spring thoughts
like untamed horses
should remain in the corral
for some reason
i like to
let them run
and watch the truth unfold
from flashing hooves
and shaking heads
i call out after them
but it's too late
they nicker
never looking back
spoken and wild
my thoughts
will return
when tired and hungry
in winter
Within the first week or two of bringing a child into the world, everything about the world changes. And you can't help what changes come over you, your thoughts and feelings, your world view. Of course, you don't know this has happened in the deep bliss/stupor of sleep deprivation, but you have changed deeply and forever, and so has your world.
In the Just Because You're Paranoid department we might do well to consider what Obama's next target for a crisis is. He and Dodd and Frank have brought down the economy with a Freddie and Fannie manufactured crisis exacerbated by the demands of so-called "housing rights" agitators, and community organizers.
Gobsmackingly incredibly beautiful! I had no idea of the scope and dimension of the chapel, but this link takes you where you can navigate around and zoom in. Breathtaking and every other adjective of beauty I could conjure all fall short. Just. . . wow.
The little Ibex guy is barely a week old. I loved this for the sheer instinct and skill with which the little guy arrived into this world. Amazing:
Leslie reminded me by way of posting her rockin' rack, so here ya go, ya crazy-ass Mullahs:
(I don't think Good Vibrations qualifies in this category but Beach Boys, Summer, and bikini weather would qualify as evil for the mullahs. I know, it's hard to even try to think like that, but there's the problem.)
Well one of them has the full weight of a tax-enforcing governing body behind her. The other is much more polite. But the outcome is approximately the same:
God rest his unique soul. Not many men figure out who they are. Fewer still get a lifelong nickname and a smattering of fame for not being on the public radar. R.I.P. Dugout Dick:
Most, like Zimmerman, came from someplace else. Drawn by Idaho's remoteness and wild places removed from social pressures, they came and spent their lives here, leaving only in death.
Some became reluctant celebrities, interviewed about their unusual lifestyles and courted by media heavyweights. Zimmerman was featured in National Geographic magazine and spurned repeated invitations to appear on the "Tonight Show."
"I ride Greyhounds, not airplanes," he said in a 1993 Statesman interview. "Besides, the show isn't in California. The show is here."
Cort Conley, who included Zimmerman in his 1994 book "Idaho Loners", said that "like Thoreau, he often must have smiled at how much he didn't need. É What gave him uncommon grace and dignity for me were his spiritual life, his musical artistry, his unperturbed acceptance of life as it is, and being a WWII veteran who had served his country and harbored no expectations in return."
His metamorphisis to Dugout Dick began when he crossed a wooden bridge over the Salmon River in 1947 and built a makeshift home on the side of a hill. He spent the rest of his life there, fashioning one cavelike dwelling after another, furnishing them with castoff doors, car windows, old tires and other leavings.
"I have everything here," he said. "I got lots of rocks and rubber tires. I have plenty of straw and fruit and vegetables, my dog and my cats and my guitars. I make wine to cook with. There's nothing I really need.Read more about him here.
Love this. The production is so laid back, understated. Just right for a Friday night:
Just around the corner from my place is a school that is teaching rabies. This is where your tax dollars are going if you live in Charleston. I'm just not sure if it's supposed to cure you of them, teach you about living with rabies, or what. In fact, it sounds like it could be a blogmeet:
It seems that Charleston's big concerns are sunken home foundations and rabies and I'm wondering who in their right mind 400 years ago thought building a city on a swamp was a good idea. But rabies clinics are everywhere. Took Pepper Dog to the beach a couple of weeks ago and as she was due for her shots, we stopped in at the little fire station and the next thing the old girl knew she was getting gigged like a frog. She was all, WTF was that?? I thought we were going for a walk!! But she's apparently safe from the rampant rabies around here.
I just swallowed a gnat. Ack!
(I'm posting this in "new world order" for when the google-bots come scraping my blog. That should make the ol' bot scratch his ass in confusion. I'm a wicked Interwebs-ninja I am!)
I had a fine lather of outrage worked up this morning but I've pulled back from full-on vent. Still, I'll wager that you are possibly unaware that 120 Muslim "tourists" fully prepared and coordinated with walkie talkies invaded a Catholic Church in Andalusia during the Good Friday service, and attempted to "pray" during the service.
Since we've all gone off to work and allowed the State to raise our children, should we be surprised that our own children have embraced the State?
The supposed "goods" on Clinton that Reno was holding over his head reported from The Volokh Conspiracy:
The plan Reno approved and took to President Clinton for approval contemplated the children choking in the gas unprotected for forty-eight hours if necessary, to produce the requisite “maternal feelings”. By taking aim at the children with potentially lethal gas, their mothers would be compelled, according to the FBI plan repeatedly defended by the Clinton administration afterwards as “rational” planning, to flee with them into the arms of those trying to gas them. [Emphasis added.]
