Peaches and Dreams

Everyone has routines. We get up out of bed about the same time everyday. We comb our hair the same way. We brush our teeth the same way we did yesterday and the day before. We walk the dog at the same time (animals like routines) and we (hopefully) pick up our kids when they get out of school.

Our days are so jam-packed with meetings and appointments that our phones are constantly ringing with reminders. It takes time to arrange our 24-hours so we spend hours with our day planners and calendars to make sure we get everything done.

Routines help balance our hectic pace.

When you go to school, the bell rings at a certain time, which helps with the daily routine of lunch and playground breaks. Work expects you to be there at a certain time so it better become routine or you are fired. The Rotary meets every Wednesday at 8:00 sharp so it becomes routine. Sunday service will start with or without you at 11:00 so you are routinely in your pew.

When you children leave home and you retire, your routine changes. Other than attending to an illness or a family reunion or a funeral, your time is your own.

My routine has changed over the years. Today I wake up with the sunrise. Doesn’t matter what I did the night before or when I finally climbed under the sheets, when the sunlight hits the sky, my feet are on the floor.

Stretch and put on my eyes and walk about to shake the cobwebs, and then sit down to view the world through electronic windows. This is where the title of the post kicks in.

I stumble to the kitchen and get a V-8 (spicy) or a smoothie or a jar of peaches or pineapples or mixed fruit to wet my whistle while I see if the war is over or we’ve been invaded by interplanetary invaders or someone died (way too many of those) and enjoy a refreshing treat before I return to the covers and doze off.

This is when the dreams come.

Whatever happens with the juices or vitamins or whatever is in that breakfast, but it sure brings out my imagination. I’m not a botanist or a gastrologist but whatever those liquids do in my belly with the remains of the beer sloshing around makes some beautiful movies. Imagine David Lynch and Fellini writing the script.

This morning I was at Charles Bowles’ house. I’d seen a post on social media so I know where that came from but then it got weird. There was a pool in the house. So the problem (there is always a problem to solve) was to get a bathing suit. The thought of jumping in fully clothed did cross my mind, but I was diverted into another room. On the floor was what looked like sand or maybe some very large lines of magic dust until I walked to the other side and the reflection of the lights show giant ruby red lips and hearts. The rooms are always in constant motion so I was back by the pool thinking I needed a towel but I had one wrapped around my arms. The pool was raised so the only access was through an enclosed stairway. A stairway covered in a thick brown shag carpet. There was a little kid on the steps who scurried out of the way as climbed up. The steps leaned back toward the top and the railing was on the floor and the tread were further apart so it became difficult to reach the top of the stairs. I couldn’t pull my self up or lift my leg high enough to get to the next tread and under the watchful eye of the kid on the banister I tried turning around and sitting down and pushing myself up.

Then the movie is over.

I wish science could find a way to record all these metabolic transactions that are going to my brain to present these short movies but I’d be viral on YouTube. Plus these treats in the morning offer fell and taste and smell and sometimes romance.

Maybe this is just a brief preview of heaven?

Why do dead people wear shoes?

Feet are not the most attractive part of our body, but they are necessary. They balance us when we get up in the middle of the night and stumble down the hall. They ache when we walk long distances. There would be no need for socks and shoes without feet.

Maybe it is the toes. Feet are nothing more than hands on the end of our legs. We got wiggly toes like our fingers but they are not really long enough to grab hold to branches but just the right size to stump into an inanimate object. We probably wouldn’t be athletes if that stuff that gathers up between our toes didn’t stink so much.

We abuse and misuse our feet to the point where it can affect our back and overall motion. Feet are like the forgotten member of the family. Perhaps they are too far away to get them close enough to your face to trim and pamper. There are those who will pedicure (at this point I gag) handling someone else’s foot (unless you are into that fetish) is just wrong. Even when the Prince slipped on the glass slipper to Cinderella, he held his breath.

The idea of laying in repose for others to view the body is creepy to me. Why are we interested (no fascinated) with looking at dead people? They may have been your friend or family members but they are dead. Done. Over. A corpse. It is an expensive horror story.

 When my dad died he was shipped down from RVA to NC and I have no idea what he was dressed in. Maybe just in a body bag or in hospital garb tied in the back. Once in the room trying to decide on the box to place him in, the ghoul who recorded our decision asked, “Would you like a suit?”

