.............and leaves paint their seasonal masterpiece daily until Winter when grey consumes all. ( Shorter days 30AUG09)
The leaves have all hit the ground. In the end their bright colors desert them and they fall in the rain brown like the earth from which they grew. The grey of winter takes over Happy Camp road this time of year. No longer passable through the mountains and into California, traffic consists of visitors to the snow park eleven miles up the road whom return in grey cars covered with road spray, and my few neighbors.
Grey clouds cover the sky. The Sun don't shine, the birds don't fly. Blue is not a color now but an emotion.
Fog obliterates the view until only the closest trees stand distinct in their grey outlines. The surrounding ridges, furthest first, nearest last, have been swallowed .
On the north side of the ridge, at Bradland, direct sunlight will only reach the cabin for three hours a day, from Mid-November to Mid-February. The Grey of the shade.
Soon, grey snow will creep down from the higher altitudes to make it's seasonal two week appearance , and then retreat with the winter solstice and longer days. Winter's grey will be most dominant then; Colorless, Cabin fevered, lonely, secluded, Greeeeeey. Soon, but not now , Now it's Thanksgiving and time to be grateful for another year and rewards reaped with it.
I'm grateful the truck still runs, the house is built, the toilet is working, I'm healthy and maybe fit, my new teeth fit, that the world is still spinning, that the money goes to the bank, that the Chinese are still underwriting us, and I can still speak Chinese. I'm grateful for a whole bunch of other shit that I don't need to publicly acknowledge. AND... I'm most grateful that the miracle of life is still being enjoyed by all of you. HAPPY THANKSGIVING
Showing posts with label Lazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lazy. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Result of Being Lazy
That's what these literary outburst of ignorance are; the result of my being too lazy to work around the property laboriously, and maybe also no money for materials. That means no money to eat out, drink in bars, ride my motorcycle, cruise aimlessly around being bored or travel… none of the good shit. So I write to occupy my time. But even that isn't easy.
Another result of being lazy is I lack the vocabulary it takes to fully express my deep, complicated, often emotional perspectives on the world around me. As I said before (I Can Write Too 12Nov07), although my vocabulary is not in the league of a senior classman at Berkeley. It dooooonnn't matter, I should practice ‘PLEASE’ and ‘THANK YOU’ more (and place less emphasis on ‘aahhhh fuuuuuuuck it’ and ‘it don't matter’).
But it does matter. You could put my vocabulary inside my sons two or three times now. They taught themselves everything they know, academically speaking, over the last twenty years while I was lazy. Now, grown, intellectual, educated, possessing reflections on the world capable to those with great minds, I can only hope to understand them and converse on their level.
What is the African Proverb?
When the sun rises in Africa the fastest lion knows that he has to be faster than the slowest gazelle otherwise he ain’t going to eat.
When the sun rises in Africa the slowest gazelle knows that he has to be faster than the fastest Lion otherwise he ain’t going to live.
In other words, it doesn't matter, Lion or Gazelle, when that sun comes up, your ass better be running.
In the human world though, with enough food and without the fear of being eaten, one's conscious becomes the a slow old lion. And that sun still comes up every day and, academically and intellectually, I've been lazy for twenty years. I don’t rest easy to my sons eating me alive, now. But its the consequence of being lazy.
Another result of being lazy is not being well read enough to expertly and authoritatively expound on my ideas. Like this morning I was drinking coffee and thinking about St. Peter at the Golden Gate, then I realized is all I could remember is he stands guard at the Golden Gate (not in the Bay Area (don't be silly)).
So... I googled ‘St. Peter at the Golden Gate’, and sure enough there it was; every website mentioned guarding the Golden Gate. And that's the part that got me to thinking...
It would seem to me that if there wasn't any way to sneak into Heaven, they wouldn't need a guard. Therefore, since there is a guard, you must be able to sneak into heaven. And that opens up all kinds of avenues of thought.
