On Becoming a Lap Cat

Unaccustomed to being loved directly, Baker looked up at the boy suspiciously. Being a cat in a dog-loving house, he was used to getting his affection second-hand, a stray elbow perhaps, brushing his flank as the dog’s belly was being vigorously scratched. Baker had never been lifted into the boy’s lap before, let alone petted, with both hands no less, and narrowed his eyes to better see what trick was about to be played upon him. He was prepared to leap in an instant.

          

          But nothing happened. Only more petting. And now his ears were being rubbed, just the way he had always dreamed. How could it be? All of this affection and with the dog nowhere to be found? It was truly beyond a neglected cat’s comprehension. But it was happening. And when the boy dug his fingers deeper into his winter fur, Baker couldn’t help but let his guard down just a little and arch his back ever so slightly in contentment. He found himself purring. Purring, and  helplessly kneading the boy’s lap, making the bread for which he had been so rightly named.    

           

Midway

He did not feel old. Sore and stiff, yes, but not old. The stiffness, he knew, would work its way out as soon as he got moving. It wasn’t his age. He’d seen younger men complain about how they ached after doing half the work he had done that week. It was the natural reaction of any body at any age to such labor.

     He didn’t doubt he needed a day or two of rest, time to let his joints and muscles recuperate. But at present, a good night’s sleep was all he could offer, and that was scarce. He worried though, that if his life went on like this—and it seemed it would—that he would be crippled as an old man, confined to a chair or bed.

     But then, too, he thought, it could be just the thing to carry him beyond a hundred years.

     A hundred years. Imagine.

     He did not feel old at all.

 

 



Vying

          It didn’t matter to the dog that its feet were sopping wet, the cat either. What mattered was the smallness of his lap, a place the dog was far too big to be arranged, though he would try and try again, if only to remind the cat who the lap belonged to.

Out of the Blue Clear Sky

Yesterday evening I was bringing wood up to the house, mulling over my bills, my lack of finances to cover them, and how I could use a little side work to pad my checking account, when Mike Lloyd stops out in the road and asks if I have a ratchet strap.

          Behind his Explorer, Mike has a small trailer in tow, on top of which is the twenty-foot flagpole (keep in mind, I live in a secluded, rural area and you can do stupid things like this), that he has been saying he was going to steal for several weeks now. 

         
          No, Mike did not steal the flagpole. Miracle of miracles, it was given to him out of the blue. Problem was, all he had in the truck  at the time was two decrepit bunge cords to hold it down with. Apparently, he had been creeping from house to house in search of somebody home to lend him a couple of decent tie-downs.

         
          ‘Yes, I have a ratchet strap,’ I tell him, ‘pull back to the shop.’

          Well, no sooner does Mike get in the drive, but some truck I don’t recognize pulls in behind him. I’m on the passenger side of the vehicles, trying to keep senile Doggers from getting run over in the commotion. The truck stops, and I poke my head in the window to see who it is; what they want.

          It’s some guy from over at Jackie’s, I know, but don’t know.

          ‘Jackie tells me you build cabinets,’ he says.

          ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’

          ‘Well I need a few.’

          Perfect.

                                                                                                                  

                                                                               Now if only Cupid was as efficient as the Job Fairy.

Mood of the Day

Since I'm such an unpredictabley moody bastard,

and,

since I found photographs of my adorable,

younger self,

I thought I'd help you all out

by posting in the side bar

my mood for the day.

This little tike will be Happy Steven...

and this...

will be Cranky Steven.

Today gets a Happy Steven.

I'll see if I can scrounge up an Indifferent Me,

should the need arise.

On Bugs or Other Possibilities

Either the Fat Lady has sung her last and made a hospice of my noggin, pressing her three hundred and forty-two pounds of dying flesh into the three pound cavity still occupied by my quarter ounce brain, or I have a righteous sinus infection, or the flu. Regardless, I wish the EMTs, Paramedics, Fire Marshall, Jaws of Life, AAA—somebody—would come and remove whoever’s swollen ass (because judging from my appetite, it’s most likely the Fat Lady's), has taken up residence just below and behind my eyeballs, and bury the whole lot of it in a piano case somewhere in New Mexico.            

Happy Waste

A
Today I’ve been wondering if the energy that fuels happiness doesn’t create some sort of waste, something toxic, something anti-happy. I’ve been wondering, too, if all this anti-happy doesn’t get stored temporarily in the body somewhere—maybe in the appendix.