No one in the family had brought along his favorite suit because who thinks of that at that time? So we gave the ghoul the permission to purchase a acceptable business look for the audience while they were also draining his fluids and pumping him up and applying make up to make him look ‘real natural’.

Did they buy him wingtips? I have no idea because it was just a half-open coffin. Maybe he wasn’t wearing any shoes? Maybe he wasn’t wearing any pants?

When they drop the lid and dump the dirt, this caucus will be eternality wearing this suit. Don’t know if the color of tie or the coat would have been his preference but he didn’t have much say in the decision.

Yet the question comes back to shoes. Where are these folks going walking? Would it be better to give them slippers or some comfy sneakers or dare I say, barefoot? How many people wear shoes to bed?

So what about that suit? Wouldn’t you like to go into heaven wearing something comfortable like sweats or PJs? Maybe we should go just buck naked like we came in?

I see this photo of Aretha Franklin’s ‘viewing’ and her feet are stuffed into red stilettos heels. I understand the fashion requirements and the audience expectations, but really?

Maybe in our wills we should declare how we should be disposed of. Do you want a sharkskin suit or your mother’s favorite sweater?

In heaven when they hand you those wings, do you also get that white smock?

What is the latest at the Tummy Temple?

Glad you asked that. They now have “ClickList” but I can’t figure it out.

CONVENIENCE is the word at the Tummy Temple. Get ‘um in and get ‘um out as fast as you can and don’t forget to get their cash.

If you have watched the video it seems we just don’t have enough time to wander the aisles to procure our nourishment cravings. All that struggle to pack up the kids and get into the car to drive to the lot and try and find a parking space and then unpack all the kids (special note: don’t leave them in the car in this weather!) and then find a rolling wire cart, drop the kids in, then search the football field size floor for tonight’s dinner while your kids are screaming and pulling whatever gets their attention. Marketing 101 is you will buy items you didn’t expect by exposure or persuasions from some snotty nosed rug rat pleading the need for an attractive package. Beside if you are not exposed to new items how can you not know to switch your desire for pizza or pasta? What about that cake? It looks pretty good?

So now with “ClickList” you can sit at home (or at your job) and log into a database to view items on the screen and ‘add to your cart’ without getting up and walking around. Way cool, huh?

There still seem some flaws in this “ClickList” process. What if the product you are looking for is not in the database? You could scroll for hours looking for that special Captain Crunch chocolate cereal that Timmy loves but it is not on the list. You would still have to pack up, drive to the store and wander the aisles to see if they still stock it, because you are a good mother. More time wasted?

What about produce? You can’t choose the size of the cucumber or thump the melon. Are all those tomatoes ripe or over-ripe? Is that bread old enough to be showing mold? Does that slice of salmon look better than the other one? Is that can of beans bent?

Of course this plan of action does avoid all the interaction with the elderly in bumper cars and the grazers and the phone calls and ingredient examinations and the conversations parties that go on everyday, but that is part of the adventure.

Technically you have a personal shopper who will decide which product on the shelf meets your needs. Does that make you feel empowered or useless?

Following the instructions, you place your order and then give an approximate pick up time. There are several well marked parking spots that look like handicap parking and then you wait. Haven’t dug down enough to see if they will recognize your face or car on the security cams or if you have to give them a call and say, “I am here.” Then one of the purple shirted deacons will roll out your request, plop them into your car (just like Ukrop’s) and then ask for your debit/credit card. Why can’t you pay online and then just drive thru? Do you tip for this service?

When were the items requested, maybe hours earlier, bagged in plastic (oh, they are getting rid of plastic bags?) and stored until you arrive. As we all know, our schedules change and some appointments we do not make on time. Will the ice cream become soup or the lettuce wilt?

For a couple of years I used a delivery service that delivered food to my doorstep. The food was already prepared in Styrofoam containers. Open and eat. It was fairly expensive like eating out with extra fees for delivery but you do the same for pizza.

I could use the ‘ClickList’ because I basically purchase the same items everyday. I could just log in and click “List#1” and I’d be done. Well, not really, I’d still have to climb on my pony and ride to the assigned parking space to have Chris or Katy or Kandi roll out my request and pack my saddle bags with plastic bags and then after checking my ID to make sure I was old enough to have all that beer, then I would have to turn around and ride back home to unpack. What if it rains? This is getting complicated.

No one remembers going to the corner grocery the size of a garage to choose either Campbell’s Chicken Noodle or Tomato soup and then stand in line while the woman at the register looked at the markings on every item and rang up punching numbers and if there was a question would ask the bag boy to go and confirm the price while everyone waited. CONVENIENCE?

