Tag Archives: blogger

Freaked myself out a bit …

by revisiting Twin Peaks on Netflix.
That Bob dude gives me some serious willies.

The last time I watched the series was years ago, and with a friend.

This time, it’s just me and I’m pretty sure Bob is hiding out in the extra bedroom.

It’s not really a bedroom at this point; more a glorified storage room/closet/abyss.

I have plans for that room, but now that I’m convinced Bob is in there, I have a legitimate reason to procrastinate.

Not that my previous procrastination reasons weren’t legit, but we’re talking Bob here.

If one has never seen Twin Peaks, then one has no clue what all the fuss is about.

Luckily, Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Cooper (played by Kyle MacLaLachlan) makes closing my eyes at the “Bob parts” tolerable.

I say that even though I have never and will never be a fan of cherry pie.

And, since David Lynch is a bonified genius, I feel honored that I’ve been creeped out by the best.

(it would be embarrassing – though  sadly, it has happened – to be creeped out by a loser).

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Highway robbery …

in the purest sense of the phrase.

The price of toilet paper is that of which I speak.

I begrudge every penny I spend for something that is going to end up, literally, in the toilet.

In the sewer.

In the septic tank.

I imagine were Mr. Whipple alive today, he would be mad as a hatter that you can’t get (whisper) toilet paper, for practically free.

How do they get away with charging so much?

Because the companies know that unless you are willing to gather leaves and, heaven forbid, pine cones, you will pay for their soft as cotton paper to protect your sensitive  derrière in your time of need.

It makes me purely mad.

Not mad enough to gather leaves and pine cones, but mad anyway.

I suppose I could have blogged about a number of things … like how I gave blood today, or how the snow on my favorite trees on Big Moccasin looked or maybe even how I wish fervently that I could visit my beloved falls and see them frozen.

But I didn’t.

Why?

Because I had to pay over ten dollars for toilet paper.

I can buy a fifth of liquor for less than that and, if I partook in such a purchase, would likely not care whether I have TP or not.

I want world peace as much as the next person, but at the end of the day, if you run out of toilet paper, well … you’re pretty much screwed.

You're joking, right?

You’re joking, right?

a little thing like a malfunctioning shift key …

can really ruin your day if you let it.

i tend to take life as it comes, sometimes taking it on the chin.

it doesn’t mean, even when i learn from it, that i have to like it.

sometimes i hate it but that doesn’t change it.  it just makes it harder to come to terms with.

i try, for the most part, not to hate things, whatever they may be.

except for skin cells.  i do hate them, even if they are mine, but that is neither here nor there and well off the topic at hand.

an idiosyncrasy.  one of many.

i don’t like knowing that my trusted laptop is wearing out.

it has been a true and blue, down to the ground friend to me; an essential tool in writing many, many blog posts, countless journal entries, insane and, at times, irrational ramblings that make little or no sense, unanswered twitter posts to Ron Howard, facebook updates that i sometimes regret and numerous poems that have either lifted my spirits or made me want to strap myself to active train tracks.

it has developed an untold number of photographs and helped me to find parts of myself that i thought were gone forever.

i don’t want a new one, i want the old one to work, but if i have learned anything up to this point, it is that i don’t always get what i want.

it is nearly impossible to write anything correctly without using the left shift key.

i, which, if my left shift key worked, would be in quotations, is a single-letter word that i use fairly often and without the left shift, it cannot be capitalized, as it is supposed to be.

so in this post, instead of some capitalization, i have opted for none.

it goes against everything my english teacher taught me and blends in perfectly with what my creative writing teacher worked tirelessly to drum into my head.

everything in life doesn’t have to be just so.  it is what it is at the time.

making the most of it, irregardless of what it may be at the moment, is essential.

i like the left shift key … but i’m not going to dissolve in a puddle of anxiety over the loss of it.

it is, as i said, what it is.

it beats being jabbed in the eye with a sharp stick any day.

take it as it comes and if it happens to be on the chin, so be it.  it is good, sometimes, to find those things i take for granted missing in action.

it reminds me to appreciate them – a prime example, besides my left shift key, are the gauges on the dashboard of my car, the overhead light and the dinger that reminds me i have left my lights on.

they suddenly, for no apparent reason, stopped working and then today, when i filled up with gas, they began working again.

i took for granted they would simply be there and when they weren’t i missed them terribly.  it never occurred to me to miss them until they were gone.

i could, however, were i pulled over by an officer and asked if i knew how fast i was driving, say with complete honesty, i have no idea.

a nice fantasy, but i am just as happy not being pulled over.  talk about anxiety.  blue lights make me sweat every time, even if they aren’t aimed at me.  i am already on a first name basis with half the scott county police force.

not something i am especially proud of, but true nonetheless.

i think everyone can do with a reminder to not take the little things for granted.

it is, after all, the little things, stacked one upon another, that build the big things which is, in itself, food for thought.

it takes a single drop of rain to start a flood ...

it takes a single drop of rain to start a flood …

It’s funny how it’s funny …

later.

I am a facebook junkie. I admit it.  No reason not to really, since people I have never laid eyes on see the things I say.  I post random thoughts at random times and forget, more often than not, to change the filter that goes from my brain to my mouth; or in this case, my fingers.

Often, things that other people say or do remind me of events of my own life.  Tonight was one of those times.  As it happened this time, it was something I said that brought the old-but-not-forgotten memory into focus and I was taken back, decades, to a time in my childhood.

I was six years old.  Ok, maybe I was five or even seven; it has been so long ago that the age has escaped me, but the clarity of the memory has not.  I write this, not to remind my beautiful, wonderful Aunt Nell of the error of her ways (though to a kid, the error was heinous), but to relive a priceless, however painful, moment in time.

