The epitome of...

He who has not the spirit of this age, has all the misery of it.

Voltaire

See? Just look at all that Christmas spirit! Why, I'm fairly suffocating in it!

Happy Hollandaise

PSM-(RH)

All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

J.D. Salinger

'Tis the season. Truly it is upon us. And that means they are upon us...

I'm looking for an opening here; something that will gently ease my readers into the material for today's offering but I'm finding it difficult to 'ease' into this. Why? Well, to illustrate the problem I'm having, try going to a grocery store, a department store, box store, any store, anywhere for that matter. Or just try going out, getting in your car and driving. If, god help you, you are like me and have already reached your own particular saturation point (again), stay home. Try turning on your TV set, answering your phone, or getting online. You will then realize (if you haven't already) why I'm in a quandry as to how to gracefully, or tactfully, approach this.

But then again, why should I? Hey, I'm pretty sure I'm preaching to the choir here anyway, so why do I need to sugarcoat what's on my mind? There's no way, no need, to tastefully, or 'eloquently' throw down the gauntlet for this. Why should I? The people I aim this at are too mindless to understand that it's about them I'm writing, if indeed they can read but oh, of course they can otherwise NASCAR magazine wouldn't be so popular but I'm thinking it's all scratch-and-sniff pictures (for that realistic you are there experience).

3 words. Repeat after me, class. And salute the rebel flag (or the stars and stripes, doesn't matter) while you speak. Ready? Putrid Stinking Masses (enunciate please). Also affectionately referred to by some of my more radical friends as The RH, or, Repugnant Horde. Not to be mistaken for the Mongol Hordes; they were the epitome of etiquette, the dilettantes of discretion, compared to this mob. The PSM, or RH, are everywhere. There is no escape. They have, and continue, to insinuate, infiltrate, and integrate. Without pause. Without concern for color, race, religion, celebrity, or sanity. They have no other mission other than to live their mucked-up little lives, and spawn future hordes, right in our faces! But you know what the real beauty of all this is? They have absolutely, without a doubt, no clue that there are people out here who are not like them!! Whoops. I guess I should retract that. I forgot about the nazi-zealots who have decided that anyone not sharing their mindsets be imprisoned, gassed, and/or barred from shopping at Wal-Mart (where they can leave their carts out in the middle of any aisle indefinitely) for life.

I'm rolling now. Turn on your TV. Watch the local news. Know why it's filled with stories about the PSMs and their pathetic little existences? Because they run the damn station now, that's why. Hell, they run the whole network! And none of 'em can spell!! Look at the headers! Jeezus! Tired of that? Take a break. Go hop in your car and drive down the street, any street, where you see those fancy little electronic billboards out in front of businesses to highlight their wares. I don't know about you, but it would be embarrassing to advertise the fact that I couldn't spell. But, in the grand order of 'how it is really', when I think about it, it doesn't matter because no one reading those billboards can spell either. Even if they could, they're already well into the stage of PSMism whereby they could give a rat's butt, or, as I like to call it, ass.

But here's the deal. And this is hilarious (I mean serious, it's just that the visual concept of it all makes me delirious). The RSMs are wired at birth to go out, find a mate (or whoever they can bump into) and re-populate the earth. At your expense! This is their directive. They have no other purpose here. They are not here to actively make our lives miserable; that's simply a by-product of their daily routine as they are way too involved in trying to find ways to keep their youngster's mouths full of garbage so they can grow up and continue the process.

Warning. Be careful out there. You may at some point seek refuge, driven half-crazy from all this madness. Know this; the RHs can look okay. They can dress and walk, and drive nice cars (just like the one that's been tailgating you for the past hour). Sometimes they even speak in complete sentences.

So... there is nowhere to go. No space. No sanctuary. THEY have either laid claim to, or are in the process of usurping, almost every last liberty we currently have. Almost... but there is one thing they can never take, never have. They can only dream, except that's silly because when they do dream it's about snowmobiles and ATVs and pick-up trucks and corn dogs and guns and wrestling and...

Quotes

The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude.