That was a time when people went to the grocery hoping to meet other members of the neighborhood. It was a gathering place. The grocery was a meeting place to discuss the latest sermon or newspaper editorial (before social media) while squeezing the oranges.

Seems back then people still had jobs and kids and responsibilities and somehow still made time to go shopping without panicking to get back on the latest Tweet?

Maybe the next ‘ClickList’ will be more than just delivering groceries to the doorstep instead of those folks too lazy to climb out of their cars.

Now if they can cook it and eat it, I don’t have to get out of bed.

That is CONVENIENCE.

Smile for the camera

The latest at the Tummy Temple is being on the screen. You like selfies, and then the Tummy Temple is where you want to buy your grub.

Well now instead of just picking up stuff and dropping it into your rolling wire cart and then waiting in line for the conveyor belt to be priced and bagged by a person you paid your dough, you, the customer, is required to do all the work of scanning your items.

There is an option to go back to the conveyor belt and wait for the attendant to process your food needs or go to the scanning stations and run each item across the scanner bed then place them in the ‘bagging area’.

So picking up the handheld scanner with the red laser beam to process your selections isn’t that much of a hassle. Just a technology change but now they have added cameras.

Now as the scanner points to the electronic digital scanning station and waits for the screen to allow the process to proceed to purchase and go, there is a camera.

Better yet, there is a screen showing your every move while ‘checking out’. Is this the FBI or CIA doing face recognitions on possible terrorist who are stuffy frozen chicken wings into their pockets?

The Tummy Temple has a vast variety of product for the congregation to select from and their database must be massive, but maybe the ordinary family just wants to come in and get their diapers, cereal, milk, and wine without all the suspicion of surveillance cameras.

Being one who might look suspicious or abnormal, I’ve enjoyed the security game. Trailing the security personal following through the aisles into every tight passage and dead-end.

So now the Tummy Temple wants to watch the checkout. Since my purchase of adult beverages require an associate to scan a special barcode to allow them to punch into the screen that I’m older than dirt we take a selfies to whoever is watching this stuff. Maybe a movie or YouTube can be made out of this.

Still it is just another sign of being observed without your permission.

Shop ‘til you drop

Won’t be long now, so start making your Christmas list.

With all that extra dough from your tax reduction and the economy picking up and your stocks souring, it is time to get online and start shopping. Don’t wait for the tariffs to raise the prices, there is junk out there to buy and have delivered.

The old days of getting dressed up to go downtown to the fancy department stores to be attended to by some smiling face working for a commission. Carrying bags and boxes back home to rediscover what was paid for in cash or the newly developed store card with extended payment plans, it was like Christmas all over again. The dopamine fix was great.

Long ago we’ve decided that fancy malls and piped in music stop enticing us to buy what we really don’t want or need. Retail was established on wanting a pair of shoes and leaving with a suit, hat, new suitcase and probably lunch. Shopping was a day’s excursion, no a safari in the jungle of manufacturers and marketers feeding out need for more and more that would wind up in the landfill.

No, today we sit in our jammies safe at home away from those salespeople who would ask, “if we wanted fries with that?” Oh no, we are to technically savvy for that bait and switch stuff.

Today we ask our smart phone or speaker or whatever we can use to seek out an item of interest. Though you can’t try on the clothing or test or taste the item to see if it should be added to the cart, we feel empowered due to the online comparison shopping and reviews and videos to make a purchase sure that it was the right choice.

Once the box arrives and is open, it may not look the same as it did on screen. It may have to be assembled and maybe there is a part missing or it was mislabeled or the wrong color or worse yet, busted and needs to be sent back for a replacement. Now the hassles start.

Get on the phone, get another redelivery package, appointment time for pick-up all the while your credit card has already been charged and you are just haggling and tracking return, or just get so frustrated you trash it and move onto another shopping opportunity. No customer service representative from across the world will show up at your front door to personally apologize for the mistake and offer a money-back guarantee until your complete satisfaction or maybe giving a coupon for more stuff to buy.

During the holidays, you can have the ‘present’ delivered to another address and the recipient of Christmas Joy can deal with the hassle.

Being friends and family, we will respond to the sender our appreciate and wonderful thoughts for the gift when it will either go into the closet with all the other ugly sweaters and goofy t-shirts or into the trash.

Don’t forget to recycle all those cardboard Amazon boxes.