An independent report on Waco written by the Harvard Professor of Law and Psychiatry, Alan A. Stone, for the then Deputy Attorney General Philip Heymann, says it “is difficult to believe that the US government would deliberately plan to expose twenty-five children, most of them infants and toddlers, to CS gas for forty-eight hours”. Unfortunately, however, that appears to have been exactly the plan.
The effect of CS gas on an unprotected infant exposed for only two to three hours is discussed in the report; in that case report, dating from the early 1970s, the child’s symptoms during the first twenty-four hours were upper respiratory; but, within forty-eight hours his face showed evidence of first degree burns, and he was in severe respiratory distress typical of chemical pneumonia. The infant had cyanosis, required urgent positive pressure pulmonary care, and was hospitalized for twenty– eight days. Other signs of toxicity appeared, including an enlarged liver.
I've shown this to the Pepper Dog and, true to form, she was unimpressed. But the Blue in this video looks so much like her it's amazing. Ear worm alert: the song is actually quite good, if you're gonna sing about a dog:
No extra charge:
I read and read all day, but the Internet as a news source can be a mite stingy with pictures. And when it does have some, they are bound up in gak-filled scripts of page-loading madness and slideshows.
A name of literary renown almost forgotten, Herman Wouk, has emerged again with a marvelous life-work-in-progress book out called The Language God Talks. A short excerpt is all I needed to draw me in.
Calculus, atomic bombs, science and transcendence. Could be any summer story. Could be this summer's reality. It will certainly be my summer extravagance.
What with the latest quantum measurements finding Schrodinger's Cat both alive and dead, and parallel existence as unimaginable-become-probable, it's no time to shrink away from the Mind that draws us to Itself. The world is big, my peeps. But as Wouk hopes to determine, a stage not too big for the drama.
Then I'm gonna re-read A Trip of Goats by Kim Crawford because it's a timeless wonder.
An extremely grateful tip of my wide-brimmed Outback hat to Mr. Reynolds at Instapundit.
The Curmudgeon Emeritus at Eternity Road proclaimed that Saturday had to be observed with frivolity. Jeff Medcalf delightfully complied:
Churchill: wtf the luftwaffle is attacking meIt is so worth reading the whole thing.
Roosevelt: get antiair guns
Churchill: i cant afford them
benny-tow: u n00bs know what team talk is?
paTTon: stfu
Roosevelt: o yah hit the navajo button guys
deGaulle: eisenhower ur worthless come help me quick
Eisenhower: i cant do **** til rosevelt gives me an army
paTTon: yah hurry the fock up
Churchill: d00d im gettin pounded
deGaulle: this is fockin weak u guys suck
*deGaulle has left the game.*
Roosevelt: im gonna attack the axis k?
benny-tow: with what? ur wheelchair?
benny-tow: lol did u mess up ur legs AND ur head?
Hitler[AoE]: ROFLMAO
You simply must read this poignant eyewitness to Hitler's ascent to power.
No, it's not astounding or erudite or pithy, it's mostly just matter-of-fact, as an eyewitness account must be, else it becomes journalism and by modern definition, specious.
This is how they buy you:
Little by little,
Line upon line,
Precept upon precept.
And yet we continue with our stimulus-response-repeat cycle as we tilt at politicians and media windmills instead of building a better future. One person at a time.
Yes, somebody had had a long day and was dreaming of beer o'clock. Or someone's spouse was seeking ammo for another round of, drinking already? But it amused me no end to see a Google Search hit for "when does the sun cross the yardarm?"
You know, technically, if you're reading this pirate blog after the sun has crossed the yardarm, I don't care where you live, it's officially okay to bend the ol' elbow and slow life down to an idle.
what noise does
the ocean make
except to slap
and lap
against a wooden hull
or break upon
a silent shore?
left to itself
it rolls and runs
silent, wordless
keeping a thousand
mysteries
un-uttered
and singing
only when stirred
by a wind or a sail
a silent sea
promises nothing
expects everything
but yields up treasures
as quietly as she takes them
and yields up pleasures
as joyfully as she makes them
I used to have a boss that would lament that the standard post-it notes were usually only half written on-- the top half. It bothered her so much that she took to ripping the post-it in half down the middle so as to make the pad last twice as long.
My muse goes whistling now,
having left song and instrument
for the careless warmth of a new sun.
She gives me a knowing glance as she turns
quickly on one heel,
strolling devil-may-care
and by-your-leave
upon the bowers of spring blossoms.