Aldous Huxley

Before I wade more deeply into my subject matter, I wish to thank my son, Aaron, for his blog. In addition to his insightful offerings, he quite often, with literary precision I might add, begins with a quote. His quotes provoke thought before the material is read, as it is read, and especially, upon completion of reading. They punctuate his posts so effectively! So, with his method as my guide, I have adopted this idea. My hat is off to you, Aaron. I am humbly appreciative. Whether or not I am as successful is, and will be, fodder for discussion among those who discuss things of this nature, but I definitely like the approach.

Finding a quote that can effectively contribute to the depth of an offering is either a science, or a gamble, or both. I'm a terrible gambler. I'm one of those guys who can't keep a poker face. I give myself away, and it's usually because I've got stinky cards.

But a good quote is one that when first read, gets one to thinking, and then further spurs cognitive process, from hopefully a different perspective, after the piece is completed. In my searches for appropriate quotes, the search itself has often altered my subject matter, because I'll like a certain quote so much that I feel I need to start with it, which forces me to change everything about that which I was going to write.

There are many really great quotes I've unearthed that will probably never make it to my blog. At least not until I'm really ready to face up to the stuff that I need to face up to, in that they make me a bit uncomfortable. Smack dab in the middle of a search I'll get blindsided by a quote that surgically removes my life and sets it out on the table in front of me. Interesting, too, in that when I find these, that usually throws a major wet blanket on whatever it was that I'd originally set out to write about. So be forewarned; the offering you are reading may or may not be what was planned. Maybe the one that was supposed to be here was ixnayed because I ran headfirst into another eye-opener. But how would you know that unless you were told. And, as it now turns out, you just were!

Anyway, thanks, Aaron. And keep 'em coming. You are the master... and look! I never even got close to broaching the subject I'd planned to concern myself, and maybe you, with. How did that happen! Oh well, stay tuned, if you so choose. I promise I'll stay on task... hyuk.

Attic

The past is an old armchair in the attic, the present an ominous ticking sound, and the future is anybody's guess.

James Thurber

Clutter. That's what comes to mind, right along with the dust and disarray. Stuff no longer thought useful in the daily scheme; not yet ready to be disowned or discarded, but dangerously close to being forgotten unless somehow rediscovered. And as more stuff is piled on top, it is quite plausible that the odds of that happening would seem greatly reduced, unless there has been sown a viable, lasting connection to this object with an event, incident, or, more often, personality, that will spring to mind if and when the right buttons are pushed.

Good stuff. And bad stuff. It all gets saved. And forgotten, too. There is no discrimination. There is just time, and it passes. Sometimes it passes into obscurity. Then, good or bad, it's gone forever.

Portage

When we go to play, you flip around and flash around and everything, and then they're not gonna see nothin' but what their eyes see. Forget about their ears.

Jimi Hendrix

"...standin' here, freezin', inside your golden garden..."

Jimi Hendrix

Maybe it's not so bad, so terribly wrong, to take the long way. It's not always the shortest, or easiest, which flies in the aged, supposedly wise face of the more common sensical approach, but it does have, for me, a certain time-acquired attraction.

Something some one wrote recently set me to thinking. Taken in context it had nothing to do with anything specific save for the subject matter with which it dealt. But this statement separated itself from the rest of the piece, and it found purchase. As can sometimes be the case, especially if the timing is right, well-chosen words connected into phrases will stick with me. They come back, often incessantly, at interesting moments, now so much more than a simple point of reference. I find them applicable to more than for what they were originally intended.

But this is not about that particular series of words assembled into that phrase, nor is it about where it came from or who wrote it. It's as much about where they found me as it is where I intend to go with them. I am amazed again, by how such seemingly pedestrian moments can be so illuminating. Maybe even life-changing.

How really different we all are. How our sets of experience are totally unique. How we see and what we see are all pre-determined by

our unique perspectives long before we think we know ourselves and can somehow begin to alter our 'way' of thinking. And, while this sets us apart from each and everyone else from the time of birth until we die, it's at the same time the only thing we will all ever have in common. Yes, I know, maybe that's all been said over and over again ad nauseum, but it finally rings loud and clear to me.