Remember the saying, ‘May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead’? Well, maybe the Irishman that made it up knew something we don't. Like there's a little lag time between this world and that gate where a guy could get ‘lost’. Or, maybe if you can beat your files there, you can slip past ol' St Peter before he finds out you don't have a clean slate.
It sounds good to me, but logistically there is still that initial problem of how to get to the Gate. It reminds me of a few years back when those people rented that house on the Oceanside so they could have a party with Wine and Sleeping pills, then they suffocated themselves in order to catch Haley's comet and go to Heaven. I could never figure out why, if they could jump to Haley’s comet, couldn't they leap all the way to Heaven? Why screw around with a layover? If I want to beat the Devil by a half hour, I better leap direct!
Anyway, all of this bullshit is a result of being lazy. Not forcing myself to do anything other then look out the window and wave to the people stopping to look. When I'm not waving, the keyboard is right in front of my hands and so I write.
I should appreciate the last of this time in the shack. If the number of cars slow rolling by, and those that stop to take flyers from the container are any indicator, I will be moving soon. Even writing it saddens me. I could be lazy here forever, if only it wasn't Hell Explained.
Work, work, work; makes you feel good, good, good (Grandpa Bud).
Another result of being lazy is I lack the vocabulary it takes to fully express my deep, complicated, often emotional perspectives on the world around me. As I said before (I Can Write Too 12Nov07), although my vocabulary is not in the league of a senior classman at Berkeley. It dooooonnn't matter, I should practice ‘PLEASE’ and ‘THANK YOU’ more (and place less emphasis on ‘aahhhh fuuuuuuuck it’ and ‘it don't matter’).
But it does matter. You could put my vocabulary inside my sons two or three times now. They taught themselves everything they know, academically speaking, over the last twenty years while I was lazy. Now, grown, intellectual, educated, possessing reflections on the world capable to those with great minds, I can only hope to understand them and converse on their level.
What is the African Proverb?
When the sun rises in Africa the fastest lion knows that he has to be faster than the slowest gazelle otherwise he ain’t going to eat.
When the sun rises in Africa the slowest gazelle knows that he has to be faster than the fastest Lion otherwise he ain’t going to live.
In other words, it doesn't matter, Lion or Gazelle, when that sun comes up, your ass better be running.
In the human world though, with enough food and without the fear of being eaten, one's conscious becomes the a slow old lion. And that sun still comes up every day and, academically and intellectually, I've been lazy for twenty years. I don’t rest easy to my sons eating me alive, now. But its the consequence of being lazy.
Another result of being lazy is not being well read enough to expertly and authoritatively expound on my ideas. Like this morning I was drinking coffee and thinking about St. Peter at the Golden Gate, then I realized is all I could remember is he stands guard at the Golden Gate (not in the Bay Area (don't be silly)).
So... I googled ‘St. Peter at the Golden Gate’, and sure enough there it was; every website mentioned guarding the Golden Gate. And that's the part that got me to thinking...
It would seem to me that if there wasn't any way to sneak into Heaven, they wouldn't need a guard. Therefore, since there is a guard, you must be able to sneak into heaven. And that opens up all kinds of avenues of thought.
Remember the saying, ‘May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead’? Well, maybe the Irishman that made it up knew something we don't. Like there's a little lag time between this world and that gate where a guy could get ‘lost’. Or, maybe if you can beat your files there, you can slip past ol' St Peter before he finds out you don't have a clean slate.
It sounds good to me, but logistically there is still that initial problem of how to get to the Gate. It reminds me of a few years back when those people rented that house on the Oceanside so they could have a party with Wine and Sleeping pills, then they suffocated themselves in order to catch Haley's comet and go to Heaven. I could never figure out why, if they could jump to Haley’s comet, couldn't they leap all the way to Heaven? Why screw around with a layover? If I want to beat the Devil by a half hour, I better leap direct!
Anyway, all of this bullshit is a result of being lazy. Not forcing myself to do anything other then look out the window and wave to the people stopping to look. When I'm not waving, the keyboard is right in front of my hands and so I write.