Black Cars, White Trucks

The white helmets are spraying the street with graffiti of blue and yellow and green lines and numbers. This is city planning at work. Soon they will be back with giant machines that dig holes to be filled in with another group while more white trucks observe the work. Meanwhile plumbers, painters with ladders, landscapers with trailers redirect themselves around the construction in white trucks. Even the guy who picks up the laundry and delivers it back all clean and pressed is in a white truck.

The cars parked on weekends and delivering their family’s home at night are all black. Every now and then there is a red sportster or a sleek silver racer, but most are black, some with tinted windows. Most look shiny and new so maybe that is all that is available or there is some special memo passing around.

The houses are coming and going as fast and the cars on the street change. Instead of the moving truck taking out the old load of furniture and another bringing in a new load, contractors show up to demolish the old house and rebuild a new monstrosity. Some sit vacant waiting another year to pass before being placed on the market, again.

The parade of carriages carrying the results of what goes on behind closed doors continues. Little playgrounds are built to the glee of the children who would rather stay inside with the big screen TVs. Then they are gone and another couple takes their turn at 1940’s suburbia.

Yet by sunset, the black cars are parked and the white trucks are gone and all is quiet.

Sign Up for the Space Force

What a cool idea. A “Space Force” to be created to… er, defend cyberspace from …. Or maybe shoot down them aliens that we don’t see before they enter the atmosphere and take away American jobs?

First of all there has to be a uniform. Brown and tan and green has been used by the Army and the Navy and Coast Guard have pretty well captured whites. The Air Force has been associated with blue. Orange would make them look like prisoners and the NASA astronauts already take silver. Black is for Ninjas and Purple is for Minnesota Vikings, so maybe mauve or crimson?

Who would compose this “Space Force”? One can only look at the film history to make the selection that follows.

First, there has to be a Captain. Someone tall and blonde with a chiseled jaw and a tight fitting uniform that can holler commands without understanding the possible outcome is the perfect candidate for captain. The captain is also the love interest so if there is an encounter with some weird green blob doesn’t mind being probed and prodded. A captain could be a he or a she or they (it is a new world order) but not sure what would happen when attacked and the drag queen couldn’t get the lipstick right? The captain also needs to wear a cape. Just because a cape would look cool.

Second, someone needs to Pilot. The captain never drives the ship and probably doesn’t know how to use a stick shift so there has to be a second-class duty officer who can take commands and steer this thing. Once behind the wheel, the pilot just needs to floor the pedal with wild abandon like a NASCAR racer to get into hyper-super-duper-speed. Should probably wear WWI goggles and leather jacket and cavalry boots and maybe a meth head. The pilot’s special powers is to forget directions.

Third, we need a Doctor. Space is a dangerous place and even a hangnail could be life threatening, so when the call goes out for a medic, someone needs to show up. The doc should also be the moral compass for the ‘Space Force’. The doctor is also the mixologist who prepares all the concoctions that keep the crew happy. You need to be happy in outer space where you drink your own pee. The doctor’s secret power is to read minds.

Fourth, is the need for a General? There has to be some military overlord for who would yell “Fire The Missiles”. The general also provides command conflict with the captain on who has the power and control of the ‘Space Force’. The general has no special powers but to run the communication system that constantly needs upgrades. The general is comic relief.

Fifth, is the Kid? There is always some kid getting in the way and causing trouble. The kid should be some sort of whiz who can solve problems experienced crewmembers can’t figure out. If the kid is just an annoying teenage pimple faced boy he’ll be sacrificed in the first episode, but if she’s some cute chippy she can double as the screaming and fainting femme fatale so the captain can save her from the space baddies. Maybe the kid can become invisible due to teenage depression?

Sixth would be the Wizard. Could be a scholar or a bot or a hybrid alien who sits in the corner brooding over strange computer calculations or defining audio waves from the beyond? He/she/or it is on the force as a sort of a Liberians Google Rolodex that Siri can’t match, plus the wizard can shoot heat rays from the eyes.

Seventh and last would be the Ole Guy. There always seems to be an old guy sitting around and not doing much, but has some wisdom in experience. The old guy might be rocking by the cracker barrel at the general store or Maude, but now and then knows the solution that no one else could understand or comprehend; yet it works. What’s in the pipe that he’s smoking? The old guy’s special power is to bore the aliens while the captain, wizard, pilot and kid can get the ship out of danger or at least change the battery.

