Somebody is reading

   The stats for the blog say that someone is reading the stuff I write. Latvia is checking in, so is Russia, Canada, Sweden, and Germany. Someone from Malaysia was here too. UK, France and Columbia are counted too.

  Hello to all of you, and to everyone else I have not mentioned. I am now addressing you, for a change. All the other stuff has been written for me, as the way to empty my head of the things that have been on my mind.

  I wonder about all of your lives and how it differs from my. I wonder about your happiness or satisfaction with your lives. Instead about thinking about what you are doing, I do wonder about that, but more from the point of time and how you spend your time, your 'free' time, the for yourself moments and what good is in your life. I hope there is pleasure in your life, the little joys of the days, like sunshine, flowers, a smile.

  When I see the stats for the blog, I wish for all of you a good day, a happy time.

  So when I see the countries log in i visit with you for a moment. I try to imagine what your street looks like or the building in which you live. i hope it is a sturdy well built building on a clean street. I don't imagine the interiors or the weather, except for Russia, I always think it is cold there.

  I seem to care about the quality of your lives, you annomyous persons that peer into my soul. i get curious as to how you got to the site, how did you stumble here, is it the old random walk theory or were you driven by particulars.

  I do not read other blogs, read one or two, but have no more time to visit other sites. The blog is just my minute of rest, the standstill to regroup before moving on with my life, the minute to look at who I am, to make sure I still like myself, and that I have not strayed from where I remember is the place of peace for me. it is the way I take care of myself, the self analysis to maintain my mental health.

   I am not sure my mental is healthy, by others standards, but it is the look myself in the eye time  to see if i can still live with myself. Self respect is important to me, it is what i think my life is all about. If i like the me that I have to live with ---and what do I have to do to keep myself liking me. How I earned my living was important to me. Not what my job was but the ethic in executing the job.

  Even the worst jobs, the awful demeaning jobs working for persons who did not deserve my respect, that I did not lower my standards, I did not cheat myself. Is it the same for you. In this new millennium cheating and stealing seems to be the norm, or is that not the case, is it simply a few taking much or is everyone stealing as much as they can.
 
  The youth of today have a difficult road ahead of them, and i guess they will take care of themselves, that they have evolved into the new persons that are needed in this global neighborhood. In the old days there were what we called the 'jet setters', the people who hopscotched from nation to nation and continent
to continent. They were the aberration. Today they seem to be the norm, with the world right around the corner. Have you all been flying around visiting mcdonalds in japan and turkey.

   Then I think about all the people in china and the life differences in a dense population, as close as I get is as a baby boomer, close but not the same.

   Do you all think for yourselves, or do you follow, is another thought I have. Even the economically poor can think, i think, only depending how hungry you are, then need overpowers any rational thought, and survival kicks in. My life has not been easy, nor has it been as awful as the  worst of us. Yet, there is a bitter residue, and i want not to be responsible for making life more difficult for someone else. i want not to get in your way of having a better life, i want not to step on your toes.

  And that leads me to think about people, no, not people, persons, individuals who wish harm on others and I feel so bad for them, I feel that they are in so much pain that they have no way of soothing themselves, and i think that their lives must be so awful that they can not feel good unless they make others feel worse than what they are feeling. The trickle down of horrors.

  And i think maybe i am being smug about my attitude. Trying to look at it from their shoes. Do we feel happiness, true happiness, differently, or are we all living life at different levels of happiness. The pyramid of the haves trickling down to the have nots.
  But there are the monks who are poor and are happy.Another of life's mysteries, of which i have as yet not come up with an answer.

  So, yes, i think of all of you, and how your day must be going and wish for you a day that makes you feel good about yourself.

New

A new laptop
It's cool to be able to sit anywhere and work
A new laptop
means a new keyboard to adjust to
the keys a little larger
functions deleted, can't hit a mute key
functions added, haven't looked them up yet
no book for a clue
have to search the help.
  How can I work and search for info at the same time, two screens are not happening. And then the type fades in and out, larger and smaller as my hand moves to type.
A new version of Microsoft too, whoopie doo.
Page out to save
page in to new
page out to find another page
no more drop down screen
no more side panel for access.
All new.
Easy to add columns.
Tough to read to find the function though.
  Haven't yet found out why the type keeps changing.
More to learn.
It is good to learn.
It helps the mind stay young? It helps the mind stay.
Staying must be the same thing as young.
The keyboard has the direction arrows near the shift key,
I keep shifting to another line, like learning how to drive.
Does the laptop come with a Mavis Beacon lesson included?
Somehow I made the screen smaller and got it to levitate to the top of the viewer, getting seasick.
Need a map.
  It's the touch pad! You must type with your hands suspended in mid air or disengage the touch pad. Fascinating. P ,, nlblem solved, not really, still have flying type.
Practice, practice, practice.

  Watch out for the ac adapter, it gets warm, hope the carpet is fireproof.
The cat will love it in winter. if we ever have a winter.
Still sitting where i want, swell, as they said in the 1940's, or cool, in the 1960's or neat!
   Flying type. Coping with flying type and with getting the job done is extra time consuming, the trials of new. Always takes more, to do the same thing. The something new. The thing you got to make things easier and faster, are harder and slower just when you need it faster. Luxury is being able to learn at your own pace and at your own convenience, but we gotta eat. So the tension mounts, deadlines, and new. We never buy a new computer when we want to play, it is always because it is needed for a task, the old one dies, or does not do the what the new job calls for or there is not enough memory or there must be a new language, always new, to do the same old thing, communicate.
   I know, I keep harping about the same old thing, but, I truly believe there should be a holiday for Johann Gutenberg. A tribute. A song. Oh, where are the Beatles, they should have sung his praises.