Because, today I’ve felt like a big chunk of anti-happy dislodged from some organ inside of me and is poisoning me with crankiness, and that I should maybe go out in the field and yell at dirt until I pass it, like a gall stone.

I’ve been right on the edge of getting mad at something all day today, and I don’t even know what or why. It’s retarded. Toxins are my only explanation: I had a whole month of nothing but happy, happy, happy and now I need to flush the system. Bear with me, if you can. Dog is.           

The End of Westmoreland's Used Book Store

A
Westmoreland’s Used Book store is as all but dead now.

Yesterday I drove by and noticed it has finally conceded that our town is actually as illiterate as ‘all that’ and has hung a ‘For Rent’ sign about the boney neck of its doorknob.

Before I go on, let me remind you that Westmoreland does not have a stop light within the town proper and is nestled in the Appalachian foothills, near enough to the mountains that you can readily note the hillbilly gene in one out of every three of its inhabitants.

That said, the store opened less than a year ago in Westmoreland’s sub-prime retail district: the Town square, four doors up from Mike’s Food Valu.

I’m sure that I wasn’t the only one who thought—politely, under my breath and behind the backs of the joyous new business owners, stocking their fresh, pine shelves—What? Are you people idiots?

Other than a grocery and an auto parts store, the only business I can think of that might survive on the Town square would be a meth lab. Provided they could work out the legalities.

No native of Westmoreland, that I know of, has ever read a book for pleasure. Other than the Bible, and I hardly see how that counts. Isn’t there something these people could have Googled first? A background check on the Town? Hell, just standing out in the square for fifteen minutes, I think the Town’s level of ignorance... sorry, rural charm... would have been evident enough to convince them to peddle their wares... say, in… well, anywhere but Westmoreland.

Regardless the inevitability, I am sorry to see the little store close. It had nice books and great prices. Maybe they should try back in another hundred years.

NOOK, the Road and Breakfast with the Masons

A

‘I don’t want to wade through your stupid electronic NOOK books when I’m on line shopping for REAL books… EVER! I don’t even want the word NOOK mentioned anywhere in my shopping experience!’

That’s what I told Barnes & Noble, that of course, and, ‘Merry Christmas.’

Anyway, I was thinking, while watching Dog wander up the road, which I had pleaded with him to stay off of, (he’s his own dog, you know), how, I love that dog so very, very much. Yet he’s so careless and just trots off where he could get squished by a bonafide, reckless hillbilly navigating some hodgepodge of Detroit’s glory-days. He must know how my heart would break if he was run over. That I wouldn’t have a friend in the whole wide world left, except for Delmar, who doesn’t really count, because he told me he just hangs around for the feed. Besides, a cat’s days are always number during winter here in Coyoteville.

Then I thought of all the roads that I’ve crossed in my life, or wandered down, ignoring the pleas and cries at my back to return—to be careful.

Really, we’re not so different, this dog and I.

I will go and scoop up his broken bones and bring him back home. And I’ll nurse him or bury him one, just like they’ve done me so many times. Either way, he’ll loose a life out there. You always do. I’ve lost dozens and only cross the road these days for the mail.

And now I’m supposed to go to a breakfast, hosted by the local Mason Lodge—a rare public appearance—a meet-and-greet if you will, for the sake of the business. This effort to assimilate is rather like holding your breath and diving into the ocean to try and become a fish for an hour or so. It certainly produces the same results in me. Anyway, I’m taking my own eggs.

Back-Yard Impressionism

A

First, I would like to recommend opening a banana with Kung-Fu. Seriously. It will change your day… if not your life.

Second... well, there is no second.

What I did today was more PR, conveniently inside of the Frist Center, downtown Nashville, where they just so happen to be having an Impressionist... ism... Exhibit. Yep, Monet, Manet, Courbet, Renoir, Degas, Cézanne… right here in Hicktown.

Gloria went with, since I didn’t want to go alone and I didn’t think that I could pull off the seeing-eye-dog thing again. Not at an art exhibit.

Did you know that you can stand in front of a Monet all day, and it will never sink in that that is a real Monet, or whichever? God, and the picture frames. I know, I am so starved for art. Anyway...

Despite all the famous names, this was my favorite… Jules Bastien-Lepage, Hay Making

There are times when you see things so beautiful, you think, I am done, I need nothing more from life. It was that beautiful. I wanted to cry. I did cry. I came so close to touching it… touching her. Gloria told me not to.

The painting is enormous, the size of a wall. You walk in the room and she is just sitting there in that field. The clarity is stunning. She is so tired and worn thin, dazed, with the world and life all a blur around her, the realization that this is how the rest of my life is going to be just dawning on her. Twelve inches from her face and I swear I could hear her breathing.