She was like a mystery wrapped in an enigma, was my Aunt Nell.  She was beautiful, knew famous people and likely, most importantly even, owned a portable tape recorder and brought presents in her multi-colored bag.  She and my Uncle Ford lived in Pennsylvania which, to a kid growing up in the back country, tobacco-farming, cow-milking, chicken-raising, hog-slopping, corn-hoeing, bean-picking, mule-plowing area of Southwest Virginia, could just have well been Ireland or Italy or France.

Or Gate City.

All I knew for certain was that it was hours away and trips there, with Grandaddy in the back seat with me and later, my little sister, was never a joy.

And yet, I digress.

As I said, I was a kid, the age remaining undetermined, and was on the cusp of pulling  a tooth.  Even as a little girl, the very thought of blood in my mouth made me sick to my stomach.  So obviously, pulling a tooth was right up there with being staked to an anthill.

They, she and Uncle Ford, came to visit, along with the snazzy clothes, tape recorder and gifts that I could never resist hinting about.

That drove my mother crazy … the hinting, not the presents … but I knew she would bring me something and the suspense nearly gave me a coronary.

How embarrassing  that would have been at five, or six or whatever.

And so, I digress again.  This was supposed to be a story about an event that has, for obvious reasons, stuck with me for nearly forty years.

The loose tooth.

So, Aunt Nell, or as we in the family call her, Aunt Neldie, had the bright idea that she could pluck that tooth right out of my mouth, painlessly and with little to no bloodshed.

I, being a gullible child, went along with it.

She was, after all, the well-respected, visit-anticipated, living in another country, Aunt Nell.

I let her, against my inner voice’s urging, tie a string to my tooth.

Then I watched in barely contained horror as she tied the other end of the string to a doorknob.

Then I stood, idly by, as she proceeded to slam the door with the strength of a Sumo wrestler.

Or Batman, even.

This being the same door holding the string tied to my tooth.

It should have worked, she said.

I don’t understand it, she said.

Don’t cry (as if!), she said.

Come back, she said.

At least I think she said these things.

I had disentangled myself from the doorknob at this point and was stalking up the hill towards the smokehouse.

I’ll explain a smokehouse some other time, but it isn’t where you go to smoke, unless you were my cousin.  It’s where he went to smoke unless he wanted to be skinned by my mamaw.

As I was stalking off, I was crying.  I hadn’t yet learned to say curse words or I would have been cursing, which would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap.  For real.  I made it to the top of the hill, the house still in view when I stopped.

There at the top of the hill was the mule that everyone called Old Beck.  She was a gentle creature, but I, as a child (and even into my teens and twenties – and let’s just be truthful here, my thirties) was an avowed chicken.

I was afraid of everything.  Bugs, airplanes, grass, bees, water, dark, oxygen.

Even sweet-natured-if-stubborn-to-a-fault Old Beck.

It would be much simpler to say what I wasn’t afraid of.

Dirt.

I wasn’t afraid of dirt.

Unless there were bugs or worms in it.

At any rate, I found myself too chicken to actually run away as I had originally planned and went back to the house where the offense had occurred.

While it wasn’t funny at the time, it has been a constant source of amusement over the years.

I forgave Aunt Neldie, because otherwise, she wouldn’t have given me the present she brought or let me play with her tape recorder.

But I didn’t forget it.

Some things just stick with you, ya know?

I. Was. Running.flolicking

Don’t panic .. and wear your sunglasses.Beemer, a sweet Great Pyrenees, shows his Hollywood

I’ve recently returned to Earth …

from a musical journey that altered the perception I have of music and, perhaps more importantly, the percipience I have of myself.

A few months ago, I was introduced to the musical genius of Gustav Mahler.  I was taken aback by the way his music touched me, moved me and the joy that it brought to my soul.  The profound effect that it had on me was, however, inexplicably isolating; moreso, in some ways, than the other eccentricities that keep me balancing just on the cusp of the world around me.

I had a burning desire to share the brilliance and excitement of it.  I found, though, that I could no more explain the way it touched my spirit than I could the way that words and images fill me up.  After a time, I spoke of it less and less and held the wonder of it inside myself like a caged bird.  I spent many nights lying in bed thinking of it and praying that when the morning dawned, comprehension of its magnitude would become evident.

I made plans to attend The Cleveland Orchestra for their performance of Mahler’s First Symphony and thought I would go mad waiting for the day to arrive.  Having listened to tens of dozens of hours of his compositions, I was, in my mind, prepared for what I would experience; I wasn’t even close.

From the first bars, I was riveted.  The music soared through the grand concert hall, covering me with a power that I simply wasn’t expecting.  Hearing it performed live was like nothing I could have imagined.  It moved me so esoterically that I wondered, at times, if I would lose control completely and be asked to leave.  I was overcome with emotion and was left, by the end of the concert, beautifully, wonderfully, unimaginably drained.

For a time, I was unable to speak more than a few words about it as it swirled and churned inside me, weaving itself into the very core of my being in a way I didn’t realize was possible.   At some point during this time, I was reminded that to fully understand music is to have no real understanding of it at all.  It is its own language and changes even as it stays the same.

I ascertained that sharing the overwhelming impact it had on my life was irrelevant for even if I could put my thoughts into words, the intimacy I shared with the music was mine alone.  I was, in that singularly, enlightening moment, set free from my own expectations.  I knew then that I didn’t need anyone’s understanding of my perception of the music or how it moved me or touched me or sustained me.

I was, in an instant, irrevocably changed for the better and for that, I am thankful.

ClevelandOH-34

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise ~ Psalms 98:4