tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499072706675140572024-03-14T05:06:28.143-04:00Life, ExplainedLife, Explained.
What you don't know, you probably won't learn here.Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.comBlogger1179125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-57462785391846281252024-02-27T10:51:00.001-05:002024-02-27T10:51:12.526-05:00Horoscopes r' us<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnMGWJ3RNVeEBY356j4eQNE1WrALkjre2zTxrbOuAI0k26JVj2aYx07JBs_Hmcc5779YtxWdbtEoNE0qzhzHrNKr5IsfblWN231OIOz9sr0lGH2thZJC_DGB7Pjuz-aO05ovYUqcNQT041VvZOgj9y-lv0WWNGBxMbUShbC3BrPZnBYTe1-YPVguwWxwA" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnMGWJ3RNVeEBY356j4eQNE1WrALkjre2zTxrbOuAI0k26JVj2aYx07JBs_Hmcc5779YtxWdbtEoNE0qzhzHrNKr5IsfblWN231OIOz9sr0lGH2thZJC_DGB7Pjuz-aO05ovYUqcNQT041VvZOgj9y-lv0WWNGBxMbUShbC3BrPZnBYTe1-YPVguwWxwA" width="249" /></a></div>Astrology for Dummies<span> </span><span> </span><p></p><p>Today's birthday belongs to Pisces, ruling planet, Neptune, ruling house 12th. If you are a Pisces you are smart, creative and deeply intuitive. You have an inherent understanding of the feelings and situations, to many people you almost seem psychic. </p><p>If today is your birthday, that's too bad, Mercury is in retrograde. This has caused many of your co-workers to be abnormally hostile, suspicious, and walking close to the edge.</p><p>They are secretly talking about how nosy you are, always snooping around in their private affairs. How you almost seem to know personal things. Many of them believe you know intimate, embarrassing things about their private lives. And it's really starting to piss them off.</p><p>Janet, that new girl in accounting, is worried you might know about the affair she has been having with Phil, the lead person in the maintenance shed. She is talking to Phil, right now, about cutting the brakelines on your car. In a way, you're lucky Phil is so incompetent. He will end up cutting the lines on your windshield wiper fluid, and you'll have dirty windows, but at least your car will stop.</p><p>Bobby, from the art department is sure you know about the candy bar he took from the honor box in the breakroom, He's going to put his dollar in as soon as he can afford it, but those new vaporizer cartridges cost a fortune, so much so he actually considered going back to cigarettes. That's not cheap, either, though. Besides, everybody looks down on cigarette smokers, vapers still have some time before they are ostracized, timing is everything. Besides, the apple pie, whipped cream, caramel canister is so good. His guilt has become so unendurable he will put two dollars in the box, at lunch time. He will blame you, and his anger will turn to rage, eventually growing into bitter hate. He will steal your lunch to exact his revenge, and today you had left over enchiladas with green sauce. People in the art department will be so impressed many of your future lunches will almost certainly vanish. You should probably stop writing your name on your lunch bag.</p><p>Everybody is angry, a lot of them blame you. Now would be a good time to ask for a raise. You won't get it but, it will make your sense of self-doubt and insignificance complete. Your calcium level is at an all-time low, and your bone density is... well let's just say it's not a good time to take up sky diving. </p><p>Don't worry, though, tomorrow is looking better, it couldn't get any worse.</p><p><br /></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-9232882187136220262023-12-30T12:10:00.000-05:002023-12-30T12:10:17.014-05:00The Year in Review, 2023<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">2023 The Year in Review</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDTwEXkB3wjqo4aJj3Mr12213LmhCIsCQcA3lQgy8lPaWgObaCok7PX2_-er1cSlnk0H0BixmBI-bGfc5hCwFkS2Uyik7dcgicTIFl16tSg5W9VDdJ5qV0mJ6S4dY7qkyx1aUXyNesS-CRrfN_Xv8B3z6uh9uJPJgb3pRbP98vXFTX2OV7Fe4vMIjOWzE/s1502/ransom%20note%20(1).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="878" data-original-width="1502" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDTwEXkB3wjqo4aJj3Mr12213LmhCIsCQcA3lQgy8lPaWgObaCok7PX2_-er1cSlnk0H0BixmBI-bGfc5hCwFkS2Uyik7dcgicTIFl16tSg5W9VDdJ5qV0mJ6S4dY7qkyx1aUXyNesS-CRrfN_Xv8B3z6uh9uJPJgb3pRbP98vXFTX2OV7Fe4vMIjOWzE/s320/ransom%20note%20(1).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>This year I had to get a new coffee grinder. I was forced to do this when the old coffee grinder <br />disappeared. There were no pieces, no fractured plastic shards from an unfortunate tumble to the floor, no ashes from a freak electrical surge, no ransom note. Here today, gone today, almost as if it never existed. It was a year like that. All year.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Robert F. Kennedy Jr. announced his candidacy for president. He has been a vocal opponent of vaccines, an active Covid denier, and generally opposed to any sort of attachment to reality. He launched, initially, as a democrat, not surprising, for a Kennedy. A wave of resentment and hostility persuaded him to switch to independent, which seemed to irritate Republicans. He just can’t get along with anyone. We, here at Life Explained, would like to wish him the best of luck in whatever he decides to pursue after losing the election.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">International war made a big comeback. Russia invaded Ukraine, and Hamas and Israel have once again resorted to armed conflict (though, Israel may feel this is more of an internal security issue than a war with a sovereign neighboring state). These are both potential catastrophes, exacerbated by the American governments inability to make any progress on almost any issue. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In a shocking acknowledgement of the law a candidate for president was removed from the ballot in two states. Donald Trump, facing numerous felony charges, was stricken from the rolls in Colorado, and Maine. It’s a safe bet other states will follow, but not this year. It’s a safe bet that Trump will threaten both states with expulsion from the union, invasion, nuclear strikes, mass incarceration, and anything else his fevered mind, and rabid advisors, can dream up. Still, it makes for a nice thought. Politics without Trump. Religion without Trump. News without Trump.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In much the same way as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8r-tXRLazs" style="color: #954f72;">video killed the radio star</a>, streaming programming has taken over television. Technically, this may have happened before this year. I just didn’t notice it. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it this year if I hadn’t seen every episode of Wagon Train, Leave it to Beaver, The Andy Griffith Show, several times. Now, my reruns are reruns. I probably should think about subscribing to one of the many, similar, expensive services, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. I’d pay for something I wouldn’t understand and couldn’t use. I have a computer and a smart phone for that. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It does make for some interesting conversations at work, when one of my co-workers ask about the latest episode of some modern, streaming, high tech program and I say “no, but did you see ‘<i>Perry Mason and The Case of the Deadly Verdict</i>’? Perry Mason actually lost a case.” The conversation died right there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In China it was the year of the Rabbit (lucky numbers 3, 4 and 6). In Chinese culture the rabbit is a symbol of longevity, peace and prosperity. While that seems a bit of a stretch, the American economy churned along, unemployment fell, and the standard of living has crawled up from the rubble of the Trump presidency. So, it might be closer to the truth than it appeared. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The state of Florida is investigating the NCAA for not selecting Florida State to participate in the Championship Playoffs. It cost the university several million dollars and a possible trip to the White House. College football has had a long history of pissing people off. Selecting teams that over other teams, in many ways it was a beauty contest, a lot of it had to do with pedigree, and the determination of the athletic director, possibly the connections established, it never hurts to have a history of membership on committees and panels. It’s who you know, and looking at the teams that were chosen this year,it still is.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">2024 (the Year of the Dragon, confident, intelligent, enthusiastic, lucky numbers 1, 6 and 7) is closing in fast. The presidential election looms large and forbidding. The climate is warming and may have reached the point of no return. College selection committees are going to choose who they choose, and people are going to complain. I’m not sure it will be that much different, but I have a new coffee grinder.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-66589956765163308882023-12-26T12:21:00.000-05:002023-12-26T12:21:00.829-05:00It Comes From The Light<div class="separator"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5BITXNKfPjJYMbSUf1s1VHEc_2eHuli_bCHy6iUDbgaeiZOlqTmGZE5zpZ9Irbms8dukR47t5Av9i8e3s7-IrhnxUrFPUphd2of8_pL9hF2KZesdw02FasNExzOtB_FDir77yCviRpw5GLJElk2sJa0XujjuNs1K3SBUmS6NXrq16qJ9iOA9ZDppDwBk/s4032/IMG_8584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5BITXNKfPjJYMbSUf1s1VHEc_2eHuli_bCHy6iUDbgaeiZOlqTmGZE5zpZ9Irbms8dukR47t5Av9i8e3s7-IrhnxUrFPUphd2of8_pL9hF2KZesdw02FasNExzOtB_FDir77yCviRpw5GLJElk2sJa0XujjuNs1K3SBUmS6NXrq16qJ9iOA9ZDppDwBk/w184-h245/IMG_8584.JPG" width="184" /></a><span style="font-family: courier;">Light comes in layers. Bright, revealing, glare that cast shadows. Shadows that seem even darker because of the light. Shadows that hide everything we ever imagined, or were afraid to imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Loud, yellow, light, the kind that reveals flaws. The kind of light that makes you think about your choices. It magnifies defects, it shines on the imperfections, making small imperfections seem enormous. Light can show us things we don’t want to see, and we never want to share.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="height: 4px; margin-left: 126px; margin-top: 9px; position: absolute; width: 5px; z-index: 251662336;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><img height="4" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/15e4efdd-ae0c-4590-a189-a51ca163aa64" v:shapes="Ink_x0020_5" width="5" /></span></span><span style="font-family: courier;">There is the smaller, distant light that hints at a direction. It offers a thin ray of hope when times are tough. Light at the end of the tunnel kind of light. It comes from the manufactured hope of a lost generation. It could have been any generation. They’ve all been left at the alter in one way or another. “Surely,” they can all say to themselves, “things haven’t always been this bad.” And they are right, and they are wrong. Things have always been this bad, and things have always been better.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjU69Ki8p32gE8WHkMF9bowkeXZ27Dpn1UnisYNWJziEC9StDkDwyn98ytXhRCXG9b_ul0TPMRLEt-2Xgxmvmk6SiNG25rg5Q__A4mJzGW67NAfQHT-m8YIt_07UIMvhZRMBWq6vhxTlNX6d5zzYJQWnIcVSQaIgpSb6V-kRl7OM0lxqxdCk14Timn8A/s5184/41737008_Unknown.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjU69Ki8p32gE8WHkMF9bowkeXZ27Dpn1UnisYNWJziEC9StDkDwyn98ytXhRCXG9b_ul0TPMRLEt-2Xgxmvmk6SiNG25rg5Q__A4mJzGW67NAfQHT-m8YIt_07UIMvhZRMBWq6vhxTlNX6d5zzYJQWnIcVSQaIgpSb6V-kRl7OM0lxqxdCk14Timn8A/w276-h207/41737008_Unknown.JPG" width="276" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="position: relative; z-index: 251661312;"><span style="height: 3px; left: 150px; position: absolute; top: -45px; width: 4px;"><img height="3" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/2d15cca0-1f9c-467b-b8a8-fa143296cab9" v:shapes="Ink_x0020_4" width="4" /></span></span>The old adage, “don’t go toward the light,” rips at our most ancient shame, fear of the darkness. We’re afraid of the dark because there are too many questions, maybe even worse, too many answers. Questions may haunt you but, it’s the answers that terrify you. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: courier;">It’s never a clear line between dark and light, lines of gray, murky, indistinct pockets of dread. There is an old belief that fear has an odor, pungent and raw. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Once, when I was young, for a reason I can’t remember, I walked across an old cemetery at night. It was one of those you see on the side of county roads. Surrounded by a barbed wire fence, cornfields on three sides, with a swinging aluminum gate. I was driving, just trying to remember what life was really about. I was stoned. I decided to walk through. I hadn’t seen a car for hours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: courier;">It was almost quiet, even the bugs paid their respects. I remember thinking it was easy, no problem. I walked from the gate, around the left side to the back, and when I reached the back fence, directly across from the gate I turned to look out at the corn. It was right next to the fence. It rustled softly, quiet murmurs, centuries of regret, whispering, I stood there listening, trying to pick out voices, words, until I thought I heard my name, I decided to leave. I walked, with more purpose than I want to admit, across the short breadth of the graveyard. More than I remember anything, I remember the shadows, they moved, and grew, and were black, they were more than black, they emanated blackness, they swallowed the light. And I remember the smell, fear, and dread, mixed with decay and death. Sometimes, on bad nights, when sleep won’t come, I can still smell it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: courier;">I never know which is worse, light or dark. They both have shadows. They both reveal things we might not want to see. Worse than that, though, they both make us look at ourselves in a way we aren’t always comfortable with. Either way we have to keep going, from light to dark and back again, and we call it life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div></div>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-26899150845814680122023-11-23T10:16:00.001-05:002023-11-23T11:35:28.824-05:00 Thanksgiving. The ugly truth.<p><br /></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="font-family: "Calibri Light", sans-serif; font-size: 28pt; letter-spacing: -0.5pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypOhnX05IgDVWGDyvvKaMqLwVTzu6V4aoYfJKJ9KtCoE_yJ2VeBS0ZqJN4CoddcEsjW1G0EdeGYbMAUIEWC62or-T6J-cz4qzEsdh0FCDV9a9lyo2t5UITqBe-X9K5ldXp1Z6RH7PdymUp981BgEa9D1qoD5pJlBUFbUKmDCEjQHJztpmS9XnLpK4Sn0/s800/325174.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="800" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypOhnX05IgDVWGDyvvKaMqLwVTzu6V4aoYfJKJ9KtCoE_yJ2VeBS0ZqJN4CoddcEsjW1G0EdeGYbMAUIEWC62or-T6J-cz4qzEsdh0FCDV9a9lyo2t5UITqBe-X9K5ldXp1Z6RH7PdymUp981BgEa9D1qoD5pJlBUFbUKmDCEjQHJztpmS9XnLpK4Sn0/s320/325174.png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">In today’s episode of Finding the Truth we explain the origins of the holiday, Thanksgiving.</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In a year, reported to be 1620 puritans, looking to escape religious persecution booked passage on ships bound for the new world. Technically it wasn’t new, it was as old as the world they were leaving. And in the end, religious persecution followed them, they were just the persecutors, which seemed to be ok with them. Funny how that always works out.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Anyway, they got here, and rumor has it, it was cold and wet, and they were hungry, and lost and really didn’t know what to do. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In the immortal words of Bob Dylan, “They said, let’s set up a fort and start buying the place with beads.” </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But it was lonely, and they didn’t know what to do. Unlike the established world they left there were no shops to go buy a goose, or vegetables or ale, mead, wine, rum. It was just this big, empty place. Except for all the trees.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Fortunately for our hardy settlers some Native Americans, who had been around for centuries, took pity on them and showed them how to grow and harvest the local crops, corn, which they called maize, made into cornbread and porridge. There was deer, cod, bass, and assorted wild fowl. It turned out to be a generous spread. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">There are rumors that the pilgrims, unaccustomed to such delicacies after months of hard tack, (which is not really made from tacks at all, but is a kind of biscuit, that could be stored for a long time) and salted meat, became violently ill, and blamed the natives for all the discomfort. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“We should kick their asses.” The mayor said, several days later, when he could stand up without dizziness and, well you don’t need the details. You can trust me on this, there was an employee where I work, and when he called in sick, he would give me all the disgusting symptoms, the colors and smells, the appearance. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was terrible, I told him I didn’t need any of the details, he could tell me he felt too good to come to work, it was fine with me. Ah, the trials of a minor, insignificant supervisory functionary. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Anyway, the pilgrims decided to form into loose, ill organized and poorly armed militias, and go out and put foot to bottom, if you get my drift. They weren’t sure what to call their former friends, now mortal enemies, native Americans wasn’t really available, because America was probably copyrighted and there would be legal ramifications.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Hey, let’s call them Indians.” One guy said, he was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife and didn’t look up.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“It’s not India,” Someone interjected. “It doesn’t make sense.” <br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Doesn’t matter. Besides, it might be India. We don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Ok, Indians, it is.”<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Meanwhile, the native Americans were suffering from some sort of European flu, or just a malaise of some sort. They had no immunity to the viruses and bacteria crawling all over the Europeans. A lot of them probably came from Hard Tack and salted pork. Refrigeration was years away and sanitary practices involved prayer and a little extra sodium, imagine the hypertension and thirst. Anyway the native Americans were convinced it was the tourists and they were furious.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Let’s go toss their sorry, sick butts back into the water.” Said, Thundering Cloud, the chief.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Maybe it wasn’t them, maybe it’s just a seasonal illness, and we would have had it anyway.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Oh sure, leave it to Vacillating Rabbit to suggest that.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And, with that, the fight was on.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Remember this with your feast, it was the sacrifice of our ancient ancestors, that made it all possible.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-79387593858621939552023-11-18T12:40:00.002-05:002023-11-18T12:40:21.707-05:00From a Deadbeat to an Old Greaser<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEice0u2bVaExrpovTuqHhvJt_nyEOQAhOpeE5Thsu1sgRF5HOshVhNeAOsG1XFJVPmDmC3U2KvLQKR3FaaFBBflkA7J5WEoOQMORFqQLCpKdRKfRxyLCvuuWyvrx6vD1skH8lnw_Pj6Heq9I_6_6sLis3yMMaqIYy5ksEDwpRkPwz4JgrTbcVITC7Erg5o/s1587/C20987C6-34F6-4BD1-9AC1-692E3A629DB6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="983" data-original-width="1587" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEice0u2bVaExrpovTuqHhvJt_nyEOQAhOpeE5Thsu1sgRF5HOshVhNeAOsG1XFJVPmDmC3U2KvLQKR3FaaFBBflkA7J5WEoOQMORFqQLCpKdRKfRxyLCvuuWyvrx6vD1skH8lnw_Pj6Heq9I_6_6sLis3yMMaqIYy5ksEDwpRkPwz4JgrTbcVITC7Erg5o/w346-h214/C20987C6-34F6-4BD1-9AC1-692E3A629DB6.jpeg" width="346" /></a></div> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">There was a tow truck in the parking lot when I got to work this morning.</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> <br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Since I’m the first one to show up, the lot was empty, except for the tow truck. It sat, idling, in the middle of the lot. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I parked, it made a long, graceful looping turn and started toward me. Its headlights were bright, even in the early morning sun. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Hey, buddy. Is this 417 Fifth Street?” He asked, through his open window. Cigarette smoke rolled out the window and up into the morning sky. He had a huge travel mug sitting on the dashboard.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No, this is 23 Israel Street. Fifth Street is over that way, somewhere.” I said motioning toward the north. I knew my way to work, and back home, I could get to the grocery store, the liquor store, the bank and a few places to eat, but streets names and directions never really meant anything to me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I guess I should get one of them GPS things.” He said, looking at a folded map. He took the travel mug, worn and stained, off the dash board and took a long drink. “Mountain Dew, all the breakfast anybody ever needs.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He burped, loud, a small amount of smoke followed the sound.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I guess your car doesn’t need towing.” He looked at my car, a beat up Chevette, with mismatched tires, and fading, blue paint, rust spots bloomed in random places. “It could be a candidate for the repair shop.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Or the junkyard.” I added and we both laughed, an awkward chuckle, hollow and pointless, mostly just a formality.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He offered me a cigarette, and I took it, it was a Marlboro, I only bought the bargain brands. I really couldn’t tell much difference. It went well with my gas station coffee, though. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“What do you guys do here?” He asked, looking at the old building, long, windowless, cream colored, dumpy and squat. It could have looked secretive, mysterious, menacing, if you didn’t know there was a women’s wear warehouse stacked in odd, messy piles inside. It was owned by clothes designers, young people, almost children, they had no idea about warehousing. They loved fashion, and clothing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">There was no method to the madness, it was chaos, mixed with mindless neglect. One saving grace was everybody seemed to understand. If counts were off, nobody ever lost their temper. They just corrected the inventory until another pile was uncovered, and the missing skirts or jackets, or sweaters were found, when they would correct inventory again. All the customers were used to the on again, off again nature of ordering. It was one big happy, dysfunctional family.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“It’s a warehouse, or distribution center. I guess that’s the word we use know. Warehouse is old and out of fashion.” I said, inhaling the smoke, enjoying the burn, in my lungs, in my eyes. It was crazy how I enjoyed the pain. Hot coffee, smoke, touching all the right buttons.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Yeah, I guess we’re dinosaurs. Hanging on to the edges. You know the other day I went a picked up a car, one of them hybrid things, down by the waterfront, some kid, really dressed, suit and tie, hair locked in place, was waiting. I was having a cigarette, and he asked me if it was hard to smoke when it was so hot. I told him it was still worth it, even offered him one. He was pissed.” He laughed, smoke coming from his nose. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“We’ll, I’d better go find the car, it’s a 2012 Ford, Fiesta. Won’t start.” He said, looking at his map, his rheumy eyes looked tired and slightly out of focus. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I pulled my phone from my pocket, found the address on the maps app. I showed him how to get there from our lot, tracing it with my finger on his map. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Hey, thanks, that’s pretty nice.” He said, putting his truck into reverse, and driving away. I went to work feeling better about life.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“From a deadbeat to an old greaser, here’s thinking of you.” Funny how little things are big things to a deadbeat.<o:p></o:p></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-91194666218168481772023-09-30T10:18:00.003-04:002023-09-30T15:30:44.070-04:00Demons In The Elevator<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">This week they came to perform an exorcism on our elevator.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8u3eom_H4Gd5fwZYQB15Gjl1ZnO6EN3oxcboEJI_RF0lgjtWWbeU4RC_SjzGFmabWpNjLh2Yj-Mp5b9r2e8Izglh3P4uq1WDtyELzoRlBgB2Fx_A3AEP4ZBNp8sHeXpfLKMGGpwrD8mKf2B1tjRE4E6ivQcqeR9ejoXmaBn8-pwFilVy-JeFMzvJU_MU/s4032/Darkness.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8u3eom_H4Gd5fwZYQB15Gjl1ZnO6EN3oxcboEJI_RF0lgjtWWbeU4RC_SjzGFmabWpNjLh2Yj-Mp5b9r2e8Izglh3P4uq1WDtyELzoRlBgB2Fx_A3AEP4ZBNp8sHeXpfLKMGGpwrD8mKf2B1tjRE4E6ivQcqeR9ejoXmaBn8-pwFilVy-JeFMzvJU_MU/w218-h291/Darkness.JPG" width="218" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">It probably wasn’t a classic exorcism, with a Vatican trained practitioner. Eighteen months ago the elevator stopped working. One day it moaned and shook, shuddering to a pained stop on the third floor, and then stopped lifting, it would still lower, but it wouldn’t elevate. Once it got to the basement it stayed there. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Twelve months ago, several men came. “We’re from Cartledge/Bobbins elevator service.” They said when I let them in. They were short and solid, serious, saturnine, dour and grimly determined. There were deep wrinkles around their eyes, and you could tell it wasn’t from smiling. Their fingers were short and beefy and could have been made of rebar. You could imagine those fingers crushing a cement brick, the fine gray powder sifting to the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A relentless, intense aura surrounded them, a power that didn’t come from hours in the gym, pressing and lifting and honing a physique. It was a strength that came from physical labor. It was the power needed to wrestle machinery and equipment into submission. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">These were men who worked on their cars or pickups not because the cars, or pickups needed repaired but because it was a hobby. It gave them pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the course of five days, they tore out the mechanism, a hydraulic pump and a series of long, shiny metal cylinders that would rise and lift when fluid flowed into the chamber below. An odd combination of chemistry, engineering, and magic. Everything was replaced with new machinery. We were upwardly mobile again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Trouble started a few days later. There was an odd bounce at the 2<sup>nd</sup> floor, almost like it jumped a couple of inches to the side. It made a sickening thud, the same sound you hear when you drop a whole roasted turkey on the kitchen floor. At odd intervals it would make the same old shudder, and shake, a ghostly moan rose from the depths, and it would need repaired. They would come and fix, and fuss and check, and then leave, and it would be stable, for a while.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Nobody could escape the conclusion that something more permanent was necessary.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The bell rang, and I answered the door. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We’re from Cartledge/Bobbins elevator service.” I took them down to the basement. There were three of them. Their hair varied from close cropped to shaved. They wore heavy duty boots, and sturdy, close fit canvas trousers. They had an air of increased gravity; you could feel the intensity of their purpose. They were there to do a job, and nothing was going to stand in the way.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I wouldn’t plan on using it for a while.” One of them said, he seemed to be in charge. He looked to be slightly older. Though, it was impossible to gauge the age of these men, they could have been chiseled from rock, or molded from clay, and fired in a furnace until they were hardened and indestructible. Prometheus would have been proud.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “If you need anything let me know. My name’s Tim.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">They all turned to look at me. Their faces were blank, and their eyes were bright, pointed and alert. At first, I thought they didn’t understand what I said. I realized they were thinking, running through various scenarios, trying to imagine a situation where they might need something from me. They couldn’t. Neither could I.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“OK, thank you,” the leader said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For two days there was a low, hissing sound, odd flashes of light coming through the gaps around the closed elevator doors. Occasionally, a loud bang would echo through the building. Sulfur and whiffs of smoke, a fetid, foul sense of decay, older than mankind and darker than night, and an occasional curse, would climb the empty shaft, and leak out onto the solitary confines of the mostly empty building.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Throughout the day history stumbled across the warehouse. I turned on all the lights, everywhere, the minute I got to work. The shadows were alive, and I wanted them as far away as possible. Weird things happened. Or almost happened.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Images would flash across walls, and there was a heaviness that seemed to dim the light, like a cloud covers the sun. A brief tear, and a slight chill, and then it was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Did you see that?” Jimmy asked. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I hope not.” Was the only answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBa_-dK8Es7sPsXtJvmx2hy54dkzsCVwvy0Tj7qpo5GBbqcnil-xPsYwJvrw5DGL4e0qPSVnVdTRicUaaMA5GHTmfB48JVGvXrYRj8KVGWNo3gFP5zsLL32JleljIBVmIe2lsjYCQC-NP9HR6PYf5Du5j2zRdXVKkuR50UegUhlGr7PI3Flt9TUROEPg/s458/897ED3D6-9A67-448C-A805-F8EB395E9B2A.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="376" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBa_-dK8Es7sPsXtJvmx2hy54dkzsCVwvy0Tj7qpo5GBbqcnil-xPsYwJvrw5DGL4e0qPSVnVdTRicUaaMA5GHTmfB48JVGvXrYRj8KVGWNo3gFP5zsLL32JleljIBVmIe2lsjYCQC-NP9HR6PYf5Du5j2zRdXVKkuR50UegUhlGr7PI3Flt9TUROEPg/w293-h389/897ED3D6-9A67-448C-A805-F8EB395E9B2A.heic" width="293" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">One of our co-workers went to use the restroom on the first floor, and never came back. And then there were two. Nobody wants to go look for him. A graven image was burned into the wood of the first floor, right next to the fire exit, in the stairwell by the elevator shaft.