Anyway… You know how if you don’t really know a lot about a certain form of art… a movement or a trend… it all kind of blends together…say for instance how one generation says another’s music all sounds the same. And it does. That’s because all of the artists of that age, that moment, have figured out what is ‘right’ and they are all trying to create their version, their interpretation of the same ‘right’. Distinctions are minimal and miniscule and tough to notice if you’re not pretty hung up on that particular scene. There’s nothing wrong with it. It was just kind of funny to walk into a room with five different heavy-hitter artist’s work, and have to make an effort to sort out who is who… and I know who is who.

Oh gawd, and one hick gal was about eight inches from a Monet—nothing famous, one though, from the time in his career when you really needed to step back from the work to see things in 'focus', unless you were appreciating the brush strokes—but I don't think she was and she says, “Gawd, now that’s just ugly.” She was amazed by what three steps back did for the work. I didn’t give her a flyer.

Then I thought we would never find the truck, because I put down bread crumbs and there are pigeons by the truckload in Nasville. Nothing works like it used to back in the old days.

Coincidence?

a

I think not.

On Guilt, Paint and Muslims...

aIt looks like we might get some rain today. I hope so. Then I’d have an excuse for staying in and writing all day. Yes, I need an excuse, otherwise I feel guilty for sitting inside when it’s beautiful out. I guess I can thank my parents for that, “You need to go outside and play, get some fresh air, it’s beautiful out!”

Maybe not. I feel guilty when I don’t run one night of the week, or if I eat two bowls of cereal, or don’t gather the eggs or pull weeds. How does this happen to a hermit?

Anyway…

So, Bret and I are going to be painting this coming week. I know, “Painting Mr. Le Corbusier?” Hey, it pays well. Besides, I like to paint. Except for the brush cleaning. I hate cleaning brushes (mind you, mine are all pristine), it's ranks right up there with stirring the natural peanut butter. Ugh. 

But, thus ends my little vacation and I have to gear up for the right-wing, Obama, gay and Muslim bashing. Not that I’m for or against any of those things… it’s the bigotry I can’t deal with.

Speaking of ignorance: Bret, staunch supporter of the Bible and Church (by which I mean Catholic, because there is only one Church don't you know), and trigger-happy debater of theology, has never read the Bible. But that's not my point...

My point  is, when I told Bret he should back off the Muslim bashing (let alone the gay bashing, and by Muslim bashing I mean constantly insinuating or flat out saying that all Muslims are prone to murderous violence, because of some hype he heard on conservative talk-radio), and that he doesn’t know shit about Muslims, or what they believe in, which happens to be his god, and the little black book (kind of) that he hasn't read, Bret says,“How do you know, have you read the Qur’an?”

Touche'.

“No, but you can consider it done Bret.”

I’m half-way through. I have yet to see anything other than, “help people in need and don’t stir up mischief in the land.”

Mischief? What is this, Dennis the Menace?

Anyway...

I don’t agree with women being their man’s tilth… but hey, it's not really violent. They certainly don’t advocate turning the other cheek. But the ass-whooping can’t start until you’re backed into a corner. Can't say I disagree there either.

Bret’s big thing is that Muhammad was a violent guy. Or so he's heard. So naturally (in Bret’s head) Muhammad is going to promote violence. Need I remind you Bret, of Saul… Paul. Or did you not read that part. That’s what I thought. Done and done.

It’s a little premature of me to say, since I haven’t finished reading the book, and no, I am not talking about the wacko extremists, but it seems the only hang-up (and so far it's a non-violent hang up) Muslims have with the Jews and Christians is that they took the Word of God that was given to Moses… on stone… and fudged it quite a bit when they put it on paper. Possibly to avoid copywrite infringements, who knows, those Jews are a tricky bunch, ain't they Mel? (Wink. Good luck on that comeback buddy).

Honestly… I agree with the Muslims on this particular point. Man got involved... there is no questioning that. Actually, I think man was involved from day one, and he's a mischievous little creature. But then again, what do I know. I’m a painter this week, who tends to be very slanted (translate: wrong) with my observations.

Tilth. He said tilth.

The sun is up and out. I don’t see any rain.

Dear Readers, occasional and otherwise,

So, I know that it looks like I never write anything. But I do... aces... every day. It’s just stupid, journal-diary crap though, no substance and hardly worth reading. “But really,” I asked myself, “how is that any different from your other posts?” It’s not. So. I am going to post my most intimate journal nonsense, with the convoluted hopes that it will slowly morph into something noteworthy. I'll even settle for entertaining.