    Gutenberg, Gutenberg, Johann, we wouldn't be here today without you. Strong fingers, short nails, symbols  to strike, paper is taking a hike, we're saving the trees,  even books to read, all because of you, thank you, Johann Gutenberg, my hero.

    They have added keys, they have new symbols, the printing press is still the best. Without the first books we all could read, where would Bill Gates be.
    
    Time to stop playing, time to learn the new machine, time is money, and time to earn some money, so time to learn, time to stop playing, time to get it together, before it gets away.

PS That's what I get for trying to put a word document on a spreadsheet!

Dear Diary, 3.23.12

Change for the better is very easy to accept.
Change for the worse is hard to swallow.

Who we are is always charming for the days that go by,
time is never at a loss to tick,
bye, bye
to our selves all we can say is bye bye.

We ascend to achieve, each day growing in wisdom and skill,
until, the clock ticks bye
and we begin to lose the glimmer in the eye.

We forget, we stammer, we stumble
time time slowing all our time.
can do, can not do
lose the rhythm
forget to tell
forget to ask
forget.

And as the days grow shorter
skills wane
everything a long refrain.

Less we do
along we wait
for someone to assist
for the loss is great.

We did it yesterday,
whatever it was,
we don't remember,
we wonder what it was.

We say it again,
 we said we never said it,
we don't remember saying it.

We did it,
we don't remember doing it,
we can't say it,
we don't remember what it is called.
We know it is not because we are getting old.
The brain in long refrain,
it will never be the same again.
It is gone, it is going,
drifting away
wandering
leaving.

what can we say,
we were here
we did what we could
what difference does it make
we don't remember doing it.

Goals achieved
mountains climbed
we did it, it's done
we'll never do it again
and we won't remember
we wanted to do it again.

The mind is going
the body too,
to where?
We wonder,
then we forget.
And it does not matter,
for there is nothing left,
we have left, we are gone,
we are here, and then there,
bye bye
in the wink of an eye.

Chicken Barns

Chicken

Chicken is a term used to denote someone who is afraid to venture...into the unknown, a coward. Children love to use the term to frighten peers into doing something or, to chide. Sissy is also used with the term. A sissy is a feminine insult to boys who are 'chicken' to venture where all the other boys will go, into the unknown, danger.

Chickens are little birds that seldom fly except to flee, they more seem to jump away from danger than fly, their flight is straight up as in helicopter then a parallel left or right pass then to  ground. They are quickto flight as they cluck to warn the others.

Their feathers are used or were used to stuff mattresses along with money that was being safeguarded. At the local chicken markets they had a machine that would shave the feathers off the carcass, it resembled a grinder's wheel.

There was a young boy in New York who lived near a chicken market. He and his friends would always annoy. To get rid of the kids, the owner of the chicken market told the young boy that if he planted the chicken's legs feet up in the garden chicken would grow. The young boy went home with the chicken legs and planted them feet up in the garden, to the dismay of his father, head of the agriculture department for the city.

Chickens are either caged or free range. Free range chicken wander the farm pecking at the soil seeking insects or the grain, usually corn, scattered by the farmer. Free range chickens are stress free birds except for the predators, cats, dogs, fox. Free range chickens often lay their eggs anywhere in the grass, or in a nest as provided.

Caged chicken are like any animal, stressed to tension, tight muscles, and agitated.

Chicken barns are usually large metal structures housing hundreds of chickens confined to every available space. Their waste is usually housed until trucks arrive to remove the debris to elsewhere to be burned or used for fertilizer. The odor is not contained, it floats into the air, hovering at ground level. These barns are built by local residents contracted to the major suppliers. Once there is a profit, then another barn is errected, an another, soldier style one right after another. Four barns standing together look neat and orderly. When driving by the nasal assault causes the eyes and nose to close, if the flaps on the ears worked they would close too. As the automobile wooshes by it picks up the odor and wooshes it along for a scent that lingers, nearly another mile.

In Life

In Life one needs a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning. Employment, of the nature that provides income, or of the nature that supports income are usual for adults. One person a breadwinner, another supports the breadwinner. When there is a team the roles oft are shared with purpose morphing according to needs, that is , if there are children to raise the responsibilities are varied and divided according to abilities and opportunities-who has the potential to increase the financial assets and who has the ability to tend the brood.

As the brood ages and leaves the nest the purpose shifts to responsibility to and for partner for income. Once the financial assets have been secure, or as secure as possible within the global climate then the need to acquire new purpose is catamount to enhancing the quality in life.

Upon retirement from employment to acquire financial income there must be adjustments to adapt a lifestyle to shift focus to new purpose. There is the oppportunity to pursue passions as in golf, tennis, or other competitive sports as racing, pool, bowling. This venue allows for personal growth to be measures with competition among peers. Allowing for satisfaction in personal achievement as well as the relishing of beating a foe, or absorbing the loss, with dignity. For some, the opportunity to compete is satisfaction enough, being able to gather the energy and courage to 'show one's stuff.'

There are also those who choose to continue to acquire assets in the same line of business as that which they retired from, or to embark on another field, money being the goal for satisfaction.