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">At the end of the second day the men came up to the third floor, and said the elevator was “fixed.” The assumed leader had a piece of gauze taped to his head, slightly above the temple, almost straight above his left eye. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">They looked weary and seemed to be slightly smaller than they were 29 hours before when they turned to look at me in the basement.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was disconcerting when they used the stairs. I watched as they carried buckets and bags of tools back to their vans. It was slow, and methodical, stooped and pained, their feet shuffled, dragging slightly. Each step seemed to be more work than the one before, leaving little trails in the dust that seemed to settle on every surface over the previous day. I decided not to offer any help next time they came.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.693334px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-55812351408879088862023-09-09T20:51:00.004-04:002023-09-09T20:51:31.374-04:00Life Explains Religion<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdU2gpIASYgdMs_AyMKaLJxqEDFU_wHyDeBN6DJQvMSWWXYizM0EVpHouSalgJQrquCz5No_A2kDz280ITgOac6BgwXP8oww0_wKlOI3ED5h57AnYf0cJRZp945E4z0hH7HmT3l3aEWWsb808nawExY--EytFWW2Tm9Bg40Lzc7KdMrXtX1yi_fOpviA/s4032/IMG_8335.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdU2gpIASYgdMs_AyMKaLJxqEDFU_wHyDeBN6DJQvMSWWXYizM0EVpHouSalgJQrquCz5No_A2kDz280ITgOac6BgwXP8oww0_wKlOI3ED5h57AnYf0cJRZp945E4z0hH7HmT3l3aEWWsb808nawExY--EytFWW2Tm9Bg40Lzc7KdMrXtX1yi_fOpviA/w355-h266/IMG_8335.jpeg" width="355" /></a></div>Over Labor Day weekend we attended the Greek Festival at the Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church. It’s a beautiful building. I’ve walked past it several times and always been fascinated by the logical sequence of gradual size inherent in the appearance, one thing leads to another, from the smaller offices and classrooms surrounding and attached to the exterior, climbing in orderly steps to the arched dome over the cathedral. It carries the weight of awesome symmetry from every angle. There is an order and structure to the shapes, they seem almost independent of each other, but so interconnected and mutually reliant it gives me an odd sense of being a mirage, a dream in the middle of a busy intersection, in a trendy, fashionable area. I had never been inside, so this was my chance to visit.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’m not a religious person, but sometimes I wish I was. Life would be so much easier if I had something to hold onto when the discomforts of existence begin to grind away at my ability to resist. Inside a church you can almost sense the majesty of the almighty. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We attended a tour of the nave while we were there. It was gorgeous. Stained glass diluting, refracting, and cooling the suns rays, taming the vicious nuclear fusion that powers the stars, refracting it into rainbows. There are depictions of the Saints, the Apostles, the Virgin Mother, the Savior. All looking beatifically from the upper walls, the vaulted ceiling. You can feel the strength of the unknown, the unknowable. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Everything was spotless, as if the process that creates and distributes dust is unwelcome in churches. There was a shine and polish, a sparkle that was almost hypnotic. Churches must be some of the cleanest places on earth. They don’t smell of disinfectant, or cleanser, it’s almost as if they just don’t get dirty.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">There is a solemn quiet, a hush that offers strength. It seems peaceful, serene. Until two women bumbled in through the large doors below the balcony and sat behind us. They seemed to be playing video games on their phones and whispering insulting contradictions to almost every point the guide made. It was constant, beeping, blathering and completely distracting.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I listened, as best as I could, to the gentle, kind voice of the guide as he told us about the saints, and the spiritual reasons for the features, and depictions. There was a pattern and uniformity, across the Orthodox religion. It was surprisingly technical. I’ve always assumed religion was just interpreting the scripture. But there is an order, a method, a reason approaching scientific, maybe astrological. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Any questions?” He asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After a few questions from around the pews I raised my hand.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“When did Christianity come to Greece?” I asked. He answered, politely and thoroughly.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I really wanted to ask, “Why did the ancient Greeks turn their back on such a rich, complete polytheism, developed over a millennium, a system of beliefs that could find a somewhat implausible, sometimes fantastic reason for almost anything and adopt a religion whose main explanation for any kind of suffering is ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’” I was mad at myself for not having the courage to ask. It was probably the last chance I’ll ever get.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Ancient Greece has the most fascinating history. In many ways it resembles “The Readers Digest Condensed Version” of world history. Everything that ever happened in the world happened on a smaller scale on the mountainous peninsula, wars, prosperity, desolation, revolution. And their mythology had everything covered. They had a god, or goddess for every occasion, it was a thorough, complete list of responsibility covering everything from hunting to the cultivation of crops. They had an explanation for disasters, unusual good fortune, even run of the mill, everyday life. It must have taken centuries to devise and record. And they abandoned it. For a relatively new phenomenon. An upstart religion based on a single messiah. I’m not sure how long the conversion took, but it had to be a tough sell. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I was interested in the schism, too. What caused the western and eastern patriarchates of the oldest Christian religion to split apart so completely. I’ve taken a little time to look it up, and there doesn’t seem to be a clear answer for such a radical dissolution. It seemed to have been a slow process, that simmered over centuries, and involved fragile human egos, and petty political rivalries. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As I read about ancient Greek mythology, and the schism behind the split a realization came to me, the only peace you find in a church you have to bring in with you, the only comfort you ever found you had to invent. Every church was complete with the mean little people who sat behind me. They were a part of the act. I remembered the services I had attended, Lutheran, Baptist, Catholic, all with the same message, conform, convert, or else. I remembered the evangelicals throwing themselves at Trump, acolytes before the one true grifter. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Churches are ancient institutions; they’ve learned how to present themselves as islands in a sea of madness, sanctuaries against the unclean, the unholy. It’s a foolproof plan. But it’s an illusion, they are organizations designed to prosper, and grow. They sell salvation, it is their only product, and they are the only ones who can define it, and they have the only outlet. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I love the beauty of churches. The majesty. And I wish I could find some comfort, more than a temporary feeling of escape. In many ways it probably comes from my unhealthy need to be an outsider, or it might come from the self-interest that seems to drive churches to indulge in shameless political promotion. Also, it could be the wealth, the enormous treasure churches seem to acquire and hoard. Still, religion seems a wholesome thing, in many ways, like politics, and business administration, it’s always the people who corrupt the process, turn it to personal gain. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br />I went, paid my ticket, bought some food, and a few pins featuring saints of Greek Orthodoxy for <a href="https://tim-thingsastheyare.blogspot.com/2023/08/backpacks-across-ages.html" style="color: #954f72;">my newest treasure</a>, so I donated. I don’t mind pitching in occasionally, but that’s as far as it goes.<o:p></o:p></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-40075026303317095142023-08-26T11:42:00.000-04:002023-08-26T11:42:10.669-04:00Backpacks Across the Ages. <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGt52VjsWZRNMXpYlO46LspXCzCp9HQzSyUTB3J5CNcclgXXAC-4iy5gLI3WayFplflJtWbxbkja27QthbvfjxR2d4aH-p2hAlGX0upAIxKs5UH9Pa1_4YZ4CDPaRPNdS4t_xQZmMuTJlap7rD4O9AqChlxK_BGFewvVQqn94sJPSuAL89e1HL94N_FI/s728/hitchhiker.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="728" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGt52VjsWZRNMXpYlO46LspXCzCp9HQzSyUTB3J5CNcclgXXAC-4iy5gLI3WayFplflJtWbxbkja27QthbvfjxR2d4aH-p2hAlGX0upAIxKs5UH9Pa1_4YZ4CDPaRPNdS4t_xQZmMuTJlap7rD4O9AqChlxK_BGFewvVQqn94sJPSuAL89e1HL94N_FI/w240-h160/hitchhiker.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>In my youth I was impulsive, irresponsible, not very bright, some things haven’t changed much.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Working as a construction laborer allowed me to travel to different places. Never any place very interesting, at least not to somebody with my quirks and personality flaws. Everything had the unique color provided by the filter of my self-doubt. I couldn’t imagine a place where I could be happy. It just couldn’t exist. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We were working in a town slightly less than a hundred miles from our home. I was almost broke, hungover, and out of pot. It was hot, and a thunderstorm with torrential rain late the night before had fueled an inhuman humidity and covered the job site with a thick layer of sticky mud. It would cling to your boots, work its way up your pants until you looked as though you were in a science fiction B movie from the 60s, “Attack of the Endless Mud.” By lunch I was miserable, so I quit.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0HOp-M69umwAEeckBHxIprjS2YXy6a3y23RxOF5E6yduRr7J-tJYdCO3eJn12vHn_sxTVSEbwlKxGj4XXmn_Bjx80rs4mW3wkIsMzSQS4xqzGVRHJWzrGT_5ND67OppxlACpprRpFZksgapRC5FQ3tbuRBCS26tNvtDHA6tk-2bVcjKojPqJBFliYdo/s1000/usgi.duffel.bag_.tall_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0HOp-M69umwAEeckBHxIprjS2YXy6a3y23RxOF5E6yduRr7J-tJYdCO3eJn12vHn_sxTVSEbwlKxGj4XXmn_Bjx80rs4mW3wkIsMzSQS4xqzGVRHJWzrGT_5ND67OppxlACpprRpFZksgapRC5FQ3tbuRBCS26tNvtDHA6tk-2bVcjKojPqJBFliYdo/w100-h100/usgi.duffel.bag_.tall_.jpg" width="100" /></a></div>I went back to the motel, showered, and packed my clothes in my shore bag, a heavy-duty canvas bag used in the army. It had a sturdy hasp for a lock and was almost indestructible. I bought if for a few dollars at an army surplus store. It had been with me a long time. I also had a small plastic trash bag with my muddy clothes from work that day. I didn’t want to put them in with all my other clothes, some clean, some dirty, but not dirty like that.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p>On my way to the bus depot, I passed a small sporting goods store. They specialized in fishing gear, guns, clothing with a strong anti-Middle Eastern sentiment. It was during the <a href="https://history.state.gov/departmenthistory/short-history/iraniancrises" style="color: #954f72;">Iranian hostage crisis</a> and people were enraged by a sense of national impotence. I found a small orange backpack I could afford, stuck my trash bag of muddy clothes into it and left. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It had been relatively cheap, but when I got to the bus stop, I found out it had taken enough money I couldn’t afford the fare. My plan was falling apart faster than it had hatched. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p>I had two choices, two reasonable choices, anyway, I could go back and ask for my job back, and face the humiliation that I deserved, or I could hitchhike. I grabbed a cold bottled drink and headed for the interstate.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It wasn’t long before a beat up, rusted red, pickup truck with dual tires in the back stopped and asked me where I was going. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“North Platte.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“We’re going to Gothenburg. Want a lift?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Gothenburg was about 35 miles from where I wanted to go. It was a small town a couple of miles from the interstate. it seemed as if it might be hard to catch a ride there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Can you drop me in Lexington?” It was fifteen miles before Gothenburg, and the largest town between where I was and where I was going. Plus it was right on the freeway.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Sure, you’ll have to ride in the back.” He nodded to the woman and child sitting next to him.<br /><br />“That’s cool.” I rode in the back of a pickup with an overly friendly, panting, slobbering Labrador retriever named Oscar, we became good friends, and he sat on my legs for about twenty miles. Bits of straw floated through the air, and things seemed to be looking up. I was making progress.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He dropped me off, offered me a baggie of homemade cookies and left. I waved and thanked him.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I sat there for a couple of hours. Cars drove by kicking up little clouds of stinging dust and sand. The sun was a bright, merciless, an obscene ball of malignant energy, and the pavement of the ramp had little shimmering devils dancing in celebration. The sun pushed down, and the earth pushed back and my whole world was condensed into that little box, that space in time, and I was certain I was going to die setting on the shoulder of that endless road. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I walked over to the truck stop and had a cup of coffee that tasted like it was leftover from breakfast and a donut that was probably from the Korean War. I bought a pack of cigarettes and went back to the highway. I still had almost twelve dollars and a small bag of cookies. I went and waited. In those days the worst part of hitchhiking was waiting, and I waited, melting in the sun, and filled with doubt and regret. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A dented old Pontiac sedan pulled up. It was so faded it was hard to tell what color it was originally. It was now several shades of pale gray. I told him where I was going. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">"I'm only going to Brady, interested?" He said.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Everything seemed hopeless, and I was willing to do almost anything to get out of there. I thanked him and climbed him.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Do you want a cigarette?” He asked, over the sounds coming from the Aerosmith eight track tape, the open windows, and the repetitive thunk-ka-chunk of the engine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“No, thanks, I have some.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Can I have one?” He asked. It was odd, but it was cheap for 40 miles worth of gasoline and 40 minutes of Toys in the Attic.