a number of times, is that having extra time off should more generally be a plus, yet somehow my mind is still borrowing trouble and that's a problem I can't solve.

At this point, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other as to what to do. No matter how it adds up, everyday has this common denominator, that I'm the product of my makeup, equal to what I've become, a composite, a divergent sequence. So I must learn to reckon with the pluses and minuses, or I just might put a zero vector to my circle and become a negative number.

The Deadliest Hiatus

Maybe you've seen the popular show "The Deadliest Catch." You probably have since it's the only thing on TV. We have 100 channels and nothing but this one show.

As is well known, the various "Deadliest Catch" crews take their boats and weapons out every year, for eight months of the year, and compete to see who can bring in the Great White Whale. It's out there lurking somewhere, and you never know when his spout may appear and his huge, hulking form may capsize one of the boats and devour the crew. He's evil, rotten to his rotten core, a very very bad whale, really a monster.

One day we had the exciting footage of him finally taking the bait. A gigantic hook the size of a couch was tied to an enormous rope as thick as a maple tree, then strung on a huge pulley with a hydraulics system, baited with the shark from Jaws. It was quite tense on the boat, to say the least, as the sea became very calm, as still as death, no breathing, no motion at all. There wasn't a ripple on the water for 4,000 miles. The boat was literally dead in the water. The only movement was by one of the very nervous crew, a single guy sitting over by the door who scratched his nose.

Then suddenly, as if from the depths of hell itself! ... They heard a light tapping at the hull. Just a light tapping. Tap, tap, tap. Charlie the Tuna was just stopping by to say hello. He has good taste, so he loves the show. Then as soon as he'd come, he left. That broke some of the tension and the guys laughed. There was a great sense of relief.

When ... suddenly, again as if from the depths of hell itself! ... They heard what sounded like a sloshing of the water ... What could it be? One of the crew looked overboard and it was the Old Man from "Old Man and the Sea," with a big fish strapped to the side of his boat. Check that, it was by now half fish, half skeleton, and he had a fork and was presently eating. He called up to the captain who sent down a greeting ... and a warning: If you want to live to be an Older Man, you better get a'movin'! So he made quickly for the horizon, with a putt putt motor and a zigzagging path. Again, the tension was relieved, but it would not be for long...

Because suddenly, and for the final time, as if from the depths of hell itself! ... the Great White Whale had taken the bait! They saw him leap into the air in all of his righteous fury. His crashing back to the sea raised a wave so high the guy in the crow's nest was able to grab a handful of sand from the ocean's floor. Up and down, the mighty beast soared and crashed back again. He was the size of the Empire State Building if he was an inch! The boat was a bobber in comparison, the crew like matchstick men.

At this point the show went to a commercial and I lost interest. Billy Mays came on selling some kind of orange scented chamois so I went outside to cut weeds.

But looking back on the show, sometimes that's exactly how I feel about my hiatus. All is calm for a while. A few friends, like Charlie the Tuna and the Old Man and the Sea might show up and say hi. The tension is broken. I'm feeling pretty good about my time off. Then suddenly, as if from the depths of hell itself, I'm carried right into the gaping maw of the Great White Whale, or, worse, the gaping maw of Billy Mays -- such tension -- and I don't know what to do. It threatens my very existence.

So I need to do something, anything, like go outside and cut weeds. It makes me feel useful. One of these days I'm going to find him, the Great White Weed! And when I do, oh! that'll be something!