And the best part of having this common ground, now that I understand,is that it's comfortably small. We live, and then die, each on our own, to our own. In between, we do what it is that we do, sometimes not as well as others would have us do, but, it's really not for 'them' to say.

Let 'them' say what 'they' will. From now on, I will strive to live my life as I perceive it to be lived. I spent too much time seeing through eyes other than my own, and now time is short...

Slide

You say I miss the signs

or do you,

by design?

Go pierce the air

with (well-rehearsed)

indignant scream

gaining steam

on your way

to contrition.

It's a condition

you seek

a position unique

to gain a peek

dependent, of course

on which

way you turn.

Aaron

Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.

Douglas MacArthur

... and I sat for a moment, before beginning my usual non-fishing day routine of coffee and the joke of a morning paper 'they' call the Spokesman-Review...

I thought of Aaron again. It'd been awhile since I'd heard from him. Always so damned busy. Always. Busy to the point that, because of my respect for his space and time, I'd been hesitant to get in touch. If ever there has been anyone I have known in my life who's more crunched for time all the time... well, I have never known anyone quite like that. I don't know how he does all the things he does, and does so well. I really don't. He's amazing; I say that, now, as I have ever since he was just a kid. He's always been amazing. He's my son and I have the right to say that anyway, but, damnit, he really is.

Anyway, right then, I heard my phone buzz. It buzzed with the tone I had assigned to Aaron's text messages, but for a second, I wondered what that sound was, and my reaction reminded me of my dad... looking around in every direction as if totally befuddled by what I was hearing until it came back to me (like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist) that indeed it was my phone, and by god it was Aaron.

"Mother nature's been good to me..." he wrote. My eyes teared up.

I've always thought it's a blessing that my son enjoys the same type of music I have listened to for eons, and I texted back the following line from the song he'd chosen to send. We sent texts back and forth (he's so much faster at it than I'll ever be) and he told me that he'd been in Irvine and 'they' really wanted him to come work for/with them, and as per usual, he soon had to go...

"I love you", were his last words. "I love you too, Aaron", I returned, fighting back a fresh round of tears. Leaning back in my chair, I one more time counted my blessings.

Aaron, you are always there, always. I cannot possibly put into words how important that is to me. I know your life is upside down most of the time. I know how badly you wish to be done with school and all the crap you have endured for these past few years. Hell, I know how much crap you have had to wade through to even get to where you are. I mean I don't know it all, but I know enough. I know enough to be extremely proud. I know this too, and have known for years, how much I treasure your existence on this earth.

You are one hell of a fine man. And, most importantly, a fine son.

I love you Aaron.

Holidays rhymes with malaise, kind of.

I'm so depressed. Christmas is the worst of all. Holidays are terrible, worse than Sundays. I get melancholia.

David O. Selznick

And so here we go again. Falling helplessly, almost as if in a never-ending nightmare head first, into THE HOLIDAYS.

Even the Christmas Cactus blooms early, thinking, I am sure, that to do so will hasten the passing of the days until this is all blessedly over.

Jester

People like eccentrics. Therefore they will leave me alone, saying that I am a mad clown.

Vaslav Nijinsky

And they will love me through the times,

or forget me in kind...

could the visit be more or less

blind

one of convenience

timed

to coincide

with reference points

in all those lives

I intersect

but never really touch

Yes, I am loved

and pass as such

into moments

left in trust

archived simply

in the dust

a now-faint trail

into a place

where I sought

refuge from

their space.

Subsequent consequence

as in

product of event

percolates in the silence

of maybe, maybe not

biding its time

a colorless gas,

killing

so slowly

it seems like a lifetime...

Redemption

Imagine the most insignificant

characteristic

magnified a thousand times

a beacon summons

and no one sees

but I cease to be amazed

instead

a blur then a flash

and I'm tight to

the next

last chance for redemption

every time

I lose myself

wanting to be found

anywhere

at any time

tightly connected

again.

Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness. And they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy... or they become legend.
Jim Harrison

It does occur to me, as I lazily curl around discussions with myself concerning any worldly value I may have accrued over the years, that my inner voice does not go more than one or two words into a given thought before seeking the refuge of a connection to fishing, or flies. And, much to my satisfaction, I do not think this is anything but healthy. I may very well physically starve to death for the lack of my desire to any longer pursue monetary compensation; I truly dread the thought of being forced to work, or to even come to grips with the attitude change necessary in order to obtain work. 'Work' is simply what the word says, and I've long associated that word with everything in life that ends up killing me sooner than I am ready. It has, through my life, even payed me, sometimes handsomely, to do that to myself.

I much prefer my avocation. Not only is that a much more poetic word, it also signifies a love for what I do; never mind the stark reality of any compensation, at least in a monetary sense.

All this leads me right back to my wonderful companion. I am so pleased that I have listened. I have learned more from it than any other source.

Perhaps there will one day come some life-changing epiphany; the dream sequence must seem oddly macabre to those around me. Bus after bus departs, without me on board. I wave goodbye to each one, as my inner voice speaks softly, and intently I listen...

Boat

If I could

I'd grace whatever good fortune

with pieces of a smile

I borrowed at an early age

(never owing a return)

burning themselves

deeply into lines

on my face

which finally become

clear

in the calm water.

A map

unfolds to me,

staring back,

detailed

way before

I had the slightest inkling

that I

may one day

need to know

my route.

And as I

return

fragments

settle briefly

on the surface

around me

before sinking

into the immenseness

of eternity.

Feast

"It requires wisdom to understand wisdom; the music is nothing if the audience can't hear it."

Walter Lippman

... rendering moments of steady progress

moot while they

interfere with my trepidations...

How far has this unwanted ally

traveled,

so unknowingly,

with me?

It seems I am a host

for a multitude of

cynicisms,

not the least a wariness

specifically

inclined

per the moment,

this way and that.

And what is that

which is

carried along the banks of

my tumult?

A promise

of peace?

Hah! As I kick it back,

cursing,

into the mad

currents from which it was

spat.

The forgotten

visage

of promises made

floats, toes up,

sideways in the eddy.

But, blessedly, there are always

the hands,

stealthily

adjusting their grip...

I can feel them...

solo

  That's it for the other one...

Cerise sky.

The highway 

blends into a dream

almost perfectly...

 I forgot to

question the stranger

who frequently sits

over near the door,

watching the building across the street.

He lies so eloquently

through his tears, that 

I almost wish he'd stay.

Leaves like boats now

wend their way,

sliding through a puzzle effortlessly

as time

silently squeezes

something in my heart

and I wish to

become invisible

and ride along.

Thinking

I don't think much

about stuff,

as such,

unless I

feel the need.

Not to belabor

the point

I'd make

if a point

was to be

made indeed.

As a timely tool

for a way of life

the question

still remains;

What good

might occur

by thinking?

I think

I shall refrain.

I used to think that somewhere along my way I lost touch, which seems to me now to be a rather superficial excuse for never having known just what 'my way' was, or to this day, is. And how can one 'lose touch' if 'touch', or the concept of it has never been quantified, at the very least, in my own, terribly subjective mind? Or, does any of that even matter, in the, you know, 'big picture'.

I do know that subjectivity isn't the problem. I would suppose that all human beings have their own customized lenses through which they view events and experiences; certainly this is true otherwise we'd all be sitting here lost in our individual cognitive processes, frustrated with time's apparent inability to help us figure it all out.

I have had this dream now for ever since I can remember, and the only reason I mention it is because I have it still, and did indeed revisit it again last night.

I am very young. I am riding my new red 3-speed Schwinn home from school, when, rounding a corner, I suddenly realize I am lost. Nothing looks familiar. The houses, and cars, and people, are different. Everything is wrong. I ride faster, hoping that I will see something I know, something that will show me the way. But every turn I make, every street I choose, is strange and new, By now I am beginning to wonder if I will ever make it home...

And then, I wake up.

But the dream goes on, and on.

I should go tie a fly. That damned river is rounding back into shape. It's been a long winter.

My coffee's cold.

Grasp

Beside myself

for the better part

right from the start

and the images

float lazily past

like I might have a chance

but there's no place

for a stand

and my balance is

gone

no up

no down

no seeing around

one corner to the next

... like I have

any leverage

left.