So there you have it. The ‘Space Force’ is ready for action. These space cadets will do whatever it takes to spend the taxpayer’s dollars for an unknown purpose.

Sign up now and join them.

Trolling for Trolls

To troll is “to make a deliberately offensive or provocative online post with the aim of upsetting someone or eliciting an angry response from them”. At least that is the current description.

Or fish by trailing a baited line along behind a boat.

If you are old enough to remember the first time you put in that AOL disk and fired up your 2400 modem. After a few minutes waiting you could log onto this Internet thing with a password no one else knew.

There wasn’t much to look at back then, but the social media of the time were ‘chat rooms’. Do you remember them? It was a preview of what was to come. Any subject or conversation soon regressed into 14-year olds insulting each other with crude jokes and sexual innuendos.

There was the first attempt as email for one to connect with another one-on-one but the transmission was so slow, it was better just to dial up the phone.

Now the speeds and graphics have gotten fast enough to watch video in live time, but the basis of communication is still back in those chat rooms, and maybe getting worse.

Since the Internet is a free for all environments, it is a wonderful immediate method to get news, advertising, and lots of baby announcements. Families can talk online and companies can have group discussions. Lost friends can be found and even cars and houses can be sold.

On the down side of an open society, the left and the right and the up and the down has the freedom to post whatever opinions and thoughts they have for everyone to view.

The content providers, including newspaper and broadcast media, are trying to filter out some of the most harmful content, but there is this ‘freedom of speech’ thing that muddies the waters. Then it is up to the individual to read and listen to the content they wish and block the rest.

Is that mental censorship? Being aware of the bad also lets you appreciate the good.

Certainly the news media has to cover what is necessary to inform the public but with all the carnage, destruction and fearful news, they throw us a biscuit with a YouTube video of puppies or kangaroos. Who doesn’t like a kangaroo?

Recently I was tagged as a ‘troll’.

Again the definition: To troll is “to make a deliberately offensive or provocative online post with the aim of upsetting someone or eliciting an angry response from them”.

I will say I speak my mind, but personal degradation is not in my DNA. I have posted offensive (to some) or provocative post. It has elucidated some interesting conversations and a few rejections. That is life.

Still disagreeing with a comment or post is reason for debate, but there are little intellectual discussions these days. Not the quoting of Voltaire or the Simpsons, but a true heartfelt belief that expands the knowledge of the other person.

In personal emails I will call out another person on what I feel are transgressions. These can turn ugly. The words transmitted would be the same spoken face-to-face. I will push back and stand toe-to-toe with someone I feel has offended me. I haven’t sued anyone for defamation yet, but it has crossed my mind.

Does this sound harsh?

In today’s hostile society, people either cower down to political correctness or strike out in hateful reactions. Those years of discussing with a friend of what their opinion on a topic because you respect their view or listen to one’s personal thoughts just to be a sounding board with no judgment.

There was another definition. To go to the local watering hole looking for a hookup was trolling.

White Bucks

Bucks A shoe originally made of suede buckskin. White buck, made of a leather colored white, or dirty buck, a light tan color suede. Usually have red rubber soles. The first bucks appeared around 1870, made from Brazilian or Chinese deer and were worn as tennis shoes.

If you are old enough to remember these white bucks, for they were the top of the hops in the 50’s. Along with the narrow ties and the narrow collar jackets and the left over jute suit trousers, the white buck was a symbol of class on the dance floor.

While they certainly stood out along with my pink and black suit, the rubber souls were hard to slide around in. At the time feet gathered the attention instead of arms walling and hinnies wiggle.

The dance of the day was the box step, which introduced the genders to each other under watchful eyes of chaperones. The girl’s crinolines guaranteed personal body parts would not get to close for rubbing.

While the kids clomped around to big band music their parents approved of even our hands were restricted to gloves. Perhaps you might get coodies from the other gender.

Kids, being kids, would step on each other’s feet so the white bucks had to go into repair with toxic white paint on a sponge brush to make them spiffy again.

I put taps on my white bucks so I could slide down the tiled school floors.

Still they were heavy shoes, like wingtips and other oxfords so I traded them in for a pair of Beatle boots, Italian pointed zip up boots with leather soles.

Now those were dancing shoes.

Back-To-School Supplies

This used to be my favorite time of year. All the new pens and pencils and pads and binders were displayed for the fascinated school kids to choose from. I don’t remember a list of school supplies being handed out but there probably were some requirements for the parents to purchase before the rug rats attended class. Who could teach a student without a #2 pencil?