Then there are those for whom it will take some time to fully grasp what in fact will be the hidden purpose for which satisfaction, excitement drive and passion will spark. They will languish in a limbo like state sifting through life sorting through minutia acquiring bits and pieces of knowledge and experience which will support the future purpose, of which they are yet to be surprised. Here, without self worth the individual will sink into a despair. Respect and trust in self, the knowledge of, the lack of opportunity, not the lack of preparation. When one continues to strive for excellence the satisfaction is self achievement and the self respect that will provide the staff of life to endure until the opportunity for purpose arises.

Nothing

Does it exist
'I have nothing'
is the nothing something, or
is the having a figment of the imagination.

what did you do today,
'I did nothing'
just being is something so,
doing nothing is something, therefore
nothing is something
or is doing a figment of the imagination..

what do you want,
'nothing'
if wanting nothing does that signify fullness;
or is wanting just a figment of the imagination.

Nothing
doing nothing
having nothing
wanting nothing
can one exist with nothing, wanting nothing doing nothing having nothing.

No thing, is that like the black hole, consuming all thing.
disappearing everything, leaving no thing.

nothing
wanting no thing is simpler
than having no thing.
food, clothing, shelter,
someone to share with.
no food, we become no thing, not true,
we become fodder for something, therefore continuing us as something.
no clothing, the elements erode the thing that we are and therefore we become the element that is the eroder, still not nothing.
no shelter, we live amid the elements, both being nutured and erroded by the elements, thus and therefore we are again nothing.

Empty denotes nothing
empty of .....
is simply the absence of...something
yet something is nothing
and nothing is something

Further,
nothing happens when nothing is without something
yet something is always there
it is just not important enough to be called something

what do you hear,
nothing
what does nothing sound like
something different than what we usually hear
can you hear nothing
if you hear nothing is it not something

what do you see
nothing
this, then is subjective
with eyes open there is always something to see.

what are you looking at,
nothing
can the mind disappear everything
or does the mind refuse to see what the eyes behold.
what are you looking at,
nothing
in the darkness is there nothing
or is it simply
what the eyes cannot see, that is called nothing
or can the eyes see what is there
and the mind, not.
When the eye is accustomed to darkness what does it see,
the absence of darkness
yet it is dark,
or is it a figment of the imagination.

what do you see,
is it what is in front of you,
or is it what you want to see,
or is it nothing.
Nothing of vaLUE to you, yet something,
and yet nothing.

What do you earn,
nothing.
Enough to eat, shelter, clothing.
yet nothing you want,
only what you need
therefore nothing of enough value to be something.
No more than survival,
nothing to enhance life,
nothing to enjoy life,
nothing to really be alive.

Then, therefore, you are dead.
And if you are dead, you are something to something,
not nothing.
And, thus, enhance, life, for something, not nothing,
for without the wind the water, the soil, the sun, even on what is called barren planets, there is something.
So, nothing is something
and something is nothing.
and there is nothing to change the something that nothing is all about.
and, therefore is nothing to worry about, something on the other hand, always occupies, any place in time or space.

We live in time and space, and nothing is nowhere something is therefore nowhere is where something is, in space and time.

If, on the other hand, there is no space and time, is there room for nothing. No, because there is no space and time and nothing fits in, or, without space and time there is nothing. But we already know that something is nothing or more precisely nothing is something, it is obvious that then there is no such thing as the absence of space and time.

Or , there is only space, time is only a figment of the imagination, or the clock that we all live by, if  there was no time would we live forever or cease to exist. Without time are we nothing. Must we have time to be something, something we currently recognize as 'alive' moving to another time, as currently 'alive'.

Are we alive as dirt, does dirt feel, not necessarily as we denote feelings of pain or satisfaction. Dirt, what does dirt feel when stepped upon, or wetted with lime for cement. If we are feeling , would we thus continue to feel when we become 'dirt'. Or, do we feel nothing, do we leave the feeling to the 'thinking mind' that thinks nothing does not exist, while in fact we have above proven it does.

Nothing, to worry about, we will in fact, all find out the answer, except if being 'dirt' is the same as not knowing.

A leaf falls to the ground, an ancestor of something or an ancestor of nothing, does it know, unable to change any part of the world for better or for worse, that it is not able to, or does it, just by one person who is in awe at it's beauty. Has that small a change in the world made it something, or must we see it as nothing because the mind of the  eye refuses to see.

Come tomorrow we shall see, something or nothing.

pinterest

Dear Diary, 3.8.12

       There are things I should have been commenting about, but haven't. Seems sorta moot to comment about Rush Limbaugh's faux pas but, he never walks in anyone else's shoes, so myopia is his moniker. It is a shame though, he has the ear of so many people and he simply spreads venom, musta had a tough childhood, never knew kindness, never heard of kindness. If we ignore him, we being all of us, it would do no good, he needs someone to hear him, so perhaps he will listen - .

       This whole thing about the birth control pills in not really about women's health, it is really about control. Men want to control women's bodies. Like the cave man hitting the cave woman over the head with a club, subjugating women like  some eastern countries clouded in masks. It is the male trying to dominate the female making them possessions.

        Some religions, founded my males, tell females they must reproduce, to rebuild the congregation, ensuring power. Some religions have it set up that the male make take many wives, and produce many children, even forty offspring by one male, thus guaranteeing the power of the male with the males own tribe.

            Thus, power disguised as moral right controls the society of local communities. Now, since the industrial revolution, robots and computers, the female, thanks to Johannes Gutenberg and the printing press, has left the cave of ignorance and discovered the brave new world of independence and self worth based on more than reproduction, the opportunity to think. That is what the battle is all about, denying the female the right to think and choose.