I should appreciate the last of this time in the shack. If the number of cars slow rolling by, and those that stop to take flyers from the container are any indicator, I will be moving soon. Even writing it saddens me. I could be lazy here forever, if only it wasn't Hell Explained.
Work, work, work; makes you feel good, good, good (Grandpa Bud).
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
City-Lag
The frost on the ground is barely surviving in the warmth of a coming rainstorm. The thick fog that covers Illinois valley, a fog I normally look down upon like a white sea from my perch on the mountain, slowly is crawling up sleepy valley canyon, veiling the world with a sheer nightgown of mist. High thin clouds, pink in the morning sun, will soon give way to thick, dark clouds and rain .The slow, beautiful, serene world of the mountains.
Compared to the stimulation and excitement of the city; the fast paced, twelve lane highways at rush hour, fast food, all night everything, all those people trying to squeeze as much life as possible out of every moment as they scramble full speed through their daily routine. It is understandable why returning to the mountains can result in city-lag (society is not always really such a rat race).
Our next door neighbor in California, Darryl, had rats infesting the whole neighborhood from their base in the boxed-in eaves on his garage; one summer evening just before dark I watched them from the roof of the house exit from a hole in the eave and gather on the roof of his carport. It was like a Disney movie; old fat rats walking slowly and sniffing, young rats wrestling, playing, and all the rats in their prime racing from the carport roof to the pecan tree. It's limbs overhanging the roof, and all of the rats streaking through the neighborhood via the trees. It was a commune, not a society.
The ant world is more of a society, with the hill as the city. One ant out on an adventure, sees the sun going down and decides to head home. As he returns to the hill, other ants returning from their day join him. The closer they get to the hill, the more ants there are, until their lines get thicker, multi-directional, full of worker ants, foragers, scouts etc. The ant speed of movement increases proportionately in their distance from the hill. Suddenly there is a hurry. Movement more purposeful and straight. There is more control and supervision, larger enforcement ants and traffic direction, more societal requirements. The door is crazy. Ants bumping into each other. Ants bringing in leaves. Ants everywhere. Move or get walked on. There is no time to wander back and forth looking for grasshopper limbs, no time to explore cracks; one might get in the way, or an enforcer ant could get the wrong impression.
First of course is the drop in blood pressure and the natural lull after the rush. The senses relax without the constant radars up that are necessary in the city. Secondly is the realization that the party is over and it's back to cooking for oneself (two more weeks and it's Webber time). The convenience of fast food and restaurants, a poor man's fantasy. Reality can be depressing. Another realization is it's hard to be lazy in the mountains: find and cut firewood, move large rocks onto the driveway and crush them with a sledgehammer, keep the fire in the stove burning.
City-lag is like being lazy; depressing to know there are lots of things to do and all work! Work isn't exciting like the city. It's work, but without the work I'm bored. The city was fun. Fun takes money. Money takes work.
Finally, normally the second or third night back, you sleep fourteen or fifteen hours and wake up with your senses running at mountain speed. Akin to four or five deep breaths after a fast dash."There's no hurry now." The return to a world unobstructed with urban sprawl and strip-malls, devoid of traffic and people, and nary a neighbor I can see. I've been back nine days and not been once approached by a panhandler. The only company I've had is a friend and the neighbor's dogs on their passing stroll to the school bus stop. Plenty to sniff there before returning home. The good life.
My friend showed up two days after my return from the city. He works at the hardware store. He arrived with a six-pack of Corona and a bottle of Clamato juice. He loves my glass-shack. The shack has a certain lure to the cowboying, frontier male in all of us.
My friend owes a large mortgage, is 52, and has 28 years left on his mortgage. If not for his wife (I hear that a lot), he'd prefer to live in a shack next to the national forest, and own it in five years. He would like to retire in ten years. "Ten years is a long time," I tell him, "but something will happen. Have faith."