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We smoked without saying much. Then he reached over and opened the glove box and pulled out two joints. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Do you want to get high?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Sure,” we rolled up the windows and he turned on the air conditioning, more of a polite imagination tied to a button and sliding lever, than it actual refrigeration. It didn’t seem cold, but it seemed cool and after the day I had it was heaven, and blissfully quiet. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He drove past Brady. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I think I’ll go to Maxwell, instead. Do you mind?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I didn’t. It was only ten miles, and I could call somebody to come get me. If that didn’t work I could walk, I would be home before dark. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He dropped me off, I had a cookie, picked up my bags and started walking into the small town. I was trying to decide who I should call. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As I walked into the gas station parking lot, toward the pay phone, the Pontiac came back, honking and waving. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I can take you to North Platte. What I was going to do kind of fell through, and I’m in the clear.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“That would be nice.” We smoked a joint, ate the rest of my cookies and he dropped me off at the house of friend. I never saw him again, even though I will never forget the day, or that car, and even though I’m not an Aerosmith fan I smiled every time I heard that album.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My friend had just gotten some mushrooms and I spent two days in a hazy, gauzy, happy fog. There is no more efficient method of convincing yourself you did the right thing than a couple of days of low level hallucinations, cold beer and snack food, even when you know it was unfair to your employer, your coworkers and an act of short sighted stupidity. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be my last. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When it was over, I had to go get a job. I moved back in with my mother, one more thing I will apologize for if I am lucky enough to run into her in the hereafter. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I kept that bag, the one that cost me a bus ticket. It became my travel bag, my bicycle bag, my walk to the grocery store and bring home some food bag. When I traveled I would buy a patch to commemorate. “Estes Park” “Memorial Stadium” “Worlds of Fun” and sew it in slow, painful, amateur stitches onto my backpack. I started buying patches of places I wanted to visit. I started adding concert patches, Frank Zappa, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, The Grateful Dead. It was getting to be quite a sight. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I bought a patch while I was traveling through Garden City, and the counter person was impressed by the number of patches on my bag. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Sewed ‘em all on by hand.” I boasted.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Oh, you don’t have to sew them on, they have an aggressive heat activated adhesive. You can just use a hot iron and they should last forever.” She explained, looking at me with skepticism over her glasses, I think she wondered <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">There were a lot of memories fastened randomly to that bag. Then, one day, I went to look for it and I couldn’t find it. Nor could I find my shore bag. They are probably in a box, in the basement, behind or under something. C’est la vie, I guess. The end of an era.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My wife and I went to a county wide yard sale last summer. We didn’t find much, but there was an estate sale in an old, clean, well-maintained house. As we wandered through the rooms, we came across a shore bag, of the same type I had. It brought back many memories. It was a little frayed, and had a name stenciled in fading letters across the side. He was only asking five dollars. Pay the man. Surplus used to be cheap, but now it’s fashion. No well-dressed prepper, or paramilitary militiaman would be caught dead in civilian garb. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p>It sits atop my chest of drawers waiting for our next big trip. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I was doom scrolling through my Facebook feed when I came across a website that would sell you a backpack complete with patches. You just pick the color and the patches and give them your credit card number, and they would send you a bag adorned with memories. Tempting, but not the same.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Over dinner I told my wife about the site, she asked where my bag was. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Who knows.” I was surprised when she told me how much she liked the looks of the bag, how she felt it was such an expression of who I was. It made me love her even more.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We went to see Dead and Company in Cincinnati. We walked through Shakedown Street, enjoying a cold beer, the sights and smells and sounds, I bought a couple of bandanas. We came across a stand with some boonie hats, beaded bracelets and stickers, pins, and an amazing assortment of patches. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“You should buy some. Maybe you could start a new backpack. There is no surer way to find your old pack than to make a new one.” My wife told me, grabbing my elbow in that way she has of telling me she had made up her mind.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“That’s a great idea.” I was surprised at how pleased I was by the idea. I wasn’t surprised she had thought of it. That’s who she is, how she operates, her mind is always working, calculating, wheels turning. Once she has an idea, it’s locked in. She will track it down across the empty landscape of time. She is relentless.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I found three I really liked, snapped them up, and felt pretty good about myself, mostly about my wife, though. After all these years she still surprises me, always a little ambush, walking through a flea market, or a thrift store, supermarkets, bodegas, or garage sales. Seemingly out of the blue, she will access a memory, a dream, and the kaleidoscope begins.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In an odd turn of events, several weeks later, we ended up at a head shop in a small city in Southeastern Ohio. We didn’t know it was a head shop, we just saw a store with some colorful t-shirts, Baja jackets, walking sticks, posters and bumper stickers. On the shelf behind the counter was a Dia de los Muertos backpack. The bag had a “made in Nepal” tag and a small note thanking me. It had a black front and back panel with two maroon pockets, the larger pocket on the bottom had a calavera skull embroidered on the large pouch on the bottom. Wrapped around the sides was an orange, red, white and grey Dhaka patterned cloth. It was a little soft, and baggy, with an endearing fragility. It was perfect.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscfS540yf_WpdRFiyKTn7LEKlWbIvn5zGVZz3BAnCjJDfTNhjOsIdBqYaGCngGndWydyIwuoZVePRHjtk1ANMTMEyWrhTousaz-AV39snInYqv0YszpSLI3rbSEZJsf2NC9u5W38PvkbsId-zEZTowaMkaU83vticI5O_TnsWbBLD5e1DOZ-mwzlaIzg/s4032/Backpack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscfS540yf_WpdRFiyKTn7LEKlWbIvn5zGVZz3BAnCjJDfTNhjOsIdBqYaGCngGndWydyIwuoZVePRHjtk1ANMTMEyWrhTousaz-AV39snInYqv0YszpSLI3rbSEZJsf2NC9u5W38PvkbsId-zEZTowaMkaU83vticI5O_TnsWbBLD5e1DOZ-mwzlaIzg/w172-h230/Backpack.JPG" width="172" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Its softness was a bonus. If it became frayed or worn, I would just add another patch. It could be a masterpiece. An evolving piece of art, a growing pattern of places and things. It made me think of the Cat Stevens song, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95_zeIj2AZk" style="color: #954f72;">Oh Very Young</a>:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>“<span style="color: #202124;">And though your dreams may toss and turn you now<br />They will vanish away like your dads best jeans<br />Denim blue, faded up to the sky<br />And though you want them to last forever<br />You know they never will<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />You know they never will<br />And the patches make the goodbye harder still”</span><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It has plenty of room for all my essentials, and even a few extras. I don’t have many essentials. It is perfect for patches and pins, and personalization. It is the perfect thing for this point in my life. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’m coming to the end. The end of this marathon story, the end of my career as a paid employee (we are so close to retiring, but that’s another story), and eventually the end of my time “in this place of wrath and tears,” though I’m in no hurry for that. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My first bag ended up being the balm I needed, then. I was confused, alone and searching for something solid, sturdy, a blank canvas for a life that needed to be filled in, defined. This bag is already colorful and garish, rounded and soft, it will need to be reinforced and require extra attention. It has a small, simple personality, a unique sense of identity. Kind of like the one I always wanted.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-17696992179004340402023-08-17T14:34:00.018-04:002023-08-17T15:02:58.024-04:00History, On this Day, August 25th, 1975<p></p><p class="MsoTitle">Today in History, <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_7Jeij4CdMXD97FjCxRSUwRNghSGcz4GHB4yIUpQ18UOqWeTa_3cF0DTGbAdUIGLkUsSs-oEY9AL8arW5weUnb_KBWxqjvb7bILRjKX5EzsIYRu1jrK9ODs2Xq2Z68q3e73f1ZG9xNxVI4HO6ykKr5DIV2KE5QdgefJWHjPueTeIhPucMg3ud7UdmkYA/s472/catsup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_7Jeij4CdMXD97FjCxRSUwRNghSGcz4GHB4yIUpQ18UOqWeTa_3cF0DTGbAdUIGLkUsSs-oEY9AL8arW5weUnb_KBWxqjvb7bILRjKX5EzsIYRu1jrK9ODs2Xq2Z68q3e73f1ZG9xNxVI4HO6ykKr5DIV2KE5QdgefJWHjPueTeIhPucMg3ud7UdmkYA/s320/catsup.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoTitle"><br /></p><p class="MsoTitle"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><h2>A Wasted Childhood.</h2><h2>August 25<sup>th</sup>, 1975</h2><h1><o:p></o:p></h1>
<div><br /></div><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was the first day of school at Our Holy Redeemer and it
was hot. At 7:30 in the morning it had been 75 degrees. Temperatures climbed all morning. and the humidity was
hovering between brutal and unbearable. To
most of the student’s humidity was only a word from television and radio.
Something old people complained about. But in the middle of an enclosed
hallway, in an old building with no air-conditioning, when the atmosphere
became so heavy breathing was labored, almost impossible, sweat ran down backs,
dripped into burning, bloodshot eyes, clothes clung to damp, uncomfortable
flesh, even students knew something had gone bad. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3F6T6PV_iIX6U7ZlePKpKu7y9QgxY7sYnHrvbY1GLxApxLU52mCogkEyV_3-AhkUWnOTiYu7j-_gEB7YvAwlHGuXa8H9Jvk1F5J6-DvFaatB_hSnkkK6ev3axwv8xcJEUKmG6se0eTQwSaQTN7PeR5Wnl5RbacWIRrhS22DnuaPO_L2S3MgjrS3wehtQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="620" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3F6T6PV_iIX6U7ZlePKpKu7y9QgxY7sYnHrvbY1GLxApxLU52mCogkEyV_3-AhkUWnOTiYu7j-_gEB7YvAwlHGuXa8H9Jvk1F5J6-DvFaatB_hSnkkK6ev3axwv8xcJEUKmG6se0eTQwSaQTN7PeR5Wnl5RbacWIRrhS22DnuaPO_L2S3MgjrS3wehtQ" width="257" /></a></div>After 3<sup>rd</sup> period there was a small wave of
students going in each direction down the wide, tiled hallway. The bricks were
shiny with a malevolent, moist warmth, the tile floor had shimmering heat devils
floating just inside observable spectrum. It was miserable. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><br />A basketball rolled insolently through the open gymnasium
doors. Its constant, slow rotation seemed to be an affront, a challenge. It was
as though it were daring somebody to do something, anything.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ricky Belhaus did something. He picked up the basketball,
his right hand went as far back as he could reach, his left leg raised until it
looked as if he might tumble over, and he threw the ball as hard as he could
into the gym.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Before he could recoil from the effort, the ball caromed off
the stanchion for the practice basketball goal and flew into the kitchen.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was a terrible crash, loud and liquid. It echoed off
the walls of the gym, and disappeared into the curtains on the stage. Maybe it
was trying to escape the terrifying scream that followed it almost immediately.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In a fraction of a second the hallway was empty. In less
than a minute there was the head cook, standing there, holding a metal ladle,
spaghetti sauce splattered across her face, small drops almost like little
footprints climbing from her neck to the top of her hairnet. Her shirt was
dripping red sauce and her pants were soaked in several spots. Her eyes held a
terrible fire, as she looked from side to side. The metal spoon shook with an
electric rage. But the hallway was empty, except for her.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ricky breathed a sigh of relief, as he sat listening to the
assigned work expected results of Mr. Harriman’s 4<sup>th</sup> period American
History class. He looked carefully at the syllabus and thought of how he was
off the hook. He drew a lopsided basketball with a smiley face. He smiled back
at his creation. He had dodged a bullet this time.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A loud crackle, and a pronounced serpentine hiss, filled the
room. Someone was going to make an announcement on the public address system.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Ricky Belhaus, please report to Principal Mycroft’s office.”
Nothing ever stays secret, ever.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A chill ran through Ricky, he shivered, the sweat dried on
his forehead, it turned icy cold on his back and arms. The room seemed to
darken, and people tried to slide their desks a little farther from Ricky’s.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After 4<sup>th</sup> period ended, students filled the halls,
patterned, mostly predictable movement, leave one class, stop at your locker
and onto the next class. Ricky came stumbling from Principal Mycroft’s office.
He was a wrench in the gears of order. An island in the steady flow.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was bent slightly forward at the waist, his hands clasped
on his buttocks, fresh from the board, kept in the corner, to modify behavior. Tears of anger, shame and pain streamed down his
face.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I hate that fat man.” He said.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Students looked all around, looking for the principal. He
was nowhere to be seen. It was safe.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Me too.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“So do I.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, he sucks.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And other whispered agreements rustled silently from the crowd.