Sorry you’re coming into the middle of the show…

Saturday, October 23, 2010

This morning I overflowed the coffee maker. Again. I hate that. It is quite possibly the worst way to start a day ever.

On a brighter note… I finally managed to get my Cracker-Barrel pancakes yesterday. Delicious. And no regrets.

I also picked up the business flyers from the printers yesterday. Bret had dropped them off. In his wisdom, he decided that color was too expensive and had them scanned to black and white, “It looks just about as good as the other, and half the price!” he explained. You know how his bullshitting goes. They look like a 1984 punk garage band’s flyer… mimeographed… ridiculous. He has no taste. I burned them. No really, I did. I will have them re-printed, in color, and foot the bill myself.

Speaking of no taste and 80’s garage bands… weren’t black, fringy moccasin boots made illegal? Black moccasin boots are a deal breaker. Even on Indian chicks.

Speaking of Bret, I had this crazy dream that he was in…

Let’s put us out front of a shopping-mall or a convention center maybe, a modern-ish building: concrete, steel, glass… a loading zone… weekday I would say, or a, Make Snails Your Friend! seminar… minimal human traffic. We’re waiting.

Maybe I had just watched a demonstration on how to properly irrigate the ear, but in my boredom, I was trying to get the gunk out of mine. I was using a tub of a baby-blue something that I knew to be primarily and under normal circumstances used on Volkswagens as a lubricant. It looked forever like blueberry yogurt, sans fruit and greasier. I was putting it in my mouth, trying to get it packed up into my sinuses with the intent of pushing said ear-gunk out from the inside, via the eustachia tube.

Apparently there was some trick I had missed, because I wasn’t getting it to work.

Then I saw Bret demonstrate the process on some kid.

He packed the blue-goo into the kid’s mouth. Then pulled out a pouch of chewing tobacco—leaf—and stuffed some under the kid’s right eye, up his nose, and plugged his mouth full. Then he did this little three-points tap with his finger: around the right eye, left cheek and below the left ear, real quick like. This hamster-size wad of foulness popped out of the kid’s ear.

Bret then repeated this process on himself with similarly distasteful results. Then, since I still couldn’t get it right, I conceded and sat down in the chair—there was a chair now—to let Bret work his magic. I was about to get tobacco stuffed under my eye, worried about how that was probably going to hurt like hell, when I woke up. Darn.

No, but seriously Daniel, interpret.

"Watcha Been Up to Steve?"

Usually it's something boring as hell.

So generally I issue the stock, "Same ol' same ol' ", or rough equivalent.

Not that it's in any way exciting, but you asked...

so...

Lately I've been in here...

My back yard...

Logging...

Small scale.

I know... It's like one of those mighty-hunter photos,

with the guy holding up the rack of his record buck.
But...

It's a Poplar: the cockroach of trees.

It was blocking the light to 'better' trees.

I'll use nearly every stick for firewood, 

and...
the brush is stacked in these nifty, bunny no-tell motels. 

The big chunks are dragged out...

and are being used here...

on my sawmill shed.

Anway...

That's what I've been up to this week.

Next week I'll be painting...

Same ol' same ol'.

Sweet Irony

We are about done...

Just a little trim and electrical left to do.

This was the first time we've seen it assembled.

Click on the photo to enlarge.

The Baseball Game

"Steve, the ball game starts about six. I figured we'd leave about four, get there early so the boys can look around. Why don't you just come over to the house about that time. We'll load up and go."

"I... "

"What? You still want to go don't you?"

"I've got so much to do around here."

"It"ll wait until Sunday, won't it?"

"My house needs cleaned. And there's weeds everywhere."

"Ah, man come on. Take a little break."

"Nah, I can't. Really."

"The boys sure are going to be disappointed."

"Yeah. That's why I never had kids."

Maybe

     it’s the rain, the cleansing. It hasn’t rained for so long now. Everything is dirty, rank. It’s been like living out of a car, a laundry basket of soiled clothes. You never feel clean. You just want to draw up, close your petals; ignore the filth.

Maybe it’s my boy’s breathing. Slow, steady, sleep breaths—human breaths—here beside my bed. He’s always close. It’s strange how I will open the gate for a dog.

Maybe it’s that I conquered myself and laid back down, ignored the compulsion, the flaw, and slept for another half hour.

Whatever it was; I feel rested, awake; in the deep places sleep rarely reaches.