Swinging hips
and saucy thoughts
were never so determined
to march me into madness
as I follow along, helpless...
trying to keep apace
lest I lose sight of her
and she fall into some mischief
or merriment
and leave me wanting and wondering.
Ah, she is grand, to let me find her!
She playfully waits for my addled senses
to arrive in the moment she has made,
and there stand I,panting for breath,
and she, laughing and sighing.
One more sidelong smile, a flash of inspiration,
and off she goes, with swinging hips,
saucy thoughts,
whistling some forbidden tune.
Turn the sound down. Trust me on that.
I've been too busy to check the entry pages of this useless blog until now to notice a most unwelcome increase in a particular bit of Internet traffic.
Having some of the few normal members of my family up in Charleston for the weekend meant we finally, after six months here, got around to doing touristy things for the last two glorious days. We enjoyed a nice walk South of Broad as we gawked at the homes and architecture. My brother is a professional building inspector so we had no end of official narrative as to the condition of each of the many gorgeous homes up for sale. We pretended to the airs of Old Money and spurned one mansion for its being held together by turnbolts on long pipes, another for the color of its shutters, yet another for its landscape lacking the necessary amenities of a single iron bench in the garden. Oh yes, we said to ourselves. We would buy that house except for the appalling lack of a gardener's quarters.
A hundred years ago, when foreign aid was unthought-of (except as a tribute or bribe), we were a respected and admired country. After a century of philanthropy, everyone hates our guts.
Why the Blogosphere still kicks Twitter's ass. You just can't cram Barbies and dinosaurs and Green Army men and M72LAWs into a Tweet. You can't fit them all into any sort of story either, unless you're Laura.
You go. Now.
Stupid questions are their stock in trade, after all:
h/t The J.R.
Here's a nice daily dose of things that go boom. Skiing behind the ship is cool, but the second half of this little clip shows the HMAS Torrens being used as torpedo bait. Pretty cool:
HMAS Torrens Skiing from Mark Ferguson on Vimeo.
Piracy and theft are a serious business in the wide expanse and natural anarchy of the seas. Like the wild waves, pirates obey only the winds of chance and the law of possession. The sea takes and rarely gives it back. So too a corrupt nation, a scamming receiver, or even a greedy charterer. It's not fair, but it works pretty well for the ones bold enough to go get what they want.
What's needed is a man with strong convictions about the nature of bullies and why they must be taught a lesson. If that means a bit of the ol' rope-a-dope or sleight of hand or outright lies, so be it. Bribe an official, buy an extra hour, paint a fake name, kidnap the guards, fool the bridge tender, or just supply lots of alcohol, but get what you came for. Even if you have nothing but the fickle mercy of the wind for an ally, it's better than letting the bad guys win. Or rotting in a South American jail.
Max Hardberger's latest book, Seized, has what his highly acclaimed Freighter Captain had, but plenty more to keep the pages turning. A brighter narrative , more colorful characters, and even more high-stakes prizes such as the airplanes of East Germany's dismantled bureaucratic booty. Arrgghh!
Despite Mr. Hardberger's near-nonchalant approach to the risk of flying foreign aircraft under the radar in a rapidly dissolving country, he celebrates the Teutonic passion for order in discovering the plane's mechanical and flight logs thoughtfully tucked in for the ride. Other European adventures were a bit more rough around the edges. Russian mafia? Fuggedaboudit. Bulgarian Secret Police? Well, Max leaves it to a formidable woman to settle that score so sweetly that the memory of its extremely satisfying outcome still brings a smile.
In this book I relished a bit more background into the how and why of Max's unique line of work repossessing stolen freighters, and the eventual crossroads with Michael Bono that led him to make a real business out of it. His complete curriculum vitae evokes the image of an ADHD Indiana Jones. Mostly I just enjoyed each escapade for its unique set of circumstances and interplay. Any one chapter has enough plot to make for an entire adventure film, enough so that I might worry that the payoff in compiling them into one book is offset by the liability of the compounded interest in story upon story. It can be almost exhausting.
But only if you're a wuss. I read it in one sitting because I'm a greedy little adventurer-wannabe. Still, it's easily enjoyed one chapter at a time and makes for a great summer read.
Personal glimpses into the man himself, while welcome, manage to keep the reader at a comfortable arm's length to glean what they may about the spitzensparken that drives him to do and be and live more life than that of six men. The formation of such a character is plain enough a matter of nurture against nature, the frictional drag of a restrictive boyhood working with an accelerated imagination to create that lift, up where things are clearly more exciting.
A favorite little meme running through the story is "Not yet, by God. Not yet!" as Max eludes the Fates and beats the odds one more time. It pops up, here and there like a biblical Selah, and if you ignore that opportunity to pause and reflect on the sheer terrible chances, the odds, the untold price of such a life, you will find yourself unprepared for a bit of a rogue wave at the end of the book. But such is the way of the sea, and of life.