Then they went as quickly as they could, without looking as if they were trying
to hurry. Nobody wanted to be around rebellion.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There were rumors about Principal Mycroft and his ability to
be at the worst possible place at the absolute worst time. Throw your gum on
the floor, spit on the light-switch, and there was the iron grip of Principal Mycroft,
digging into an unsuspecting shoulder, or grabbing a handful of collar, marching
an rebel into his office for a little pant seat discipline.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some believed he had a network of tunnels running from his
office to various parts of the school. Deep underground, dark, damp, a smell of
decay filled the air. Tiny footsteps from rodents scurrying away to avoid the monstrous drumming footsteps of an angry administrator.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Others felt the only real explanation was there multiple Principals
Mycroft. At the very least three, more likely five, or even seven. It was
always a prime number. One student claimed it had to be thirteen. He had been
caught several times. Once he had been busted executing a flawless plan to skip
the afternoon of school. He waited behind the restroom door, and when it was
clear he walked twenty feet and out the doors facing Elm Street, where there
were no classroom windows. Principal Mycroft stood just west of the door, a
silent fury distorting the air surrounding him, it was wavy and made colors
hard to interpret.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A student whose parents were from California, was certain
Principal Mycroft used astral projection to transport his earthly form to
wherever somebody was going to try a small act of independence or rebellion or
throw a basketball into a cauldron of spaghetti sauce. It seemed ridiculous but
it made more sense than anything. It explained almost everything.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, on this day in history, Ricky Belhaus learned you
were never safe until you graduated, maybe not even then. We had spaghetti with some catsup and a
small amount of butter. Bruce Springsteen released his third studio album <i>“Born
to Run.”</i> It was the year of the rabbit in the Chinese Zodiac, and people
born on that day were Virgos. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-38912686821637000402020-03-19T08:24:00.001-04:002020-03-19T08:24:09.071-04:00Time to Get Away<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #191e23; font-family: "Noto Serif"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; outline: 0px; position: fixed; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" tabindex="0">
</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #191e23; font-family: "Noto Serif"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; outline: 0px; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="box-sizing: inherit; outline: 0px;">
<div style="box-sizing: inherit; outline: 0px;">
<div style="box-sizing: inherit; outline: 0px;">
<div class="block-editor-block-list__layout" style="box-sizing: inherit; outline: 0px; padding-left: 58px; padding-right: 58px; position: relative;">
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="c08189b0-01cd-4c36-8a65-43774f305231" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-c08189b0-01cd-4c36-8a65-43774f305231" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
A vision quest is a native American ritual. A spiritual journey into the wilderness to find your spirit animal. It was a sacred right of passage, I think. I don’t really know all that much about it. But I believe in the value of getting away from the metal and concrete, the electric wires, the cell phone towers, the overwhelming, overpowering crush of humanity crammed into the city. All the wires and exhaust fumes electrical emissions interfere with our ability to find reason. All of the money and science put into transportation and communication and we can’t find each other or ourselves. If we do manage to stumble into someone we want to see we have nothing of value to say.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="57a6241e-4275-4f69-bda9-206cfe1fa28e" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-57a6241e-4275-4f69-bda9-206cfe1fa28e" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Last night I went to the hardware superstore to buy some modern electrical contraption, plastic, disposable, and filled with all sorts of little soldered circuits and bad karma. I decided to walk across the street to the grocery supermarket. It was a death race, me against the world. Cars zipped everywhere, unconcerned with the pedestrians, barely aware of other cars. It was madness. Angry horns honking, warning, “get out of my way.”</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="e0d5c9f2-6c0e-424c-97dc-7a4364c18708" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-e0d5c9f2-6c0e-424c-97dc-7a4364c18708" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Mechanical madness, it was easy to believe the cars were in control, people were <span style="white-space: normal;">only a byproduct of the iron age, we stopped using the machines and started serving them. And the people were everywhere. The store was packed, shopping carts careening down crowded aisles, it has become impossible to escape wheeled monsters bent on collision.</span></div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Image" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="29fae737-3002-404a-ae38-5d9309c8013e" data-type="core/image" id="block-29fae737-3002-404a-ae38-5d9309c8013e" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<figure class="wp-block-image size-large" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; position: relative;"><div style="box-sizing: inherit; outline: 0px;">
<div class="components-resizable-box__container" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; height: auto; max-height: 815.625px; max-width: 1450px; min-height: 20px; min-width: 35.5556px; outline: 0px; position: relative; user-select: auto; width: auto;">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit;"></span></div>
<div class="__resizable_base__" style="box-sizing: inherit; flex: 0 1 0%; height: 435.5px; left: 0px; outline: 0px; position: absolute; transform: scale(0, 0); width: 760px;">
</div>
</div>
</figure><div class="components-drop-zone" style="border-radius: 2px; border: 2px solid rgb(0, 113, 161); bottom: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; left: 0px; opacity: 0; outline: 0px; position: absolute; right: 0px; top: 0px; transition: opacity 0.3s ease 0s, background-color 0.3s ease 0s, visibility 0s ease 0.3s; visibility: hidden; z-index: 40;">
</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="cd6f495f-fd8c-4964-91c2-88bb29aaee95" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-cd6f495f-fd8c-4964-91c2-88bb29aaee95" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1d61d3KJzBA/XnNkT830QGI/AAAAAAAAY5w/2qzwT4x8eIoSSUlzu9MOm3y0cOjQ9qWkQCKgBGAsYHg/s1600/StripDesigner_Strip%2B%252831%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1d61d3KJzBA/XnNkT830QGI/AAAAAAAAY5w/2qzwT4x8eIoSSUlzu9MOm3y0cOjQ9qWkQCKgBGAsYHg/s320/StripDesigner_Strip%2B%252831%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>In the short time I was in the store, just long enough to buy a bottle of bourbon, strictly for medicinal purposes, three cars had decided to settle their differences the old-fashioned way. They ran into each other, shattered plastic, glass and all sorts of fluids spilled all over the intersection. There were fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, lights flashing, chasing away the gloom of the evening. A light rain had begun to fall. The wet pavement reflected everything. Light echoed off everything. It looked sinister and supernatural.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="06e634eb-3fed-4263-9a73-3a1ea57197b9" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-06e634eb-3fed-4263-9a73-3a1ea57197b9" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Trekking back toward my car I fell in line between a young woman pushing a shopping cart. In the cart were two small children, a third walked beside the cart holding onto the cage. Walking the other way was a man and woman pushing a shopping cart with a baby strapped into a car seat which was hooked into the seat part of the cart. The baby was crying, loud, a high-pitched sustained wailing, unchanging, constant. They were going into one of the loudest places I had ever been with a noisemaker. I shuddered just thinking about it.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="c86b179d-e265-4744-9891-9a5e760aed64" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-c86b179d-e265-4744-9891-9a5e760aed64" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
The lady in front of me turned and looked at the couple walking past and saw me.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="01e4c55f-754b-48ab-8e96-217e3dc6b9f6" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-01e4c55f-754b-48ab-8e96-217e3dc6b9f6" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
“Somebody isn’t happy.” She said, smiling.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="418eb1f2-e3aa-4622-a717-503611845add" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-418eb1f2-e3aa-4622-a717-503611845add" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
“No, somebody isn’t.” I replied, thinking ‘everybody isn’t happy.’ But, I didn’t want to show my despair.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="4792696d-cc4b-4c27-a1d8-7e36f9f21575" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-4792696d-cc4b-4c27-a1d8-7e36f9f21575" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
After making my way around the accident I fell into traffic and got behind a Mercury Montego. There must have been a short in the electrical system. Every time they pressed on the brake pedal the bright red brake lights would flash several times before lighting solid. It grated on my senses, it burned into my eyes, seared onto the surface of my brain. Flash. Flash, Blink. Since it was rainy and rush-hour they tapped the brakes a lot. I thought about crashing into the back of their car to help fix the problem. But, I love my car, a Toyota Tacoma, and it seemed a little excessive.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="bd8a71c1-21ba-4f55-a844-bb81f50988f4" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-bd8a71c1-21ba-4f55-a844-bb81f50988f4" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Eventually a car pulled in between us and I thought I had it made. Since my car is a pickup I sit up a little higher and I could still see the flashing lights through the windshield of the car between us. Now, it was further compounded by the windshield wipers. It was Morse Code from the abyss, “Don’t worry, take your time, we will wait here for you.” Lights, noise, insanity, all artificial, all manmade, all grating and terrible.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="881a8f99-9b1d-407e-b5b1-435cea25aff4" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-881a8f99-9b1d-407e-b5b1-435cea25aff4" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Last time we made a weekend escape we participated in an “Owl Prowl.” After dark we walked down a dark road with the naturalist. She used a smart phone to call owls. Silence is important. The chill of night teased our ears and tweaked our noses. Out of nowhere an owl answered the call, it was amazing. She called and he answered several times. In the distance a coyote called in the distance to our right and was answered by one somewhere behind us. We were aliens in their world and the sounds were beautiful.</div>
</div>
<div aria-label="Block: Paragraph" class="wp-block block-editor-block-list__block has-selected-ui" data-block="72c4c7dc-b8fb-4e72-b40b-30da20207d8a" data-type="core/paragraph" id="block-72c4c7dc-b8fb-4e72-b40b-30da20207d8a" role="group" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin: 28px auto; max-width: 760px; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; position: relative; transform-origin: center center; transform: none;" tabindex="0">
<div aria-label="Paragraph block" aria-multiline="true" class="rich-text block-editor-rich-text__editable wp-block-paragraph MsoNormal" role="textbox" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.8; margin: 28px 0px; min-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
It might be time for another weekend away. Hiking trails, fire pits, steaks sizzling over a charcoal grill. Maybe a bottle of wine and the kindness and gentleness of my wife’s smile. It is where I can recharge, refurbish, renew. Albert Einstein said, “Look deep into nature and you will understand everything better.” I need a few minutes to look into nature.</div>
</div>
<div class="block-list-appender" style="box-sizing: inherit; outline: 0px;" tabindex="-1">
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-40392832636310005902019-03-16T11:25:00.004-04:002019-03-16T11:30:52.016-04:00Two Mornings, a Study in ContrastOn my morning commute, yesterday, things went bad. It started at what is called, locally, the Fifth Avenue curve. A gentle sweeping arc that sends you from a warming southern drive seeming soft and kind casual and kind to a more western orientation looking at the tall buildings of business gone mad. Things get serious. You can almost hear the crackle and pop of an interspace communication. “Red Leader, assume attack formation.” Everything seems to start on the curve.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yesterday, after passing 5th Avenue things slowed down. Slowed to a crawl. A crawl broken by stretches of a complete stop. Eventually, I made it past Leonard Avenue, the first exit west of 5th Avenue. A police car came screaming up the east bound freeway, crossed on the overpass and went accelerating down the westbound lanes. I could hear the roar of the engine over my music, <a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=U5bUmx-hk-c" id="id_4357_8e70_62f8_ef17">Summer in the City by the Lovin’ Spoonful</a>. Which is one of my favorites, so it was kind of loud. I knew it was bad, then.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h3vW2RjHLis/XI0WYaH_B3I/AAAAAAAAUr0/3NRIF3xB0vIURFiU9asnJaGXl7hEQY_VQCLcBGAs/s1600/1721B54E-A06E-4E58-B6EB-23E2DC14E3E1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="1230" height="218" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h3vW2RjHLis/XI0WYaH_B3I/AAAAAAAAUr0/3NRIF3xB0vIURFiU9asnJaGXl7hEQY_VQCLcBGAs/s320/1721B54E-A06E-4E58-B6EB-23E2DC14E3E1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
And it was. There was a horrible accident, multiple cars, multiple injuries. I didn’t know how bad it was, but it was obviously so bad my first thought was a silent prayer. Not the usual disgust for people who have to drive carelessly and wreck, ruining my commute. In fact it was so bad they closed the freeway, and I was forced to exit and wind my way through the downtown streets crowded with frustrated, detoured commuters.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<img alt="" id="id_d7c0_c226_102a_7621" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/3c96cfcd-be7a-4b3b-9c44-db96261f6682" style="display: block; float: right; height: auto; margin: 4px; width: 232px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kl4h_x6VdbU/XI0Wh9AFAVI/AAAAAAAAUr4/eXfpW94OcMgMw0z2gFp4hpokJ1m50dE2gCLcBGAs/s1600/5D298C6D-1213-458F-A210-00C0B16B429F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kl4h_x6VdbU/XI0Wh9AFAVI/AAAAAAAAUr4/eXfpW94OcMgMw0z2gFp4hpokJ1m50dE2gCLcBGAs/s320/5D298C6D-1213-458F-A210-00C0B16B429F.jpeg" width="320" /></a><br />
<div>
The sun came up. It was weak, hidden with dark clouds. There was no rain in the forecast and none in the clouds. But, they were dark, ominous, heavy with something. Anger, sadness? Maybe they wanted to shed a few tears for the poor souls. Nothing more painful than impotent sorrow. It was a very uncomfortable morning. And, I have never been so glad when morning ended and the skies finally gave a little break. I know, occasionally, I see things for more than they are, and I am sure this was one of those times. It doesn’t take much imagination to make the connection, though.</div>