The evening view is spectacular. Still suffering from city-lag, as he talks I feel better; I remember to count my blessings. I think about that commercial, "You don't need a nip and tuck, you need a plan." Oregon has been my plan for twenty years. I'm here. At 51 I'm comfortable. The pace and relaxed state is good for me.
The city-lag releases it's grip. The clamato-beer is good. My friend leaves and I'm grateful for the visit. Suddenly, I remember with earnest again that life is wonderful, every miserable moment.
Be happy.
Compared to the stimulation and excitement of the city; the fast paced, twelve lane highways at rush hour, fast food, all night everything, all those people trying to squeeze as much life as possible out of every moment as they scramble full speed through their daily routine. It is understandable why returning to the mountains can result in city-lag (society is not always really such a rat race).
Our next door neighbor in California, Darryl, had rats infesting the whole neighborhood from their base in the boxed-in eaves on his garage; one summer evening just before dark I watched them from the roof of the house exit from a hole in the eave and gather on the roof of his carport. It was like a Disney movie; old fat rats walking slowly and sniffing, young rats wrestling, playing, and all the rats in their prime racing from the carport roof to the pecan tree. It's limbs overhanging the roof, and all of the rats streaking through the neighborhood via the trees. It was a commune, not a society.
The ant world is more of a society, with the hill as the city. One ant out on an adventure, sees the sun going down and decides to head home. As he returns to the hill, other ants returning from their day join him. The closer they get to the hill, the more ants there are, until their lines get thicker, multi-directional, full of worker ants, foragers, scouts etc. The ant speed of movement increases proportionately in their distance from the hill. Suddenly there is a hurry. Movement more purposeful and straight. There is more control and supervision, larger enforcement ants and traffic direction, more societal requirements. The door is crazy. Ants bumping into each other. Ants bringing in leaves. Ants everywhere. Move or get walked on. There is no time to wander back and forth looking for grasshopper limbs, no time to explore cracks; one might get in the way, or an enforcer ant could get the wrong impression.
First of course is the drop in blood pressure and the natural lull after the rush. The senses relax without the constant radars up that are necessary in the city. Secondly is the realization that the party is over and it's back to cooking for oneself (two more weeks and it's Webber time). The convenience of fast food and restaurants, a poor man's fantasy. Reality can be depressing. Another realization is it's hard to be lazy in the mountains: find and cut firewood, move large rocks onto the driveway and crush them with a sledgehammer, keep the fire in the stove burning.
City-lag is like being lazy; depressing to know there are lots of things to do and all work! Work isn't exciting like the city. It's work, but without the work I'm bored. The city was fun. Fun takes money. Money takes work.
Finally, normally the second or third night back, you sleep fourteen or fifteen hours and wake up with your senses running at mountain speed. Akin to four or five deep breaths after a fast dash."There's no hurry now." The return to a world unobstructed with urban sprawl and strip-malls, devoid of traffic and people, and nary a neighbor I can see. I've been back nine days and not been once approached by a panhandler. The only company I've had is a friend and the neighbor's dogs on their passing stroll to the school bus stop. Plenty to sniff there before returning home. The good life.
My friend showed up two days after my return from the city. He works at the hardware store. He arrived with a six-pack of Corona and a bottle of Clamato juice. He loves my glass-shack. The shack has a certain lure to the cowboying, frontier male in all of us.
My friend owes a large mortgage, is 52, and has 28 years left on his mortgage. If not for his wife (I hear that a lot), he'd prefer to live in a shack next to the national forest, and own it in five years. He would like to retire in ten years. "Ten years is a long time," I tell him, "but something will happen. Have faith."
The evening view is spectacular. Still suffering from city-lag, as he talks I feel better; I remember to count my blessings. I think about that commercial, "You don't need a nip and tuck, you need a plan." Oregon has been my plan for twenty years. I'm here. At 51 I'm comfortable. The pace and relaxed state is good for me.
The city-lag releases it's grip. The clamato-beer is good. My friend leaves and I'm grateful for the visit. Suddenly, I remember with earnest again that life is wonderful, every miserable moment.
Be happy.
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