It doesn't fight fair.
****************************************
FCC note (curse them!): I received no remuneration for this review and will receive no remuneration if you click the Amazon link above.
You, however, will make me very happy if you make Mike Bono's sitemeter stutter like a President without his teleprompter if you'll just click here.
(It makes him think I know people. . . but really it will just be you guys! Shhh. . . )
It's a rum set of choices when watching this video that involve a) concern that you're paranoid or, b) having your paranoia justified. I'm just here to say I told you so. Well, me and a million other bloggers:
Happy Monday!
It's an interesting color scheme for Spring, this fad of black and white. As we grow older, time seems to narrow our world out of the billowing, diaphanous gray of inattentive thinking and into the solid realities of right and wrong. We find that the bills come due, physically, emotionally, financially, just like we were told-- and ignored-- a thousand times, a hundred lifetimes before now, today.
We owe more than we are owed when it all comes down to it. And it's coming down to it more rapidly than expected. It's always that way. The bright sun of remembrance, of things abiding fast and True suddenly arises in our heart and the fog lifts. The eyes sting a bit. So long has the gloaming night lasted that we were able to see our way quite easily as long as our way was short and well-traveled. We imagined ourselves quite the expert on how to get from here to there.
Now, the light almost cripples, it washes out unimportant details at hand and reveals the landscape beyond our here, toward a hereafter. It leaves us stumbling in its brilliance while we reorient our perception to a farther horizon. How did we miss that abyss? Why didn't we mire in that bog, so close we walked beside the dangers without realizing it!?
If you're reading this far, it's likely you've made it to the happy revelation that you did not get to here from there on your own. If you lift your eyes just a bit more down the road ahead, you'll see those ahead of you who left little clues, documents, maps and useful advice that you barely heeded. It was enough. And enough is all any of us need to make our way. Enough is a world of wonder and peace when the dark doubt clouds our way.
On every Sunday we are bidden to pray for departed souls, those now in the full light of the Dayspring. I can only think they are likewise, praying for us.
Walk in the Light you have. May Easter's promise dawn bright and true for you and yours.
"For the path of the righteous is as the Light of dawn, that shines brighter and brighter until the full Day." Prov. 4:18
Free Speech. Our old Media actually never allowed it. In their unveiled incarnation as our State-Run Media, they still might quash it.
Indeed, the strength of the Blogosphere and its attendant Tea Party movement is that while our betters are doing their best to retain their patrimonial hold on public information and Truth, the children born of the Internet have raced to pull the political porn right off the library shelves. They have sneaked off to their rooms to pound their laptops and keyboards for even more information, and some sense of relief.
Hey, what you lawfully do in your home office is none of my business.
And look, the sexual connotations of "teabagger" didn't start with the Right, and I'm bygawd never going to waste political energy on the defense of meaning. Jeff G. has those bases covered nicely and that sort of wonkish work will uphold the shining Truth for the epitaph of our country-- for the historians who'll eulogize Civilization.
So today we have Dr. Helen discussing the healthy nature of pornography, tepidly touting that it's possibly quite normal and that efforts to control it may be seen as a move to control men's sexuality. She's quite the champion of men's rights and on that level I find a parallel with political speech that is in jeopardy today.
Even the Soviets never created such idiocy. The great famine of the late 1920s was caused by quite the opposite, as the Soviets collectivized farms to force peasants off of their land and into the big new factories. Of course this had disastrous results. So one must ask, are the powers that be in Washington and London degenerates or satanically evil? Where is the opposition?Yeah, Mr. Obama. I'll tone it down when Pravda does.
You wanna know why this blog totally sucks right now? Well I'll tell you what: everybody's blog sucks right now.
Except yours, of course.
It's the misery and ennui of Winter giving way to Spring, which should make us all chipper but the pollen is about to kill off the weaker members of the blogosphere and make the rest of us just want to be outside. Anything but stay indoors.
Oh, and Obamacare. Definitely damaging the calm.
For me, it's been an old George MacDonald book to read indoors since the pollen is killing me, and now of course, Captain Hardberger's book will make for a weekend retreat into some other world. Then I have a garden to kill, a niece to pray for, a long-lost nephew reappearing into my life after 25 years, a house full of the newlyweds' fun young friends last Sunday night-- who ate and drank us out of house and home and I can't wait for them to visit again. Bonus: one of the new friends has parents who own a hugemongous skeet range. Can you say Zombie Apocalypse Fallback Plan? I know you can!!
Decongestants talking now, pretty sure. . . so I'm gonna regroup with another Cuba Libre and post this picture just to remind everyone from whence comes Obama's oil industry acumen:
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