<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I looked online and it doesn’t seem as if anybody was killed. But, once the traffic is cleared it doesn’t seem to be news anymore. Though, I imagine those involved would feel differently. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This morning, though, I am comfortable, alone, with a cup of coffee, an iPad and my thoughts. I am mapping out the <a href="https://tim-thingsastheyare.blogspot.com/2019/03/another-adventure.html" id="id_6457_7302_176a_a392">Nancy/Tim Casino Extravaganza</a>. We are stopping at <a href="https://junglejims.com/" id="id_1c22_bec4_74ae_11e5">Jungle Jims</a>, in Fairfield, the Party Barn in Louisville and a <a href="https://www.murphysusedbooks.com/" id="id_77ae_4ad2_6c5c_8cb6">used bookstore in Dayton</a>. We may have to stop at Jungle Jims and the book store both ways.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I love used books. For one thing they are cheaper. More important, though, it is sharing a treasure with someone, somebody you don’t even know. In a way you have both lived somebody else’s life. Enter stage left, a new character, three people. Maybe several people owned and read the book. It is a whole village, really. All sharing a story. I know people who only like new books, hard cover, fresh from the factory books. I like books with character, lived in books, loved books, hated books, books that have been around the block. Like me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have two books I have been looking for. It is a quest. I could buy them off Amazon, or Barnes and Noble but where is the thrill in that? They have become my grail. I am almost afraid I will find them. What then? There is always another foolish adventure, another pointless chase through aisles filled with the forgotten relics of modern life. It might be a book, it could be a Bluetooth keyboard for an iPhone, possibly a coffee cup with a particular companies logo. But, it is out there and I will find it, or at least look for it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, next week we are off to spend a couple of days in a casino. Not really in the casino, but in a room in the same building as the casino. We will go hiking through a state park. And, hike through the casino as well. We might even drop some coin on a game or two. Why not? And we will hike through the grocery store, and the used book store. You have to stay active, right? We love to hike. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, I will hope the people in the awful wreck yesterday are ok. But, I probably won’t know. And I guess I can live with that, too.</div>
Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-75512850630509993812019-03-10T12:46:00.001-04:002019-03-10T13:46:17.264-04:00Another Adventure,<img id="id_31b2_4e6d_14ff_1d2b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-i0xtmHS3_sE/XIU_Wc23zmI/AAAAAAAAUps/5O03BAzDe-o0uhJbMx9ku_KcHPvgtOOOwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 239px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: right; display: block;"><br>We decided, my wife and I, to take a little trip, blow off a little steam, let our hair down, indulge in a little spring break leisure. Maybe we are just preparing for our impending retirement. Anyway, we looked around and Louisville is always fun. There are things to do, stuff to see. Plus, Louisville is only about three hours from Columbus, a real benefit. But, we have been to Louisville several times, and we are on a mission to try new things. So, we went looking. About 12 miles from Louisville is the <a href="https://www.caesars.com/horseshoe-southern-indiana/fittogold?utm_campaign=GMB&utm_source=google&utm_medium=local&utm_term=HorseshoeSouthernIndiana&utm_content=hotel&adobe_mc_ref=https://www.google.com/&adobe_mc_sdid=SDID=1DF37378B19A987C-4ABC40213321CFEB|MCORGID=05C8485451E452E30A490D45%40AdobeOrg|TS=1552231371" id="id_b9b4_a6b8_ac80_e9ab">Horseshoe Inn and Casino</a>. Where, in the words of The Grateful Dead (from Ramble On Rose) we will “be sitting plush with a royal flush, aces back to back.”<div><br></div><img id="id_1302_d915_7f24_b9f6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3T8WOTdEdEk/XIU_YEs89eI/AAAAAAAAUpw/OMSDxXcX5zAC92LmaCCboQmW1oAid24YgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 201px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: left; display: block;">We have started a list of places we are going to visit. Stops on the Life Explained World Tour. It is a list of destinations, goals to be achieved before we die. We may have to live forever. Or stay off the internet. Las Vegas is one of them. Maybe this is training. We are not gamblers. We won twelve dollars on a slot machine in South Dakota and four dollars from a slot machine in Michigan, and we were rolling in the dough. But, the room at the Horseshoe was cheap, and we got a fifty dollar food credit. And the food looks amazing. The way I see it we already won. Vegas here we come.<br><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Plus, I have a new fascination with making videos. A fascination, but not much talent. If you hate my writing wait until you see my videos. One inescapable truth; it takes a lot of time to make a video. So, the first thing I did this morning, after emailing the owner of the company asking her for the days off,<sup>1</sup> was start making the introduction. It turned out pretty well. Unfortunately, it is not this video.</div><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0LTJ0v2PTfk" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_8062_8168_7893_40c7" frameborder="0"></iframe><div><br></div><div>Which is just something I cobbled together last night. Sort of an adhoc preview of the real video. So enjoy this and know it only gets better. Maybe.</div><div><br></div><div>Plus, there will be a scintillating account of our trip. Including obsessive description of our stops at Drake’s and The Party Barn in Louisville. You don’t want to miss that. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It will be here, or on my new <a href="https://wordpress.com/stats/day/lifeexplainedinaway.wordpress.com" id="id_d416_ef2a_5731_3626">WordPress</a> site (or both).</span>With the shuttering of Google + I began to worry about Blogger so I branched out. Though, I’m not sure it is much ado about nothing, but if you know me, you know I like finding problems that don’t really exist. It makes it easier to ignore real problems. </div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, we may win enough to retire in style. Or we may just have a great time. Either way we are winners. Winning isn’t hard, if you know how to keep score. See you soon, we may stop in a city by you. Let me know where that is, we are always looking for an excuse to get away.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><sup>1 </sup>She said it was ok.</div>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-27538548926081722772019-03-06T08:28:00.000-05:002019-03-06T08:28:13.904-05:00News and Coming Attractions. Nobody ever accused me of being excessively bright or technologically competent. I have never figured out how to add a video and an internet link to a Facebook post. I will have to ask Mark Zuckerberg next time I am at his house for dinner. Nobody ever accused me of being too tightly tethered to reality either.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wanted to add the video of last month's winner in the Let it Snow Jukebox and the link to this month's Head Above Water with more of the foolishness the wonderful members of the Head Above Water Nation have come to love.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, here is the video announcing last month's winner. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/H5_KjGrYYJI/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/H5_KjGrYYJI?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A song that, as far as I can tell, doesn't even mention snow. But, it has a lot of wind, rain, fog, and thunder. And it is a rockin' little number, too.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And here is this month's HAW (or #HAW, which has a nice ring to it, don't you think?).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://thewildword.com/magic-in-the-days-science/">The Wild Word, magic in the days of science.</a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dylan makes his first appearance. It is from "Under the Red Sky" and I know there are people who say that anything after "Blood on the Tracks" is not really worth the time. But, I don't agree. In fact, I think "Time Out of Mind" and "Love and Theft" are two of the best albums ever made by anybody. If you can listen to "Standing in the Doorway" without feeling pain you haven't really lived, or at least lost. But, that is not what I wanted to tell you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I wanted to tell you is; Tomorrow I am going to write a post about my wife. Who is not crazy about being constantly referred to as "my wife." She does, however, like it much better than being called "the wife." Though, I don't think, in all my rambling I ever used the term.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gRSTpn_3SLU/XH_KdaiO-uI/AAAAAAAAUnI/mdsijAKVt9wNWPBBQOkJgH6ZLpXHlkR1gCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_2517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gRSTpn_3SLU/XH_KdaiO-uI/AAAAAAAAUnI/mdsijAKVt9wNWPBBQOkJgH6ZLpXHlkR1gCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_2517.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not "the mountain" but "a mountain."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Anyway, my wife, who is a determined person, has picked a Fire Lookout Post in Montana for our next vacation. It is at the top of mountain. There is no running water, no electricity and you have to park a mile away. So, we are going to have carry three days worth of food and water up the side of mountain. And she is so excited. She hates using a treadmill, but now, she drags me over the treadmills, and raises the elevation and "climbs the mountain." You can see the smile on her face. And it makes me laugh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But, more on that tomorrow, if "the wife" doesn't deep six the idea.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-55999305709731147932019-02-24T11:29:00.000-05:002019-02-24T11:32:23.549-05:00 Oscars for Dummies<div>
Tonight is the Academy Award show. We can barely control our excitement. We, here at Life Explained, have started a pool, not the kind you swim in, of course. A device to make gambling easier and seem more legitimate. Let’s face it, saying I put twenty dollars on A Star is Born to win best picture would sound like a desperate cry for help. Not as bad as saying I put $100.00 on Mary Queen of Scots to win the Oscar for Makeup and Hair Styling. That would sound as if you had a real problem. And, too much free time. And too much money.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But, if you have a “pool” everything is just for fun. Just a good time. Just entertainment, that’s all. Things can get heated, though. We had to break up a fist fight in the laboratory.</div>
<img alt="" id="id_fd4e_51f3_2fe7_7dab" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SF8myPq1Q9Q/XHLEWs2vaYI/AAAAAAAAUeE/KkmnyofQ4pcdeU5SyrCiAUIJp5AA-CKCwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="display: block; float: left; height: auto; margin: 4px; width: 336px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
“No way Vincente Minnelli deserved the Directing Oscar for Gigi in 1959. Any idiot with a bag of popcorn and a television can tell you Mark Robson and The Inn of the Sixth Happiness owned the award that year.” Said Bob, from Applied Chemistry.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“What are you, a moron?” Asked Felix, from Physics and Composites. “Stanley Kramer and his stark vision of modern society The Defiant Ones was clearly the obvious choice.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That was all it took. Soon they were rolling on the floor. Somehow they missed all the jagged shards of broken beakers threatening to leave them sliced and bloody. But, security came, picked them up, dusted them off and told them Richard Brooks and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof was the only choice. Bruised feelings and sprained joints for everyone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In what turned out to be a real wet blanket none of us had seen any of the movies that have been nominated for any of the awards. We are, it seems, uncultured slobs with the taste of philistines. In fact, unless Bugs Bunny is nominated for best actor, or Transformers is up for best picture we are all going to lose. So, we rented Alien bought some pizza and are having our own Academy Award party. Feel free to nominate your choice by leaving a comment at <a href="https://m.facebook.com/lifedidyounotice/?ref=bookmarks" id="id_4536_5693_4bdc_c840">Life Explained, the Facebook Page</a>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thank you,<br />
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-46039280733472903352019-02-06T09:22:00.000-05:002019-02-06T09:22:51.684-05:00The State of the Union, explained, sort of.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Last night we had the annual new year freak-o-rama The State of
the Union address. Shortened for Americans to SOTU, because we don't have
enough time to say all four words. It is the time of year when the pres gets to
tell everybody what a bang up job he has been doing. The state of the union is
never stronger than it is for the hour (give or take) the president spends
talking about the strength of the union.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<h2>
What will it take to get you into this presidency?<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I don't watch it, never have.
In the words of Bob Dylan "you don't need a weather man to know which way
the wind blows." Besides, it is always a little bit reminiscent of a
cartoon used car pitch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NinskEu3zwM/XFrtWZbCqvI/AAAAAAAAUQg/CxhGFYoWDngCc4VrlRaJpj_Fso3FHHRTwCLcBGAs/s1600/StripDesigner_Strip%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NinskEu3zwM/XFrtWZbCqvI/AAAAAAAAUQg/CxhGFYoWDngCc4VrlRaJpj_Fso3FHHRTwCLcBGAs/s320/StripDesigner_Strip%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">"This administration is
perfect for you, low mileage, sporty, responsive, with enough style to get you
from point A to point B faster and more comfortably than any other car in
history. Man, how would you like to get to point B? No place finer, and no
better way to get there."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I don't know, there seems
to be a lot of scratches, dents and rust from multiple ongoing federal
investigations and numerous indictments and convictions." The nation says,
skeptical, and wary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">"That's only character
from weathering so many witch hunts." Our intrepid executive salesperson
replies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<h2>
He shoots, he scores.<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I normally catch the
highlights. And today it was almost impossible to tell if Trump was invoking
the royal "We" when discussing the accomplishments of his presidency.
"I did this, you can thank me." Or, if he was trying to say, "me
and these other guys did this, you can thank me." He does like to take
credit for things. So, thank you, president tweeter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<h2>
Rational Alternatives<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">So, I watched a movie.