         If you believe god spoke to the male and told him what to write down for posterity then all females who do not reproduce and repeatedly reproduce, are doomed, as well as the male who also does not reproduce, repeatedly, to live forever in poverty struggling to survive and provide for the multitude of offspring.

        It is all about control, power, and having someone to control. All those people who feel powerless must have something (someone) to control, to maintain their illusion of control. They refuse to accept that there are so many variables in life that there is no control over anything, like the tornado that wipes out towns or the tsunami the washes away cities. You can only do your best and and live with what life gives you, or what life lets you keep.

        Why does one males opinion have to be the right opinion. Why does male have to tell female what is good for female. If female told male he had to do something to his body even if he did not want to, what would happen. If female told male he must have a vasectomy would he comply.

         Mind your own business, stop telling people what to do. Let people make their own mistakes. Freedom is more valuable than control. Without freedom people can not discover who they really are, and what their potential is. Not knowing who I am and what I believe in or want to be makes me a slave to society, it sucks the life out of me, and makes my life not worth living.

        Think about that for a while.

And let me live my life, and you live yours. Time is all I have, and you have no right to tell(order) me how to live it.

miceLLe

Fwd: for your consideration

When you are feeling, you don't know what
begin to write anything
what day it is
what the weather is like
and more will come out

If you write it down it will get out of your head
All that you are feeling is everything in your memory
all at once

yesterday today and tomorrow
all jumbled up in a mess

scribble
it doesn't have to be neat

allow yourself to grieve
cry scream yell
let it out
keeping it inside will only prolong the pain
and make it worse

feel how horrible it feels
only once do you bury a father
it is a unique pain
and you will only feel it once

then begin to celebrate
all the good that was
all the happy that was
all the love that was
hug it tight
and then let it go
with time
all the pain will fade away
and life can begin anew
for the stronger you

The game of Football

Well we watched the ball game.
But, my comment is that the game is always fixed.
I have lost much interest in sports competitions because of all the
scandals.
Lance Armstrong really broke my heart, taking steroids is one thing but
lying about is an altogether bummer.
So, I sometimes watch kids perform on track and field just to see what
the kids have grown to.

About football, i remember back in the 60's they would interview
football players and they could not communicate at all. Now they are
thinking machines that speak to. Man has come a long way learning lots
of stuff and then they have to cheat to make sure they win.

I remember when playing the game was the important thing. Now, winning
is the only thing that matters. There is no more art in sports, it has
become a survival feat.

Oh yeah, there are some pretty passes and some amusing touchdowns but
the real challenge has been removed. Fake turf has removed the mud and
dirt and grass from football uniforms so we do not get to see the tell
tale signs of the damage the players are feeling. It is now a sterile
competition, fighting for land that isn't even real.

It is still winter

   A crisp chill  unfelt as brushes a cell sweeps it,  blowing through the night air, a moments rest atop a rolled collar, to fall upon a brim to trickle down a shoulder roll to a sleeve, rest upon a glove. Again airborne, floating, unhurried, unbound, adrift, disintegrating, distant  from whence, dimming passage, edges curl, furl on a breeze of the night, again, rest upon alien landscape, amid flecks, shards and fragments of a day passed. To the curb, to the street, to repose with discard, dropped, thrown derelicts, the fallen from the confront, the worn weary remnants  reminder of day done,  time past, light spent. A fleck of humanity unmissed, unwanted, unneeded, unnoticed, unnecessary, now  afloat into the night on echoes of the waves of a day rippling round tomorrow, remembering yesterday not quite finished with today.

Charles is WRONG

    The Catholic Church in America is  a tax free business with much of it's capital invested in hospitals and other medical facilities.

    Since Medicare and Medicaid have rules that all vendors must follow it is logical that if they wish to do business and receive federal funds they must in fact comply. They can not change the rules nor make their own. If in fact, they refuse to comply they should lose all Medicare and Medicaid eligibility.

    Catholic hospitals care for all religious sects, what right have they to enforce their views onto others. If they are operating as a business they should and must observe the mandate dictated by law and the rules for receiving public funds.

    If in fact they do not like the rules they have the choice to privatize and use their money(funded by donations from their faithful). If they try that route they will see how much of a majority they will retain.

    It is quite easy to say "they should not have to follow that rule because it is against their religious beliefs" but money talks.

    Again, if a woman's right to choose is not protected then the tenants of the constitution will not be for all the people.

    They will become third class citizens, second to men and third to a fetus. Women have rights and if your religion says it is wrong at least then the woman has the right to choose wrong, thus proving she is in fact human, with rights.

Dear Diary, Super Bowl Ads Less than 2.5.12

Dear Diary,
Today, like every other Super Bowl Sunday, anticipation awaiting
advertising. Looking forward to what usually is the best fare for
selling stuff.
Alas, we shall have to wait another year to hopefully behold the
art of advertising at its best.
Two ads are the only mentionable fare.
Samsung's touch pad, presented with singing and dancing. It was tough to
hear what they were saying. The dance routine was eye catching.
Coca Cola's ad reminded us it was winter and looked like a cartoon for
Christmas.
The rest of them were STUPID.
What WAS absent, was art, beauty, drama, poise.
What was reflected though, was the chaos of the times, the empty barrels
making noise and the slapstick assaults that disguise themselves as humor.
Nothing was funny, nothing was pretty, and nothing said anything.
When you watch an ad and you have no idea what they are saying, you
question the judgment of the company that paid someone to think of it
and then produce it.
There was no hook to grab. There is no good reason to remember any of
the offerings. A waste of money, they missed their mark. The largest
audience of the year, and they wasted the attention of the gallery.
Advertising is no longer a medium for entertaining eye catching
attractions that would impress the audience.
With a little bit of money it is possible to present a package worth
opening, too bad they did not think the audience deserved more, or
anything sophisticated.
Another good reason to turn off the television, nothing worth watching.
Advertising is adding to the disease that is seeping into the media,
mediocrity.
Like the leaders, Like the people, less is all they are willing to give.
And we are settling for mediocrity. Good bye America. Hello dumbland.
Sincerely,
miceLLe

