Incomodious Odes

King

It is pleasing to be pleased AND more than desirable to be desired.   To be desirous of being another one is  better than being a Kate in the Bush or rather two Kates or Phoebe Cates is a conundrums or two out of a pool.

Does the smell of a sagacious skunk offset it’s perspicacious  nature and esoteric wit?   Does the dying flower die to be on it’s own grave?   Is Willy Wonka a policy wonk or a Hershey’s kiss desired?

Every rose has it’s scones and every Knight has his flower,  so by that are we to assume,  that a stinky rose’s prick a knife?  Just wondering my friends….   I guess that makes me wonder what I am not sure.

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What we are, is who we are or what?

Sometimes the strange is truly stranger than fiction.   Like a Stephen King movie with it’s twists and turns or the drama in a Hitchcock movie.   No need for pointless choreography because the musings of the mind are incredible.

Below is hilarious and I am uncertain if management did this for effect or because he was talented.  Aye!

Sabres  v Maple Leafs

http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nhl-puck-daddy/satan-be-gone–miroslav-satan-calls-it-a-career-after-iihf-worlds-190438069.html

And of course no story would be complete and especially in this case,  because he played for:  The New Jersey Devils of the NHL.

And then the guy above teaches respect,  an attribute sorely lacking in a loud society but again,   who would have predicted that?

I hate the shows where dumb semi-celebrity slobs make asinine comments about silly souls who had no choice to be born so non-mainstream.    But these commentaries need no explanations as to moral character.

Our society has a field day bashing people who for one reason or another finds themselves the object of ridicule or even akin to modern day lepers.   Providence or whatever has placed us here and we didn’t have a heavenly dream sheet to pick our destination,  cognitive abilities or our own DNA.    It seems that nature and the inexplicable are invisible paradigms which compensate for injustice,  in many cases.

Let’s make the world a better place and I pray that we see that we can make a difference.   We are but a few but we can change a part of the world.   I remember seeing a semi-documentary about Los Angeles where minorities had a garden and the millionaire took that Oasis from them.

One morning the place was leveled by bulldozers and in spite of raising the money necessary to purchase,  the owner lied.   Several years later it is still untouched.  Probably a racial issue,  I am not sure but we can make a difference, if we want to.

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My Cat likes Barry Manilow.

My cat Baby was reading her Red-letter Bible and she paused and put her bookmark in.   She gave me one of those strange looks that cats often do on the third Tuesday of each month.   All I know was she laid down her headset and looked me straight in the eyes.    I looked away because you have no idea how patronizing she can be and the last thing I wanted was a protracted battle.

The air was rife with tension as I eased out of my chair and looked for a way out.  I knew it’s was bad when she took off her reading glasses,  as if saying, “look what you made me do?”    I noticed out of the corner of my eye the mailman approaching our door.   And it was a good omen as he had her favorite Barry Manilow CD in his hands.   She had been waiting for quite some time for her CD and I knew she would be entertained for hours,  so evidently I got a reprieve.

At times I could mollify her by faking that I liked BM.   Of course I would never allude to Barry as BM in her presence and thank God I am not going to let her know that I wrote this book.   And neither should you.  I am going to have to insist on this for the sake of keeping the peace.

In Baby’s matriculations she had the opportunity to go to a concert at the Old Veteran’s Stadium and I had to convince her not to take her big hand with the #1 sign on it.   It seemed that anytime she wanted to go out,  she had to take that darn sign.     Anyhow, the other cats would tell me how she would gush over his songs and especially ‘I Write The Songs’.

Well one day I couldn’t take it any longer and I knew this kind of obsessive behavior was a precursor to drug problems and it seems she spent some time in rehab,  getting off of catnip.   Sometimes she would just drool and have that glassy look in her eyes.    And those eyes were dilated like 16oz Dixie Cups in a whirlwind and her purring almost sounded like a Gregorian chant.   Therefore it was imperative that the two didn’t mix.   It would have been a volatile combination and thankfully I diverted her attention as a roll of toilet paper rolled across the floor and it’s tail ran out just before it could get to the old antique fireplace.   The gods were evidently pleased as the sound of BM was drowned out by the nascient hum of Uriah Heep.

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Those were heady days and the ability to quickly adapt benefited me more than you can imagine.   I tried to keep the peace and atmosphere relatively blissful and without the cadence of stomping paws and her arching back swaying to the sound of his voice.   Too many days it was a delicate balance between happiness and over-indulgence and knowing how to temper the acrimonious vibes that seem to come with more and more regularity.

One can say that I was facilitating her obsessions to the point of decadent disregard or simply being obsequious and fake as all get out.   Adversity can be the mother of invention and at least her subscription to Mother Jones had run out.   I am amazed that she let that lapse but maybe our frequent blowups over their depictions of George 43 Bush had convinced her of the conflict that it caused.    She contended that he was actually an alien but I finally convinced her it was the water.  Don’t ask,  don’t spell.   That is what I always say and it has worked for me.