We didn’t have backpacks back then, just three-ring notebooks slung under our arms as we stacked books on top and walked to school (yes, in the snow). The binders were basically cardboard wrapped in a denim material that you could write your name and maybe a heart for your girlfriend with a magic marker.

The markers had just been invented and were felt tipped pens in limited colors and full of alcohol (our first high).

Pencils and crayons and writing tablets haven’t changed much since time begain but the ballpoint pens changed the use of Sheaffer’s cartridge fountain pen with replaceable cartridges to BIC roller ball pens. If you couldn’t afford a Cross pen be prepared to replace your shirt for all the pens leaked.

Art supplies like construction paper and scissors and white glue and staplers, (though you had to have permission to use a stapler) were somehow provided by the school, whether it was in the budget or a teacher’s gift.

So moving into college, there was a list of supplies to acquire from the local paint store. A tackle box was filled with required utensils for becoming an artist and we proudly carried around this as a badge of identity until we realized we didn’t need to bring all this stuff every day. The second year we divided off into different categories and a whole new set of tools.

Upon being hired to a ‘real’ art job I found all new instruments necessary to perform in a professional status. While artist in the production area used box cutters and pica poles, the ‘art staff’ had drawing boards and adjustable lights and t-squares and x-acto knives.

Then I went all ‘gear head’ with buying everything from Rapidograph pen sets to German precision compass sets to metal triangles and trays attached to the drawing board to hold all the adjustable pencils, knives, rulers and other tools of destruction. These were still manual days of print and copy and paste with rubber cement or wax, but digital was just around the corner.

There are still drawers full of markers and pads and pencils and rulers but much of the high-grade mechanical tools of the trade have been discarded to the computer.

The back-to-school ads make me wonder when the students will put aside the pencils and pick up their phones?

Holding The Record

For more years than I like to recall I’ve spent my allowance money on vinyl recordings.

One of the few things I’ve hung on too for so many years and several moves. Special boxes were purchased to keep them in place and alphabetized in order to find the perfect tune at the perfect time. Special spinning equipment was purchased and cables and wires attached to power machines that pumped the sound into giant speakers.

When Peaches Records went out of business so did I on the purchases of duplicates and cheap vinyl of songs I really didn’t like, but I kept these plastic discs in the best shape I knew how.

I found out from my audio-head friends there were special covers and sleeves and cleaners and there was an art of handling a disc was like pouring a fine cognac.

So placing a vinyl disk on a spindle was more than grabbing the surface and slapping it until the needled bounced across the surface.

After a series of players from plastic toys to oriental wonders, the grooves filled the air. People would dance and the needle would jump and people would drink and the needle would dance and candles would burn and wax would be added to the vinyl.

Over the years, many were declared beyond the attempt to save while others on later review were sold or given away due to misunderstanding of what was being listened to have not withstood the test of time.

When CDs came out, the vinyl was stored away. A few were duplicated but the sound just wasn’t right. The fat sound of vinyl had been compressed and many times re-mastered. In between I’d make a bunch of mix-tapes recording my favorite vinyl hits onto cassettes. It was time consuming but I had an easy way to carry tunes to work and dup for others.

Finally the cassettes, as with any tape, was wearing out so I digitized as many as I could before they went to the landfill. Now I have a fileserver filled with 4^th, 5^th, 6^th and maybe more generations of recordings made from any variety of live or duplicated machines and regenerated in new variations. For the aficionado the replication of sound may be offensive, but it works for me.

Meanwhile the vinyl sits in their dusty teak cases awaiting review again but only after the floors is redone and the stereo can be hooked up again. Hopefully by springtime the doors will slide open revealing some classics that have been out-of-print for eons.

They will be gently removed out of their paper and cardboard covers and handled with care. These are now works of art, many first pressings of some of my favorite songs.

The collection has been reduced to only ‘the best’ each with a special memory in time and space. I’ll get lost in the sound while reading all the words in type sizes I can read on the cardboard covers wrapped with pictures and notes that the producer or the artist or the manufacturer wanted or was required to print. The album was a total package of photos, information to be shared while the music played. The cover was also a good platform to roll joints.

Reference Point

Have you ever been in a mixer or a backyard barbeque or water cooler discussion and a topic is discussed with personal opinions when someone starts quoting Einstein or Socrates or Mister Rodgers?

It may not get that deep but someone is spouting quotations from books or films or referencing old television shows or vinyl records.