THE GLASS STRAW

    A scene keeps repeating
It flashes by at a glimpse
    Then it fades
As it reappears, the smells return
Fifty year old aromas blend with the memories

It is always clean
It is always bright
Order and organized

The neutral patterns are appealing
they also are comforting, soothing
not the old fashioned commonplace
a contemporary picture of a modern kitchen

The room stretches the width of the house
Windows adorn both sides
The south window is bordered by cabinets
and the walls of the cabinets on opposite sides of the window
have little shelves, three each

One item stands out
It fits the whole shelf that has rounded edges
and is as tall as to almost reach the bottom of the shelf above

She has a red dress flowing to twice the width of her shoulders
her hands meet together gracefully
her smile and face and hair minor agents in the tapestry
Out of reach for the little fingers
She is for others to reach
To caress her hair, to lift the torso
with the cookie inside

At the other window only wallpaper adorns
Sweet cafe curtains lend curl, a furl soft against the wall
A narrow sill that sometime held a pack of Paulombo's

One chair sat perpendicular
open, alongside the table
ready to occupy

Atop the table, a platter covered with a paper napkin
beneath the napkin some pear wedges
the like measure provolone, also bread

A muted pattern fit the midriff of the lone glass
 it's place resting beside the platter
Water within an inch of the rim
Facing near the window
reaching two inches past the rim
and another two past the circumference of the tumbler
was the top tip
of the glass straw

GUS

    The path from the road to the house is an eight of a mile. It curves a bit  to the left before it reaches the house. On an August morn arrived a tiny noir package, only two and a half pounds. It parked itself on the deck near the barbacue grill. Next day it was still there. We put out a small dish of milk and ignored it. Another day passed and we noticed it had climbed up to the lower shelf on the grill where the folded fire blanket is.

    Three days and it still is here. Bill loves cats, maybe it is time to have a pet. We knew the vet from the last cat that had wandered to the deck and we tried to rescue but was too late to do any good. So we took the black ball to the vet to make sure it was healthy and get whatever shots were necessary.

    First we named her Augusta to remind us we found her in August but the vet said it was a he. It was so small we could not tell. So we named him Augustus, Gus for short.

    All was well, we let him in the house, gave him a bath and adjusted to a small creature among us. He was an indoor pet, young and energetic. He seemed too active for indoors so we began to let him out for some fresh air and another look at the world.

    One day, he came home and could hardly walk. He could not be touched and cried a lot. Finally we ventured to pick him up and take him to the vet. Without an x-ray machine the vet could not be certain but he thought Gus had a broken leg, and we would have to take him to another vet two towns east of us. It was Sunday night and the vet would meet us at the  clinic. The vet and his wife had been to the movies. X-rays proved that Gus had a broken femur and would need surgery. The vet would operate tomorrow morning and we could pick Gus up on Tuesday.

    The top part of the femur had to be removed, the vet said, and he would heal fine. He needed to see Gus in a week to remove the stitches. Three days later we were back at the vet because Gus had pulled out two of the stitches. Now Gus had what they called staples in his hip, and again we would have to return in a week to have the staples removed, four of them. And it would only cost us one thousand dollars.

    What we did learn at this new vets office is that our Gus is a Maine Coon, with his long black hair and  could grow as large as thirty-pounds. We gasped!

    He is an odd little fellow, not so little any more at sixteen pounds. He loves to go out in the rain and has no problem getting soaked. I think he does it just so we can wrap him in a towel to dry him off so he doesn't leak all over the house. He understands English and does come when called. He is definitely from Missouri, 'Show me' is what he does when asked what do you want, show me. He sits in front of the refrigerator when he wants wet food, he stands in front of his bowl when he is low on dry food. When he wants to go out he stands or sits by the kitchen door and screams for someone to let him out.

     When Gus catches a field mouse, he of course wants to bring it in, we do not humor him that far.
After he comes into the sun room he must be brushed before he is permitted into the house. His long hair catches too much brush and leaves to let him wander free. He runs into the sun room up to the door to the laundry room. I stand half way between both doors and order him, commere, commere, commere(slang for come here). He turns around from the laundry room door and comes to be brushed or combed. Then, once the door is opened he makes a mad dash for the food, eats, maybe has some water then turns around and yells to go back out.

     He sleeps with Bill, curled up near his knee. Sometimes he jumps up on Bills chest at three in the morning and smells close to Bills face. A quiet wake up call to be let out.

    We don't know where he goes when outside, except for the times he brings us mice, or when he chases the  birds that rest in the bush near the house. He disappears for hours and Bill worries. Sometimes we can easily notice the limp. Occasionally he lays down near his bowl of food and paws a few pieces out of the bowl and brushes them close to his mouth to eat. He will only drink water standing up or sitting up. He has a pitcher near his food. He loves when there is fresh ice cubes in with the water and spends time trying to catch a cube, or he like the ice water on his paw to wash other parts, either and or both.