"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." It was far more informative,
a lot more entertaining and about the same length.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">The campaign is heating up,
though. Candidates are massing at the frontier. Every new message brings ill
news. We can only live in fear of what next January will bring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-10518361768772766892019-02-01T09:56:00.001-05:002019-02-01T11:39:03.569-05:00Our New Theme Song. In keeping with my <a href="https://tim-thingsastheyare.blogspot.com/2019/01/in-your-face-old-man-winter.html">efforts to break out of my slump</a> I have decided Life Explained needs a theme song. I thought it might be a good idea to write and perform the song myself. But, I can't play any instruments, read music, or carry a tune in a wheel barrow. And I certainly don't understand the complicated relationship existing between different parts sounds that make a pleasant melody. I guess I don't know music, but I know what I like.<br />
<br />
Of course, this leaves me at a serious disadvantage when it comes to writing and performing a theme song. Fortunately I have an iPhone, and Garage Band is free.Unfortunately making music in an app may be more complicated than learning to play an instrument. I had a nice beat, really easy to listen to and follow. When I went to add some guitar it kind of fell apart. The whole understanding music problem climbed out of its shallow grave and haunted my musical dreams once more.<br />
<br />
I thought about hiring a band, explaining what I wanted and turning them loose. But, I'm not really sure what I want, and even if I did I lack the ability to communicate those desires in a coherent paragraph. And, my budget is zero, or slightly less.<br />
<br />
Which left me with one option. Choosing a song by somebody else.<br />
<br />
It would have to be groovy. It would have to speak in a language that calls all that is good, rejects pessimism, embraces the mathematics of life and love. It has to be a song that represents everything I have tried to accomplish with this little blog. It would have to be instrumental, music that speaks beyond the ability of words to express an idea. Mostly, though, it would have to be groovy.<br />
<br />
And I think I found it;<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/NSfRkfeL0TM/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NSfRkfeL0TM?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
Booker T and the MGs, playing Green Onions. Even my new pen loves it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v1SoupUkYj4/XFRbluA9HTI/AAAAAAAAUMY/Fm1d1aKSBsU32JFtVBFkGdA2Q7yj6HeogCLcBGAs/s1600/StripDesigner_Strip-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1237" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v1SoupUkYj4/XFRbluA9HTI/AAAAAAAAUMY/Fm1d1aKSBsU32JFtVBFkGdA2Q7yj6HeogCLcBGAs/s640/StripDesigner_Strip-001.jpg" width="494" /></a></div>
<br />Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-53463428120139112032019-01-31T11:15:00.000-05:002019-01-31T11:16:58.735-05:00In Your Face, Old Man Winter,I have been in a rut lately. It might be the polar vortex, the low pressure (or high pressure) really bends perception, or increases acuity. Plus, the cold slows blood flow, hearts labor under the increased load, trying to keep all the extremities warm and safe, And the shorter days twists all of our internal clocks into odd shapes and days seem to play on endless loops. Wake, work, eat, sleep. Over and over, trapped inside, no hope of escape.<br />
<br />
Recently, we found the camera we use on the kayak. A cheap GoPro imitator, but it is sturdy and comes in a waterproof case. Moreover, it had the real world benefit of being cheap. Plus, it was on a clearance site so it was even cheaper. We don't get too extreme about anything, so it seemed like a good idea. And, it has been, kind of, on and off, in a way.<br />
<br />
For one thing, we never do very much that requires an "action camera." We could probably get by with a "relaxed camera." Which doesn't make for thrilling video to begin with. And, since we are more relaxed in our pursuit of activity sometimes I can't find the camera. Then, when you aren't looking for it there it is. Maybe it knows when you are in need of a little reminder of what warmth looks like. Or maybe I was just looking for something else and stumbled onto it. Either way, I was happy to see the little movies of kayaking. The promise of things to come.<br />
<br />
Of course, it is not an expensive camera and it the movies are saved as AVI. This causes problems since I use an iPhone and it is not compatible, at all. You would think converting them to another format would be easy, and it might be, but it is consuming the day life. I've tried different apps on my phone, the internet, so far nothing. But, I haven't given up.<br />
<br />
I have, lately, become obsessed with making videos. Below is my latest to announce the winner of last month's Holiday's Edition of Tim's Jukebox. It isn't much, but it is a big improvement on the previous attempts. Practice makes tolerable, right?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Fpkpj7wWkjw/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Fpkpj7wWkjw?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
If you like it and want to see another one go vote, after you read my column.<a href="https://thewildword.com/caress-of-snow/">here.</a> Even if you don't want to see video this month's songs will cheer you up.<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oE__-oIQ6fw/XFMc4b7OQQI/AAAAAAAAUMM/F5RBgCP_SKQdOxlzE5n-OyYVEXazA5CugCLcBGAs/s1600/StripDesigner_Strip-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1237" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oE__-oIQ6fw/XFMc4b7OQQI/AAAAAAAAUMM/F5RBgCP_SKQdOxlzE5n-OyYVEXazA5CugCLcBGAs/s320/StripDesigner_Strip-001.jpg" width="247" /></a><br />
To further improve my outlook my wife gave me a new pen/capacitive touch screen stylus. Just looking at it makes me happy.<br />
<br />
So, in the words of the Grateful Dead, "nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile." Kind of like my new pen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-38280319353843200942019-01-29T09:37:00.000-05:002019-01-29T09:37:16.318-05:00The weatherman says somethings on the move.The midterm elections are over and both sides are claiming victory. Maybe both of them won. It is so hard to say. We will only see if America won over the course of the next two years. We have a chance for bipartisan cooperation and accomplishment or petty, childish bickering, gridlock and international humiliation as progress grinds to a halt. We are taking bets right now.<br />
<br />
In Ohio things were heated, accusations made, terrible things were said. Fingers were pointed, and claims of unholy alliances with "Pelosi" or "Trump." I kind of miss the days when our local politicians just made promises that had no intention of, or ability to keep. "I will make the days more pleasant, and reduce anxiety." Things I could really support.<br />
<br />
But, this is like the preseason. An introductory course, "campaign observation 1A." Now we come to the big boys, and big girls, and big promises, and big accusations, and giant piles of unbelievable crap. The super bowl of American politics, the presidential primaries.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3UFPdNiYVDo/XFBhEvim4uI/AAAAAAAAUJo/XHuzmATGu-Mlq1_7kvAMmbrnDUeYwdkIACLcBGAs/s1600/crowd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3UFPdNiYVDo/XFBhEvim4uI/AAAAAAAAUJo/XHuzmATGu-Mlq1_7kvAMmbrnDUeYwdkIACLcBGAs/s1600/crowd.jpg" /></a></div>
There must be hundreds of democrats lining up for a place on the dais. Anybody who has ever been elected and involved in one of the numerous congressional investigations into almost anything except how our government has so much time to go off investigating things that aren't really all that significant.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dOqfzoHfHr4/XFBhLuyuEeI/AAAAAAAAUJs/b-2QPQ_WSmYuweWSzqYJuXUFOOQ82L7JACLcBGAs/s1600/notcrowds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="189" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dOqfzoHfHr4/XFBhLuyuEeI/AAAAAAAAUJs/b-2QPQ_WSmYuweWSzqYJuXUFOOQ82L7JACLcBGAs/s1600/notcrowds.jpg" /></a>But, it is a unique opportunity to try out some presidential scowls and grimaces while asking some pointless questions, in a way that makes them seem important. And what else can we really expect out of our president, meaningless gestures, and self important posturing?<br />
<br />
On the other side of the aisle, as they say in Washington, hardly anybody. Everybody seems a little cowed by the Mighty Oz. Nobody wants to be on the wrong end of that tweeting machine.<br /><br />Though, Mitt Romney seems as if he is willing to take another run at it. He has never been a fan of Trump, and lately has been pointing out what everybody already knows. Trump acts like a child, a spoiled child. Man, I miss Mitt Romney. I would never vote for him, unless he was running against Trump, but Trump has changed the whole political kaleidoscope, everything looks worse.<br />
<br />
Of course, I think, and this is just speculation, Paul Ryan, P90x fitness machine and now retired congress person is secretly building a campaign platform around the considerable personality trait that he is not Donald Trump. A feature many people find appealing. Plus he can claim that he was not involved in the longest government shutdown in history. And, he looks a lot better with a beard than Ted Cruz.<br />
<br />
So, we have a choice to make, not much of a choice, but it is the only one we have.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnvCEqh5Axs/XFBkxcr__zI/AAAAAAAAUKU/WY-zQLvRNcggcBFWFlsWnehm7m8hJ1AJACLcBGAs/s1600/StripDesigner_Strip-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1237" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnvCEqh5Axs/XFBkxcr__zI/AAAAAAAAUKU/WY-zQLvRNcggcBFWFlsWnehm7m8hJ1AJACLcBGAs/s400/StripDesigner_Strip-001.jpg" width="309" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-57056696636626484342019-01-25T09:00:00.000-05:002019-01-25T09:00:10.665-05:00Winners Help Clean Up.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suppose you woke up tomorrow, your first cup of coffee
steams on the table beside you, the paper sits in your lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A perfect morning as you open to the front
page. Now, imagine if the first article you see is a huge announcement from
mega corporation Coca Cola*. They are going to stop using plastic. No more
plastic bottles, no more six pack rings, everything will be biodegradable and
made from renewable materials. You would think that was significant, or you
might need more coffee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, imagine if they claimed, mega corporation Coca Cola**,
they were going to hire an army of janitors to go out and clean up the world.
They were going to send people into forests onto beaches, into cities to pick
up all the trash. You would think it was fantastic. Or you might worry that you
had too much coffee. And it would be fantastic, and there may not be any way to
drink too much coffee, so don’t worry about that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As fantastic as that would be it ain’t gonna happen, not in
a million years. Despite the ruling of the Supreme Court corporations are not
people. Sure they are huge collections of people, dissimilar people, many of
whom have only one common goal. Making Money. Lots of money. And mostly they
are not too concerned with the consequences of their actions, unless it affects
profits. And committing to renewable resources and hiring people to clean the
planet is liable to alter the bottom line in a bad way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, it is up to people, working in small groups, or
individually, to clean up the planet. A thankless task, with little reward,
unless you count a cleaner world as enough incentive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, (and here is the good part) the owners of a small,
private Yoga shop in Berlin have decided to tackle <a href="https://thewildword.com/little-by-little-clean-up/">the hopeless,
impossible task of cleaning the world</a>. Sure, they can’t afford to hire an
army of mercenary custodians, but they are giving you a chance to earn a
reward. All you have to do is pick up some trash and have someone snap a photo
of you doing it. Post the photo on Instagram using the hash tag
#littlebylittlecleanup and tag @littlebylittlecleanup and you are entered for
some great prizes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine that, you might win something for doing the right
thing. Wow. How cool is that? Very cool! As an added bonus I will write a
glowing testimonial to your outstanding efforts (suitable for framing), right
here on Life Explained. I will make you sound better than you are, even if I
have to lie. So, what do you have to lose? Get out there and pick up some
plastic and take a picture. You might be the big winner, we might all be the big winner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BPGnP9lwk04/XEsV_MKkL-I/AAAAAAAAUIA/G5XroRET6Tcu2B41Qm8GeQsXvL1qpDotACLcBGAs/s1600/littlebylittlecleanup-poster-CROPPED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1538" data-original-width="1162" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BPGnP9lwk04/XEsV_MKkL-I/AAAAAAAAUIA/G5XroRET6Tcu2B41Qm8GeQsXvL1qpDotACLcBGAs/s640/littlebylittlecleanup-poster-CROPPED.jpg" width="483" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t"
path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75"
style='width:468pt;height:619.5pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\tclark\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.jpg"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*It could be any mega corporation, I just like Coke products
so I am throwing a little advertising their way. You can insert your favorite
mega corporation. If you are reading this Coca Cola let me know and I will send
you my PayPal information.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
** Or the mega corporation of your choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-40136848746431404722019-01-13T07:55:00.001-05:002019-01-13T07:55:43.427-05:00Snow and Cold, or a cold.Lately I’ve been wrestling with a cold, the cold has been winning. But, it is only a matter of time before I gain the upper hand and vanquish the virus or bacteria, or whatever. Or it will change into something worse, maybe pneumonia or bronchitis, and my doctor will have to intercede on my behalf, and together we will win. Or, it will slowly worsen, changing, worsening in imperceptible ways until it consumes me in feverish exhaustion and sends me to live with my ancestors. They probably aren’t all that keen on having me hanging around whining about a minor illness and are overtly rooting for me to make a full recovery.<div><br></div><div>But, such is the meat of the cold. It isn’t as if you are sick, not really sick, but not really well either. You can’t spend all day in bed. You have to carry on as best you can. </div><div><img id="id_2edf_7150_10ad_e57d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0HH8B5Av3Xo/XDs1TXcfLaI/AAAAAAAAT6s/Oj4XMIAQNPcHrGNWJikyqOQu-13dQLnBwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 344px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: right; display: block;"><br></div><div>Today that means shoveling snow. It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas. It is over two weeks past Christmas so the timing is a little off. And I have a cold so the timing is terrible. But, I am in the middle of a Fit Bit challenge and am getting my almost sick butt kicked up one side and down the other. So, some time shoveling snow might move me from bottom to middle. Ah, the joys of not being last. </div><div><br></div><div>I am currently 4th out of five people, despite making a trip to the grocery store last night. It is impossible for me to go to the store without making a few side trips. I have to check it out. Who knows what kind of progress they have made in groceries since my last visit. Grocery display technique is a fast moving field, and I refuse to be left behind. Even if I am almost sick, or a little sick, or just a whiny little baby, as has been suggested.</div><div><br></div><div>Unfortunately I was too preoccupied to really enjoy my trip to the store. It was cold, snowy and slick, and all I could think about was getting my new car home before some careless, malignant bastard smashed into it.. The streets are filled with cars driven by people on their phone, sending texts, maybe answering an emaill, all just seconds away from sliding into the side of my car. “Be careful,” I want to scream, but they wouldn’t hear anyway. They are too busy.</div><div><br></div><div>Colds do have one redeeming feature. “Feed a cold.” It may be an old wive’s tale, but it is gospel to me. Of course, I also believe in feeding a fever, or a sprained ankle, or osteoarthritis. So, I may not be the best source for treatment advice. Unless you are looking for an excuse to have pizza rolls for your breakfast appetizer, and then huevos rancheros for breakfast, with a side of tortilla chips covered in chili and cheese. Then I am a great place for all of your food as over the counter medicine advice.</div>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-77999414800429030242019-01-06T10:56:00.001-05:002019-01-06T10:56:05.546-05:00Technology, Decisions and the Government<img id="id_ccf4_e7ea_4bca_ca9b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-64L6ImX8Aig/XDIlEyhiv1I/AAAAAAAAT3Q/3YUzxH5ZdmgmIBMC_ghbM1SoiFPXS1IEACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 299px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: left; display: block;">Nothing is easy. We got a new iPad Pro for Christmas. We don’t really have computers, the iPad is enough. More than enough in many ways. I can do anything I want on my iPad, more than I want, really, sometimes not as much as I should, if you get my drift. I need a keyboard, though, and it it between the Logitech Slim Combo, and the Apple Smart Keyboard. <div><br></div><div>I know there are people who hate Apple and I have no quarrel with that. I know there are people who hate Microsoft, and I’m ok with that, too.