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These days as I sit in my Martha Stewart rocking chair and slobbering liberally,   I know she has my back.   For all her eccentricities she has a good side,  though god knows,   I couldn’t find them except when it came to catnaps and five toe discounts at our local PetSmart.    She always likes to cajole the pets behind the glass and laugh at their dirty litter and she looked down on them for the most part.   Til she met Jake from State Farm.

Anyway,  that is the story of BM,   headsets and the heady aroma of ginger wafting from her litter box.   Life was relatively manageable and even a rainy day had it’s silver lining.   Either that,  or the Mercury from the Tuna Fish that Charlie of Starkist forgot to take out.   I guess she took that to McDonalds,  ostensibly to poison Ronald McDonald or Country Joe McDonald.   I know you feel me.   I wish I did.   Or least understand the circumlocutions of the mad and delirious.

So now you know the rest of the story.   I just made that up,  Paul Harvey said something else.  wink.

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P.S.   Don’t try this with your cat.  I am an expert.

To Grandmother’s House We Went.

There are those times as a child when certain memories come back like yesterday.   For those of us with doting Grandparents these times are even more special.   Grandma and Grandpa lived in near Wellsboro,  PA.   The town was one of those factory areas with lots of farms, and lots of old dirt roads.

Charles Chips

In the early days going to Grandma’s house there were a few nostalgic places along the way.  One was an area that was flooded and a dam built where there used to be farms and one of those were owned by our extended family.   Next was the old store just before we turned onto the old Route 6,  the road my grandma lived on.

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The road was semi-paved and long and the old store was torn down a few years later with my only recollection was a new road was put in it’s place.   The old road also marked the nearness of Grandma’s place and a sense of magic and an accommodating environment.   Grandpa was always a bit annoyed at Grandma’s eccentricities and she had a few.   But in th end,  his love was born out for her even though Dr House probably learned snarkiness from him.

He used to show us the severed finger he suffered while working on an old car that collapsed as his finger got in the way of the hitch.    He wore his infirmity with pride and he was also very keen to my dad’s mistreatment of Mom.   Grandpa seethed with an inner rage and a few choice words from time to time.

Dad’s father was a bit of a jerk also and his sister would tell how he was beat by own his dad and thus the cycle of abuse was passed down.   That inner rage like an old tire tube,  slowly leaked it’s venom and poisoned what would have been an ideal childhood,  all things considered.

Staying at the house was the feeling that dad was powerless there and that he could only go so far pushing my mom to tears.   Something about being patriarchal and fair.   But Grandma always had the Charles Chips Potato Chips,  cases of soft-drinks and a few cookies to boot.  She was in love with her children in the sense that her world revolved us.  From the sock cookies to her love of the Pennsylvania Amish.   I remember light switches that read, “Outen the Lights” and other relics of a different time in the midst of the present.

I remember one time when Grandpa and Grandma visited us in Fairbanks, Alaska.    The bitter cold was relieved by their presence and true to form,  Grandma,  who my dad despised,  was able to help give aid to my mom’s beleaguered spirit.  This is where my anxieties deepest fissures stemmed.   The memory of my dad on top of mom was a knife threatening to hurt her (kill her) if she ever did whatever she allegedly did.

Being the only child old enough to remember much,  it as though something was relentlessly scratching the blackboard in school.   I dangled like an ornament precariously situated on a branch and Christmas a kind of detante against the ongoing drama and virtual cold war.

But back at her mom in Pennsylvania was a place of peace,  a lean-to and suspending sanctuary against the bitter winds that blew like an angry wind.   The best was staying over at Grandma’s during the summer and a few times during Christmas break.   I used to watch the traffic on the new Rte 6 and when there was snow,  the crunching of tires and the slow procession that followed the ruts in the snow packed ice.

The chiming of the old grandfather clock and the old black and white TV that sat below it.  My mom told as kids that they put a kind of tri-colored flimsy on top of the black and white picture to get color TV.    The only cable back then was the one that towed your car out of a ditch.

Speaking of ditches.   While still very young I was in the front seat of our old blue Ford stationwagon while mom and dad were inside.   I decided to go with my first driver’s education class and put the car in reverse and it slowly rolled down the driveway and onto old 6 and against a barb-wired fence.   Beyond that fence was about a twenty foot drop.   My dad was sheepish at his thoughtlessness and I was pretty scared myself.   Afterwards was a warning and a laugh from grandfather that dissipated the pressure of that event.