The polite response is to nod and laugh as if the association was familiar when it may be possibly totally foreign as if spoken in another language. How do you translate?

Some boldness might ask for explanation to the reference, thus challenging the speaker’s knowledge of the material. Some will pull out their phones to Google the topic to better inform themselves with the subject.

Quoting other’s quotations has been a natural practice to elevate aristocrats showing their knowledge of what others couldn’t reference.

Unfortunately more people know how to read and more material is made available to reference and hopefully the views and opinions are better understood by the masses (?).

The consumption of all the readings and teachings and presentations and learning’s and listening along with personal experiences should make an individual’s thoughts and opinions one’s own. That is how we shape our values.

When an opinion is challenged a debate should incur unless one of the participants only has reference points from other’s points of view and no original cogitation to the context of the question.

Again from a previous post, it depends what information one consumes to set upon their values.

Some quote their religious teachings to answer any question from what to eat, how to treat others to whom to distrust. Some quote scientific theories as a constant shifting definitions of hypothesis combined with mathematics and physics. Many only regurgitate pop culture memorable moments.

These reference points will differ if you are in the company of some old army buddies or your talking points in a conference room. Some points will not be referenced in front of your mother, but will be said on the street corner or in the pillow talk.

Today’s news reporting is depended on ‘breaking’ online, immediately urgent flash in the pan videos with a talk over. What follows are ‘expert’ talking heads analyzing and defining what was just presented. If a book is well written and communicative, why do we need a review?

Excuse me if I politely nod and giggle to your conversation until you come up with an original thought or can define your reference point on your personal beliefs.

That will perk my ears up.

Innocence

Remember innocence? Watch babies or small children for they have no reference of anything. They just arrived. They haven’t learned how to distrust, be afraid or even hate. We teach them that.

All through life we learn what will make us popular, how to dress and comb our hair, what cars to drive, which schools were preferred, how to make friends and influence people, which God to worship, what music or books or entertainment media was discussed at the local mixer and how to hate.

Life throws some curves in to make living a bit more difficult, but we make decisions to adapt or not. Our chemists have perfected many solutions to ease the pain along the way.

We get sucked into forming our values and bias from our family, our beliefs, our position (fake or real) and our culture reinforced by our friends and what we decide to digest as pertinent information.

I, for one, am trying to go back to innocence.

The television has been turned off. Only the occasional sporting event or political debate will require me to find a remote. Any reference to cable entertainment eludes me. Haven’t bought a book in years but do follow the reviews to get the gist of the subject. Magazines about guitars are a regular reading for poo-poo time but even that has become repetitive with little new and exciting to a gear head. The Internet does keep me aware of national and local activities but having constant connection with the latest app means nothing. Social media has been thinned out to nothing but puppies, babies, religious memes, and a few selfies. Surprising to me that so many comments are illogical or unoriginal from people I thought were more intelligent. Pity. Music, one of my passions, is scanned on many platforms but few catches my ear.

Some will say, “Just Getting Old?” and I’ll admit to that assessment. Getting set in your ways allows me to make opinions that are judgments. Age gives you that right. It is called experience.

Our forefathers and foremothers didn’t have the Internet. They didn’t have a constant barrage of talking heads trying to persuade thoughts. They sat around a cracker barrel in the general store and hashed out their opinions while the ladies discussed their opinions in knitting bees and kitchens. Pillow talk sealed the deal with couples.

I’ve decided to retreat to a simpler time even with the bombardment of information. I know what I know and I know my thoughts and I know what makes me happy and what doesn’t. A reference to history I’ve already lived through or outlandish statement or tweet will take more effort to get my attention. Make your case or get out of my way. Life is too short for such anger.

You may have recognized Kitty from an earlier controversial post. “Miss Kitty” is a perfect example of when we lose our innocence. The first cigarette, the first alcoholic drink, the first sexual encounter are all rights of passage into becoming adults.

As the number of calendar pages flash by, the question ask, “Was it worth it?” What did we learn?

Photos by Sally Mann. http://sallymann.com/ or https://www.artsy.net/artist/sally-mann

Bird in the house

When the weather is warm, as it is today, I leave the door open to my studio. On the deck out front I spread seed and nuts for the critters, including all the feathered neighbors. They swirl about and land for the banquet with a side bowl of water for hydration or baths.

Now and again one of my buddies will fly in.