    We bought one of those towers for him to scratch at and climb, it also has a little cubby hole. We had to put stones on the bottom to hold the tower secure. It is really made for little cats that don't have much weight. We added about twenty five pounds of rock to the bottom so he could not tip it over. It has little pompoms hanging and a rope to scratch at. Gus is mildly amused with them.

    One of his favorite amusements is when I walk around the house dragging a length of twine, about a yards worth. He chases us through the rooms until I am tired of the exercise.

    A favorite is when  we roll a crumpled scrap of paper in the palms of our hands as for meatballs. He hears the sound and runs behind a piece of furniture poised to attack. When it's thrown he jumps at it like a ping pong ball. He  will only fetch when HE wants to play.

  He's been with us now seventeen months, a member of the family, boss of the bosses. He has us wrapped around his paw and as long as there is food in his bowl, water in his pitcher and someone to open the doors for him, everything is fine, there is peace. The boss is satisfied.

   

Fw: CNN Republican Folly 1.26.12

 

 

Sent: Saturday, January 28, 2012 2:01 AM

Subject: CNN Republican Folly 1.26.12

If the Republican Party believes they have done anything to advance their cause, think again. In the history of debate nothing comes close to this dismal display of rancor. The candidates have imploded.

 

More harm has been done to the Republican Party from within than anything the Democratic news army could throw at them.

 

These men showed no harmony of party, no respect for themselves nor America.

 

Who would want to vote for men who attack each other and call each other friends.

Who would want to elect someone who can not accurately berate a party member.

They are supposed to be on the same side.

 

We again heard nothing new.

We again heard no voice for America, or if we did it was a whisper.

 

Let us see, a voice for America:

Mr Santorum is so angry and cannot contain himself to debate. His anger rages before him. Would you want him near the switch.

He continues to remind us that his father came off the boat, and that he, Rick Santorum has fathered children. He also reminds us that he has been a fighter for twenty years to fix what is wrong with Washington. But Washington is not fixed.

 

Mr. Romney, the smooth one with the expensive education and expensive life reeks of money. He claims he made his own fortune, but with whose fortune did he get his start. Poverty has never touched him nor has anything. Mr Clean. The guy will never be able to meet with a third world leader and make them feel as an equal. How will he be an asset to an ever shrinking wealth of nations. How many clean shirts do you think he puts on in a day. Do you think, when he was a kid, he took out the garbage, once, just to see where it went. The Marie Antoinette of America. Let him eat cake.

 

The newt is the ever changing salamander, remaking himself, or is he the newton that studied light. His baggage is suspect. Although he is the brightest of the bunch he is the sloppiest, resting on his laurels. Perfection is not what he strives for, more for, amusement. He has thought things through. The trip to the moon although realistic in the sense that the race for outer space is leaving us in the dust of the milky way and that is a shame on America. It is a good dream for the nation and should have been delivered with some care. Because the roads to Florida all need to be repaved. Silly man thought we were not listening. We were.

 

the Doctor, like Dr Who, scares us too. His islolationist stance reminds us that we all must live on this small planet and play together. We cannot live on our own little island. We are all connected by the economic game. And unless he changes his rigid position about the world and what our role should be, he is the loosest cannon too.

 

The more they speak, the better Obama looks, at least we know  he does not care about america.

 

 

Dear Diary 1.18.12 Not easy to read

We are becoming worried.

There is this nagging distress. It is growing to an overwhelm. It
is eroding any sense of well being. It is discomfort, it is a sore
festering, to seethe and foam, it spreads threads of the warning signs,
danger. The knot in the pit of the stomach, the raised hairs on the back
of the neck, the chill at the spine, all the commonsense alarms to
harbingers of hazard.

Sadness, disappointment, pain, anguish. Decades with knowledge,
compassion, regard, equality, justice, rights, freedoms now threatened.

A war is being waged on terror. A war is being waged on drugs, and now
again there is talk of waging another war, A war on females. Not
physically to kill them but to maim for life, in prison, coraled like
cattle, devouring rights and voice, freewill and choice. Chained to
pillars. Tied to rails. Slaves. Scarred for life, branded, altered.

A movement gaining strength. A massive crowd with no regard for
female. The group that is fighting to choose to deny female any rights
to control what happens to the body of female, a burgeoning voice
forcing their will to condemn female to a gulag. Using female to
reproduce against their will.

As a machine, to sustain, without regard, chained, enslaved
without rights, feelings, aspirations, dreams. Detached from the stage
of freewill, the backbone of the Great American Dream, the right to
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, locked into the dungeons of
despair, disfigurement, degregadation, owned, used, forgotten.
Carelessly without regard, a machine for reproduction, possession,
punishment.

Female, unable to prevent one result of sexual intercourse, without
the advantage of privilege, a male equally unable to prevent this
outcome, but who, will *not* be forced, *not be* imprisoned, *not* be
forced to suffer the result, the one who gets 'the get out of jail free
card'. Female is punishment, one sided retribution , for in fact, it
is punishment for two errors, male and female, an error of
irresponsibility or ignorance. She, female, forced live the sentence,
entombed in the constancy, no where to hide, no eyes to close, no rest,
no sleep, no dreams, no choice, only the nightmare, 'doing time'.

Committing life gets the same punishment as committing death.
There is no chance for appeal no sigh of denial, no excuse, there is no
reprieve, life in prison, no parole, for female. Forced to mutate.

The abrogation of the rights of female in a country that parades
itself as the land of the free, a country that boasts the rights of
all, the country with the laws to protect all its citizens rights,
now, wishing to segregate the female into the land of the slave, the
chattel. The land that will seed the threads of the new divide, the new war.