The old Grandfather clock croaked out the time,   it’s face made of copper and ornate arms which  spun slowly,  methodically and predictably.    Calming the tempest in a generally unfamiliar way.   The stairway seemed much longer than it really was and the excitement of the old house gave it a kind of haunted house feel.

Grandma’s heart seemed in synch with the old time keeper and my grandfather sat in his chair and winked at us.   He had a quiet power over us and though 70ish he was no one to mess with,  He was a steadying force in the family,  truly a great man in my eyes.

I really feel that he loved Grandma even though his first wife died pretty young.  Reminders of her were her spinster sisters,  kind of like the Baldwin sisters in The Waltons.   He was also a pretty good ball player and played in the industrial leagues that were common then.

Both of my grandfathers played semi-pro baseball and probably where I got my athletic skills.   My dad did too though he opted for working hard and there is nothing wrong with that.   The problem is he was terribly conflicted and full of inner rage.   He never went to my sporting events and he missed something special when I was in high school upsetting the number one wrestler in the state of NY in my division (105lbs) LOL>

But Grandma T’s house was a kind of sanctuary and better when the cousins showed up.   We rigged an old crate and used a small beach ball and played basketball.    The excitement with the prospects of going to our Aunt and Uncle’s House on the Dairy Farm.   Days were long with chores and all and since it was a novelty,  the fact that it was work was not a problem.

After eating during the spring and summer we played Little League Baseball.   With tons of catchers mitts and other types of baseball gloves we would head off to the park.  Even cousins who were girls played baseball and this was true even at the fair they had each year near Blossburg in a towned called Roseville.   It was Hooterville with our telephones inside but they were party lines.   Yeah they did exist and long distance calls in the states, a few miles away were expensive.   No cellphones then unless the cans with the string attached could be considered thus.

On our way home we would stop at the Farmer-in-the Dell Creamery were absolutely delicious fresh ice cream was served.  Too bad but that place was bought out and leveled in corporate America’s siege of small farming communities and forcing farmers to find jobs in a world that was decreasingly hospitable to the menial-minded laborer.

The only time it was tolerable was when I had my 17 year old girlfriend Marci along for the ride.   We stroked each other’s hair and cuddled for the long ride.   I was pretty happy at that time.    I remember waiting at her parent’s house one day and the song by Gordon Lightfoot ‘Sundown’ was playing.    As she emerged to come downstairs,  her long flowing black hair felt right at the moment.   I was pretty happy with that too.  Of course.

As my dad and my mom’s mom grew older my dad actually conceded that it was a nice time though he hated going because I think,  it reminded him of what he never really had and the world is sadder when you cannot feel that way about Grandma and Grandpa.

The Cat who saved my life. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaby!

baby102Cat Fancy

Baby is kind of an enigma.   She is very affectionate towards me,  myself and even I.   But she is very distrustful of others.   Perhaps it was the loneliness and privation she suffered as a result of my calamity.      Being penned up for nearly two years and the pain I felt as she was in her cage in a shed,  sometimes with temperatures way below freezing.   Her pain was mine and I got sick of the circumstances and finally it was me and baby in the back seat of an aged Honda Civic.

Baby went everywhere with me and she loved the travel.    I would take her on long trips to Raleigh,  Durham and points in between.    She would sit in the back window or sidle up to me when it was cold,  raining or the loud slams of thunder shook the car.

One time I was in Durham and getting some food at Open Table Ministries and a lady across the street was a storage unit place manager and she offered to have my cat stay in there while I ate and out of the car.  In the A/C.   I managed to make her as comfortable as I could and her payment was her love and devotion.   To this day.

 Baby is a dark cloud with a white lining.   She brought love in her own way and hid in a place out of site.   Prying eyes were sometimes a concern.   Citizens with good intentions and a roof over their head,  experts in suffering in their spare time.

     Baby is an angel full of life,  since her blue-eyed days of infancy to her long enduring roads and the moment I came back from a chore, or an errand.  Living for me,  she added some hopefulness to my life and that my friends is true love.

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My frustration finding a home was taking it’s toll,  sleeping at rest stops, Walmarts or busy truck stops.   There was always the bus people on Greyhound and those party buses and they increased my stress.   I just about had it.    When help came,  first by Baby being classified as emotional support animal by the VA.   I had help with the cat by a local humane society who knew the cat and I needed each other.

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They were actually impressed that I would not give up on her or gave her to someone else. The VA said I needed to get rid of baby and I read them the riot act and got very upset.   Because of that they (The Humane Society) did all they could for me and the cat.   My cat was kind of cold to them but they stilled loved her and helped me with food and litter.

Now baby and I are happy living in the warmth and coolness respectively.   She runs like a track star,  as opposed to hanging upside down from the headrests.  She always made me laugh or made me feel calm and now she is right behind me purring and sleeping.   This is her place and I just stay with her and enjoy her loving me.

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