There is a bit of panic at first because I have two skylights and they fly up and knock into the glass. Why is the sky blocked? They may try back and forth and then feel confined where moments ago they were free to wander the air.

Sometimes they take a crap. I guess that says it all.

I don’t move much to intense the confusion but leave the door open and let them figure it out.

And they do.

I enjoy sharing some space with my neighbors and always reward them for their adventure. I think of it as a story they can go home at night and tell their family. They had gotten into a space where the sky was blocked and they survived.

What do you commit to?

Making a commitment is being dedicated to a cause, activity, etc. Being committed means having dedication, devotion, allegiance, loyalty, faithfulness, and fidelity.

Making a commitment means making a pledge. A commitment is a vow, promise, pledge, oath, contract, pact, deal, decision, resolution, an engagement or obligation.

 A commitment is a responsibility, obligation, duty, tie, liability, task, engagement, and arrangement.

 A commitment is a promise to do or not do something. In the law of contract, an exchange of promises is held to be legally enforceable, according to the Latin maxim pacta sunt servanda.

At common law, the elements of a contract are offer, acceptance, intention to create legal relations, and consideration.

Not all agreements are necessarily contractual, as the parties generally must be deemed to have an intention to be legally bound. A so-called gentlemen’s agreement is not a commitment.

Involuntary commitment or civil commitment is a legal process through which an individual who is deemed by a qualified agent to have symptoms of severe mental disorder is court-ordered into treatment in a psychiatric hospital or in the community. That is being committed.

This is more than your passion (review earlier post) but an overwhelming desire that takes your time, money and effort to support.

Some say Marriage is the ultimate commitment. It has it’s own ceremony and must be approved by the state and there are vows and exchanging jewelry and names, but love can’t be controlled even with the most committed.

Some commit to family, whether previous or offspring is by name only.

Some commit to sport teams. Season tickets, hours of weekend viewing, jerseys, memorabilia for an every changing rooster and ancient memories but you are committed.

Some are committed to their children. Soccer moms and coaching dads with every fleeting moment not realizing all the time and money will not prepare them when they come out of the closet.

Some commit to their work. You do sign a contract to appear at an assigned time and place to do whatever duty is given until a certain time for a agreed upon amount of cash. You commit enough to pee in a cup. If the working conditions are not optimum, you are committed to reach the conclusion and accomplish your goal.

Some commit to their faith. Spending time and money in fellowship and bake sales and readings and preaching and taking care of others. A noble commitment, like those who fight fires and rescue-abandoned animals, the world is better off with your commitment.

To rob or kill is committing a crime. If you threaten or pulls the trigger must be pretty committed to the action. Are our heroes and patriots and those who serve committed to the flag and country? Are we as committed to them, as we are our sports teams? Is war committing a crime?

Social media is full of views and opinions, but are they committed? Some pages and blogs are committed to views from confederate statues to cooking gluten free to best vacation places to how to handle your lovelife.

Can you back up or explain your post or is this just a 14-year old chat room? Have we become accustomed to lies and questionable fact checking to believe whatever comes across the airwaves?

Would someone button my coat in the back?

Where Do You Get Your Information?

It starts with your family. They teach you how to speak and eat and zip up your pants.

 Then there is school where a strange man or woman stands in front of a group of kids spouting information and testing you to see if you were listening.

A mosque, temple, synagogue, church also presents information (true or false) but it is all part of the learning process.

The library is one of the best sources for information. Categorized and arranged in easy access to quietly ponder and absorb or even take home.

The local “News” or “Dispatch” newspaper gives current (well maybe a day or two later) sport scores, wedding announcements, obituaries, business openings and closings and some topical opinion view of the publisher.

Radio and television give a constant barrage of traffic and weather reports, sports live on the air and breaking news live of speeches and disasters.

Now the Internet can stream whatever you wish to your ear pods or screen 24/7 and anyone anywhere can post their opinions, comments, videos, etc. to the unsuspecting mind of the viewer and listener.

Books are out of date by the time the ink dries. Still they are a good resource of other’s opinions and findings and there are a million varieties from scientific logic to cookbooks. Media can have bias presenting ‘news’ with a wink and a nod or a phrase to slant what should be journalist reporting of facts to an editorial piece. The Internet is filled with some interesting information but also full of nonsense, titillation, frivolous and shocking pix and comments to draw in the participant (advertising 101) and fact-finding is a waste of time.

In the end, the bank of knowledge you have devoured during the time when you could still read has formed your beliefs and bias.