The battle that belongs in the *Dark Ages*, with the moats,
dungeons, disease and pestilence, the time of ignorance fraught with
fear filth and the mud of madness.

Amongst us, are those who fervently believe in the sanctity of human
life and yet willfully void their alleged enemies.

Give me liberty or give me death.

Will it be seen that female will join together to renounce the
affront to their rights or will they bow to the laws /laid /by males.
Can female shoe strength, demand equality, and rights.

And if female chooses *not* to terminate the duality, thus then,
male *will *be held accountable for his actions. For female "with child"
there will be male equally responsible and accountable for said child
that enters the world.

When male is held responsible with female for emotional unions that
progeny will have the opportunity to become something, rather than a
drain on society.

As long as male steals away from confronting actions and female is
left with the burden, we have, a society that does not recognize the
rights of female. And we have a child, who will have begun a life of
need. Charles Dickens warns, "Beware the child called want, beware the
child called ignorance" and every child who begins life with want will
inevitably be a child of ignorance and need. The need of which society
can not deliver because that child would have lived the beginnings of
life unwelcome, in the first 'home', and will have shared an abode with
someone who did not like nor want to be with them, resented from the
beginning , and would not know love nor the warmth of being wanted. A
child unwanted is always looking and searching for want. This then would
be the members of the new society that would be forced upon all of us.
The new society.

2012 ABC Republican Presidential Candidates Debate

     Can it get any funnier.these guys don't realize that people are listening to them.  At times they sound like bickering classmates, elementary mates at that.

 

    Gay marriage was an issue that was turned around to religious persecution, stealthily done by Mr Gingrich reporting that the Catholic Church in some states were prevented from offering adoption services because they would not let gay couples adopt. It seems they would rather have a child grow parentless, rather than being loved by parent or parents, regardless of what they do sexually. They all we strong for privacy rights but encroach upon homosexual rights to privacy. Judging how a person shares love is what they were very strong about. Being a loving couple gives you no equal rights, except for the newt, he was in fact in favor of concessions. There was strong feelings for keeping the male female hierarchy with recognition of no other lifestyle. The family as core is what they were pushing for.[Mr Huntsman's feelings, I am not very clear about]. Mr Santorum is the most rigid against any recognition for gay rights. The financial benefits of marriage ie tax breaks etc seem still to be a private club for male female unions. [What the gay community should do in protest is buy two family homes, have partners marry other partners i.e.  one lesbian partner marry one homosexual partner and their respective other partners marry, therefore affording them the finincial benefits of marriage(currently denied them) and they will thus be elligible to adopt. 

 

    That of course is not acceptable ethically, for very many feelings would have to be suppressed, but if you wanted to get even with the establishment, that is the way to do it.

 

     Rules, that is what is the issue, and who gets to make them. Status quo is what they want, although some of them up there have changed the rules, making divorce the norm. It is good for a child to be reared in an environment where they are made familiar with both male and female tendencies but when there are excess children thrown away, who are in desperate need of a life, why should they be denied love. The rule is the rule and that is that.

 

       Mr. Huntsman was the strongest character with a plan. Mr's Paul and Perry wanted to bicker. Mr Gingrich seemed the wounded dog.

 

        Mr Romney at one point refused to answer a question and instead went on his high horse tirade of beating up on the president. He thought it more important to dump on someone than address the issue presented. It looked like the kid wanted to play his own game.

 

        We laughed a lot, it was the funniest thing  we have watched in a long time, except when I decided to close my eyes to listen to see if I could hear who was telling the truth(try it for the next debate, they will appear different). Sad commentary, a debate to consider the next leader and it was more a joke.

The Pantry

 

 

   

 

    Dictionaries define a pantry as a small room used for storing foodstuffs and implements. Our pantry is more than that, it is a storeroom of  family history and ethnic diversity.

 

 

   There, on that shelf are grandma's Guardian Service pots and pans circa nineteen-forty - nineteen-fifty. Thick aluminum vessels to first be warmed by low heat,  which becomes stored in the pot which will becomes hotter than the heat source and is retained. The pots crackled exterior is difficult to keep clean but grandma and mom kept the pots spotless. The thick dome shaped glass covers sport a knights helmet and crossed axes in the shape of gingko leaves on poles. Pieces have been added to the collection, little gems found at yard sales, these 'new' old pots are not immaculate, time has not been as kind to them.  The griddle is a solid aluminum about an inch thick.  Sunday mornings Mom made silver dollar pancakes,  then, our eyes were level with the griddle and we would watch the batter rise from exposure to the heat.

 

    To scour the griddle, pots and pans a small piece of steel wool was used. It was kept in a plastic container with lid, within, a mixture of water and Rokeach soap (kosher soap) which as a matter of fact, kept the steel wool from rusting and thus one scant patch of steel wool would last until it was scoured away instead of rusted away. Bon Ami powder also would be applied to the pots to remove the oxidation stains without nicking a surface, it  by her side like a sidearm ready to fire.

 

    The view of mom at the sink when she was cleaning a piece of Guardian Service had a distinct rythmn, the motions of her arms and hands a waltz , as she rubbed, rubbed, her body a symphony.  Meticulously inspecting and scrubbing  back and forth, top to bottom adrift and at peace, maybe, she hummed a silent tune to herself, one two three four, one two three. Magic pans in her hands a genie creating something out of nothing. The simplest meals, no meat, colorful, tasty and filling and satisfying. Their honored place of rest a shelf close to the door close to be picked first ot make magic. 