<div>In fact, I read a theory that Bill Gates is secretly funding a program (pogrom?) to reduce the population to a more sustainable level. It provided a number, though I don’t remember what it was, and I assume it provided a reason, but I didn’t read the whole thing, just the tag line. It seems a little suspect that a man who made his fortune selling software to the masses is trying to eliminate the largest majority of his market. </div><div><br></div><div>I’m sure there are people who hate Google, and I can live with that. I don’t know much about Google. I do “google” things but mostly I use Safari, or Microsoft Edge. I still call it “googling.” I hope that isn’t violating some copyright law. I did see thee the big Kahuna from Google, I can’t think of his name, facing the Senate version of an inquisition. Which really turned into a partisan free for all and blame fest, which accomplished nothing but made for excellent facebook videos. It is hard for a minor associate of a small company (me) to say how much responsibility is carried on the shoulders of the CEO of Google, but he had to find the whole thing an enormous waste of time. I was impressed with the dignity and restraint he showed during the circus, though.</div><div><br></div><div>There are a lot of people who hate Facebook, too. My friend, who has never had a Facebook account, told me that “Facebook is for sheeple.” I’m not sure how he formed this opinion, or what the qualifications for inclusion into sheeplehood are, but I like Facebook. I think I might like it more if it was only a little better, and maybe I just don’t understand how to make it work. Sometimes I see things I don’t want to see, and sometimes I see things that make me smile. I’m just not sure there is enough balance. But, I do remember when the CEO of Facebook had to face a congressional grilling. I thought he handled it very well. </div></div><div><br></div><div>It wasn’t that long ago, thinking back, that congress “looked” into performance enhancing drugs being used by Major League Baseball players. Man, they gave them a good what for. Thank God our government is on the job. Think of how bad things could be if they weren’t taking care of all the important stuff. </div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, I think I will go with the <a href="https://www.logitech.com/en-us/product/slimcombo" id="id_4b7f_1981_c9bb_db66">Logitech Slim Combo.</a> Mostly because of the backlit keys, and I do somethings the morning or in the evening. Thanks for helping me decide.</div>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-10450886270408187912019-01-01T10:16:00.001-05:002019-01-01T10:16:13.555-05:00A New New Years Resolution.A while ago I wrote a post about how a brave <a href="https://tim-thingsastheyare.blogspot.com/2018/12/aging-with-help-of-youth.html" id="id_87fa_e03e_d228_d33e">little girl helped me learn to face my fears</a>, some of them, anyway. Honestly, I don’t really want to face all of them, I think fear is a good thing, aerobic, cardio. Smart, brave people jump out of airplanes, ski down the sides of mountains, run from the bulls in Spain, go deep sea diving, and invite catastrophe at every turn. No thanks, but, I faced an orthopedic specialist and six weeks of physical therapy, like a boss!!! There is a lot to learn from the youth of the world.<div><br></div><div>Yesterday my wife had a cold, it has run rampant through the family. It settles into the sinuses and produces a nasty headache. I decided the best treatment was something spicy. And I hadn’t had enchiladas in a long time, and I love enchiladas. Nobody had any better idea for dinner. We decided our time honored New Years Eve enchiladas was a great idea. A tradition one year in the making.</div><div><br></div><div>We needed a few things, so I went to the store. A light rain fell as I drove the short distance to the store. It was warm for December and almost pleasant. I like to park in the far reaches of the lot. Away from everybody else. Less chance of some starving, frantic, crazed shopper with low blood sugar slamming their door into my car. And, I can always use a few steps. Plus, driving through all of the pedestrians milling around, pushing shopping carts filled with heavy bags of groceries, bottles of juice, cases of soda, and canned goods, always reminds me of something from Mad Max, or The Walking Dead. </div><div><br><img id="id_e85c_e4a5_3e4_9c68" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QC_msoDv_WU/XCuEPA7gKbI/AAAAAAAATyo/k4EogNxT6Q4VGH79cRIDkSrXnjILkWKuACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 299px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: left; display: block;"><br>These people have just been through Meijer’s and are pushing a barely controllable bartering ram. From the look on their face they would have no remorse about smashing a person against the back of a minivan, leaving a broken, bleeding, expiring body sliding slowly down the lift gate. What do you think happens to all of the windshield wipers hanging limply over the license plate? I can walk in between cars, down center lines, in the words of Micheal Herr in Dispatches, I’m a “moving target survivor subscriber.” You have to keep your eyes open, be aware of your surroundings. And, I need the steps.</div><div><br></div><div>To keep you up to date on what’s happening folks, we were having enchiladas for dinner and needed some stuff from the store, it was warm for late December, raining lightly, and I parked at the far end of the parking lot. </div><div><br></div><div>When I finished shopping and came outside it was raining much harder. It didn’t really bother me that much, it is Ohio. I just pulled up my hood, accepted my fate and walked toward my car. About halfway there I heard a child walking with a parent, singing, stomping through the puddles, enjoying life, enjoying the rain, living as large as possible for such a tiny package. And I thought life should be lived that way, all through life, rain is a gift, puddles are made for stomping, and singing in the rain is not just a movie from a forgotten time but good advice. I was happier all the way home. And I found my New Years resolution. Enjoy life more. I don’t know who the child was, but I owe that little person a thank you.</div>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-78515654382862133872018-12-31T07:48:00.001-05:002018-12-31T07:48:45.097-05:00The Year Past, and the Year Coming.I like to write a year end post, or a coming year post. Something to mark the passage of time, celebrate the journey. This was a year I will always find a little shameful. The world has managed to crawl back to the dark ages of nationalistic isolation and xenophobic pride in an age where the whole world is only a day away. In a time where communication is as easy as a voice activated electronic assistant, “hey, Siri, call the Kremlin.” <div><br></div><div>We have somehow been able to peel away all the progress and find the greed, or paranoia, or prejudice that gave us such memorable moments as the Hundred Year War, the Battle of the Somme, the Third Reich, the list has no end, and the beginning is lost on an ancient scroll or bas-relief depiction of heads on a pike, or prisoners marched into slavery. We should have seen this coming.<div><br></div><div>We can’t help ourselves. We need to have an enemy, friends just aren’t enough. While we were on a brief respite from life in a state park just north of Zanesville, an episode of Star Trek, the original series aired on a local network. It struck me, all that progress, the entire world united, computers we could talk to, warp drive, and we still had to fly across the universe and find an enemy, or two. We could take ourselves down to molecular dust, beam ourselves on a wave of energy to the surface of distant planet and we couldn’t find common ground with the Klingons. Klingons are warlike, aggressive, hostile and not to be trusted. Not like us. Wait...</div><img id="id_6c9d_aa50_e946_4ef6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qgBwB-xyDUU/XCoQK9P2XoI/AAAAAAAATxo/4Ps141TT2w8PXV7SlD0BUn6LPxeVx0TKgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 303px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: left; display: block;"><br>Look around the world today and what do you see? Hundreds of armed camps, fires burning, anger, resentment, borders, divisions. From the smallest African nation struggling under the weight of repeated coup and military rule to the capitols of the capitalist democracies. Everyone, almost everywhere is convinced everyone else is after their stuff. Or at least making a lot of noise in an effort to marshal support and disgrace opponents. How long does it take for the illusion to become the perception of reality? And from there how far do you have to travel to preemptive attack? Not far enough I am afraid.<br><div><br></div><div>Of course, once it starts, it doesn’t end, not until it is too late. It has always been that way. It is hard to look back and find a war, any war that was worth the money, the lives, the pain and suffering it consumed. There is no wisdom today great enough to change that thinking, there never has been. But, there is enough weaponry, enough stored destruction to make the next war the last war, the last anything. </div><div><br></div><div>So, 2018 was kind of a bust. We moved backward, back toward a place we left a long time ago. A place where we had no allies, only enemies of various degree. 2018 was a year we could have lived without. 2019 is still to be decided, there is still time to turn around, make some progress. The world is too small and the risks are too great. If we don’t 2020 might not show up at all, at least not for us. I hope I am here to apologize for my error in this post next year, and I hope you are here to accept the apology.</div><div><br></div></div>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-67738375629844220552018-12-29T08:50:00.001-05:002018-12-29T08:50:53.023-05:00Hiking With the Help of a Couple of Friends.The bad thing about writing <a href="https://tim-thingsastheyare.blogspot.com/" id="id_862a_519d_fba3_fab9">Christmas blog posts</a> is the short shelf life. I had three or four that have expired, and will hibernate online, maybe never to be seen again. All of the work languishing after the 25th. Work might be a little strong. How about all the whining, carping and complaining, or making light of the important pieces of life. I can’t really say that I ever look at writing as work. Sometimes I read, or watch television, sometimes I write. It is all part of relaxing. <div><br></div><div>We just got back from relaxing at Dillon State Park. It is a hilly, tree covered paradise between Newark (pronounced Nerk) and Zanesville (pronounced Zanesville). Ohio really has a lot to offer. If you are willing to look. I imagine that would be true of almost any state, though. How many things exist so close that we don’t see them looking for distant adventures? </div><div><br></div><div>We have started a list, maybe a bucket list, maybe a wish list, maybe just a list, of places we want to go. It just keeps growing, we may have to live forever. But, several of them are only a short drive from here. </div><div><br></div><div>Actually, we haven’t really started a list at all. We just keep finding places we want to go, and say “hey, add this to the list.” A list would probably be a good idea. Much more difficult to forget if you can see it on a list. None of that “where should we go this year?” “I don’t know, where do you think we should go?” that has become so entertaining over the years. Or maybe not so entertaining.</div><div><br></div><div>But, here is the good news. In the middle of October we went to Buck Creek State Park and I could barely drag my leg around the Lake View Trail. A relatively flat, straight trail that separates the disc golf course from the lake. I never understood the need to add scoring and competition to frisbee. “Tossing the bee,” as my old roommate used to call it is pure zen. Free form floating beauty, art meets differential calculus as it arcs and gracefully from point to point. Once you add the accountancy of the dog eat dog world of contest it becomes a little stained, dirty, less beauty more beast. But, that is not the point.</div><img id="id_b04_76e9_d1b3_7895" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ab9P5f4OfqY/XCd7sbdEKKI/AAAAAAAATrU/jxyhap0ZCVgjmamI2AqVW5kP-A5-kKR9QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 187px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: left; display: block;"><br>The point is I walked about a mile, a half mile each way, dragging my sore, tired leg behind me and it almost killed me, I was exhausted. It was the impetus that drove me to the doctor. Of course the gentle steering and guidance of my lovely wife didn’t hurt either. He prescribed physical therapy. Two months later I am hiking around Quarry Rim Trail. A circuitous path through the forest meandering up and down hills, twisting and turning through heavy brush, and ending up at the Black Hand Quarry, a jewel hidden from sight by the forest primeval, unless you are willing to brave the trail. I used my walking stick, thoughtfully given to my by my sister and her husband several years ago, before I even needed a walking stick. Maybe they knew what was coming. It is a sturdy, beautiful piece of wood. It also houses a helpful spirit. My helpful spirit who keeps me on the right path and upright. Kind of like my wife.<div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_83a1_c3f3_9c9_1a34" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4ztHbfinoHw/XCd7tfNfAHI/AAAAAAAATrY/qRYHhzdAfAU47wxxqeDOERSdrJqAjFTnQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 746px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_6c13_9744_950_622e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4J_zD1hElwE/XCd7uODrp9I/AAAAAAAATrg/1dX7SjaVobsuxBquSzq6662ijKAHn2LRgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 746px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_43ca_9eef_7e1d_365a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-C0jLil0YuXM/XCd7vHPwVcI/AAAAAAAATrk/twXwUR4f7Tk7TXR16NWGupBbTvaWoF-mQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 746px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br><br><div><br></div><br><div><br></div><br><br><div><br></div></div></div>Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949907270667514057.post-66534097811585115572018-12-24T08:19:00.002-05:002018-12-24T08:19:42.091-05:00Merry Christmas, from the dark side.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GOxIlH7dXOQ/XCDcVUxxq4I/AAAAAAAATlg/sauLu_OFUagqjkNoVQnkMH5q2VijecF9QCLcBGAs/s1600/2C5A747B-04F7-492F-8208-F5F03D931580.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="824" height="152" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GOxIlH7dXOQ/XCDcVUxxq4I/AAAAAAAATlg/sauLu_OFUagqjkNoVQnkMH5q2VijecF9QCLcBGAs/s200/2C5A747B-04F7-492F-8208-F5F03D931580.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
The holidays, that dark time between All Hallows’ Eve and the crushing cold isolation of January and February. A time when the sins of the year weigh heavily on souls facing a two month exile, forced to spend time soul searching, remembering every little misstep, every cross word, every exaggerated reaction. Nobody wants to face that without a feeble attempt to make amends.<br />
<br />
So, we spend, foolishly, rapidly and enthusiastically. Genghis Khan didn’t carry that kind of aggression. We spend online, in stores, over the phone, piling up debt and buying ourselves some imagined absolution for our perceived sins.<br />
<br />
Whether you look at it as the celebration of the birth of the savior or the solemn passing of the winter solstice there is no denying the fact that the holidays are the greatest mover of consumer goods mankind has ever devised. Looking at the numbers leaves you gasping for air, dizzy with the enormity, the sacrifice, the hours it took to earn that money. The months it will take to repay.<br />
<br />
If you work in retail or any part of the gift supply chain you understand the scale. You don’t see the noble, charitable shine applied by the advertising machine that manufactures illusion and applies veneers to the shameless exploitation of almost everyone, almost everywhere. No, you have to look at the scars, and the dirt under the fingernails, the grimy, worn jeans. And you know, you see, there is no magic, it is all industry.<br />
<br />
Sleigh bells ring, sure but it is impossible to hear behind the sound of cash register drawers, hidden under the venomous glare of holiday shoppers, buried under the mountain of printed ads sweeping through the neighborhood. And we pretend there is something grand behind the expense, the blatant, naked avarice, and the hostility that fills stores with shoppers who would maim a person for the last sliced ham.<br />
<br />
This year alone I have read at least 7 articles on the stress of the season. Some on dealing with the demands of additional chores required by family coming to visit. A few on the problems caused by the sudden, crushing burden imposed on the budget. There is disappointment dissolving into bitter disillusionment, escalating into anger and hate. The holidays is the fabled graveyard where relationships go to die.<br />
<br />
The line from the Honey Baked Ham store winds through barricades, people sigh, shuffle their feet, <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N1D6hMP-Qxo/XCDctQy44rI/AAAAAAAATlo/zTu8gSwQv48FvdT8TyTk5TjgOUO1QG3_ACLcBGAs/s1600/16ED5177-49F5-4B59-A521-66BCAE1EE675.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="1600" height="169" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N1D6hMP-Qxo/XCDctQy44rI/AAAAAAAATlo/zTu8gSwQv48FvdT8TyTk5TjgOUO1QG3_ACLcBGAs/s320/16ED5177-49F5-4B59-A521-66BCAE1EE675.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
inch forward and contemplate homicide. Elves, dressed in honey baked aprons and hats wind around passing out little tooth picks with “free samples” stuck on the end in a mostly successful effort to assuage anger and resentment.<br />
<br />
But, the holidays come and go and we survive. And we start dreading next year, or relishing the fabled, foolish belief that there is some glory buried somewhere under all that greed, under all that marketing. Anyway, Happy Holidays, enjoy.<br />
<br />Tim Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03697218207621300874noreply@blogger.com0