 

 

      At the far wall a pegboard holds tools for the grill, for the hotdogs, shrimp and hamburgers of summer meals without the mess of clean up, carefree fare.  the optimism of spring greets the eye, the subconscious mind wanders to warmer sunshine and short sleeves.

The winter segue that satisfies. The relish is waiting near the saurkraut mustard and ketchup, the four musketeers of spring.

 

    One night I saw the oppossum sitting on the sideboard of the grill. Venturing out to snap a photo, quietly moving closer, it dawns on me that I know  nothing about the personalities of oppossum and  moving closer might be a stupid thing to do, closer,  claws and fangs glare, hastily retreat.

 

     Twice starting the grill without opening the cover, resting frogs have been cooked, ruinning all appetite. Frogs legs are good eating, but  imaginating them incinerating alive is too vivid to consume. And yet, blue gill from the pond, thrown into the fire, be good eating. Primitive meals, primate.

 

   Strainers and collanders hang from their hooks, waiting, for pasta or salad, porcelain, aluminum, fine screens, punched holes, orange yellow and gun metal. They have seen the last of broccoli, cauliflower, peas, green beans, spinach and struffoli too. They have seen vegetables at their best. Some were bought, others  gifts or inherited. More than necessary colorful decorations, art in the pantry.

 

 

    Waiting on the lower shelf is the bowl made in Italy, a painted flower wistfully brushed into the center, it smiles at us when all the pasta is finished. It is near the pasta in boxes or celophane, imported and domestic.

 

 

   Those annoying empty plastic containers are in there too. They annoy because they are empty.  must reside In the sanctum, the vault of treasure, they must reside, even the scarred, must be saved for the collected leftovers, the tidbits of tomorrow and the extras that get shoved into the freezer, a squirrels acorns an insurance deposit buried for security.

 

     Near the crockpot on the topmost shelf the obsolete food proccessor, so says the manufacturer when  attempting to purchase parts . A small pimple of plastic to secure the bowl has long since disappeared, now the tip of a skewer reached down into the space where the dimple was is the only way to get the machine to hum the whirls into the consistency for a mixture. It is more than thiry years old, resting in the warmth of an uppermost shelf, obsolete.

 

    The most used utensils are stored in the pantry, ready and handy. The others, the once in a while used tools , the piepan and cake pans are stored on the laundryroom shelves.  The lesser tier in the hierarchy of the kitchen{unless you are a baker by trade}.

 

    Lining the short wall in the pantry to the left, in little cubby holes five inches deep, debut the life of spices.   A large bottle with the last of the Hungarian Paprika. Purchased at Botany Village, New Jersey more than fourteen years ago. It sits in a cubby hole all it's own. It is added sparingly to savor our past and to reinforce our heritage, to warm us and wake us up. Bought in specialty shop with fresh homemade appetizers, sausage and cheese. There was a room separated by glass, where the machine to make fresh mozzarella sat, a big metal vat maybe five feet in diameter. The store had  shelves filled with goodies, cookies, candies, pastas sauces, beans, olives anchovies, nuts and on an on.

 

    If all the spices that crowd the shelves in the pantry had containers the same size they would be stacked  alphabetically, Chili Powder, Chinese Five Spice Powder, Italian Parsley, Indian Curry, to find them easily.  The cinammon container is much larger than the ground black pepper or the cracked black pepper near the cardamon seeds and the star anise sitting next to the large jar of this years dried hot peppers alongside the cans and jars of olives, black and green that are below the capers and tuna fish. All the spices are on the short wall out of order. The most useful way of filing them is to put the most used closer to the door and the larger containers towards the back of the pantry. The order always changes when something new is added like Thai Fish Sauce or the Oregano and Basil dried from the garden. Musical spice.

 

 There is ofcourse a spot for bandages, in various sizes, the little covers, handy when the knife has to test itself, or the grater nicks the knuckles.

 

    That same short wall holds sweet jams from the summer berries, store bought marmalades, salad dressings for the local greens, oriental spices to throw into the wok.  

 

        Pantry, from the old French word Paneterie, a bread closet and Panetier, the servant in charge of bread.  The pantry a servant in charge storing and securing the foodstuffs. The many foodstuffs that have  evolved since the first man made the first loaf of bread.

 

    For your consideration, the sevant in charge of bread, someone who stares at, yet can not touch what is in front of him. Was he in the tent, in a building, how did he get to be in charge of the bread, was it a promotion or demotion. Oh, what do you do for a living, I am in charge of the bread. Did the servant make the bread or guard the bread, dictionaries do not tell the whole story.

 

 

 

    To the back shelf  sits the  antique glass juicer, a round object with a reamer in the center and a well below the reamer, for fresh 'squeezed' orange juice or lemonade with a sprig of  the spearmint from the garden. This juicer was a great invention, dense yet not heavy, misleading at a glance, light enough to grab with one hand with a glass ring at a side, to securly hold for pouring or reaming.  An old piece of glass that looks brand new, who owned it before, what did they pay for it, was it as respected then, as it is now.

 

    Jars of pickled red cabbage and pickled beets are on that side too, near the stone mortar and pestal, a tool used by the ancients, as we, to grind  seeds into spice . It too is on a low shelf to protect it, a place where maybe it will not fall to break. When in use, transforms a kitchen into a cave filled with aromas. 

 

    Pantries have personality, charm from around the globe. The whole world in a closet. There, the whole world is home.