Tuesday, September 30, 2014

A Synopsis

Hope to be re-locating shortly. The 'Foot-Up' pose will soon be distant memory, which I hope swiftly will be safely locked away in the virus chest. Re-location of course means The Rabbit of Usk, and this I look forward to, because he will not stop nibbling at my ear, and there will be peace on earth, the angles, or angels will sing and proverbs might begin to make sense.

I guess too in the great dialectic there's an ideal form toward which to strive. However in the matter of One Small Boy there is what the professionals will call a 'synopsis,' a 'category' and a something called a 'tag cloud.' And all these long years I thought spelling was difficult. But I do know the Rabbit of Usk is 'discursive-episodic-prolix.'  And maybe One Small Boy belongs to him. Sadly, Discursive Episodic Prolixity is not a recommended category. 

Monday, September 29, 2014

Proverbs Two

The trouble with proverbs is they don't just go away. "We are more like the weaver bird than we are like the white ant," might not fall under the category of proverb. However something like "The Elephant has a large foot," could well fall under the category of proverb.

"When the custard is yellow the Onion rots," sounds like a proverb but probably is not. As does "One foot on the ground is better than two in the grave." But who knows.  "Proverbs are more like snide little off hand and completely unnecessary remarks, than they are like algebra." 

Sunday, September 28, 2014

The Proverb

One of expressions goes something like this. "If you kill a frog in the well, you kill the clan." There's another one too. "Two is people, one is beast of the forest." I've been thinking about such proverbs from when I was young, and I've decided that in the matter of One Small Boy there will be no proverb from a language I barely remember.

And too, whenever I read a book that has anything like a proverb at its beginning my immediate reaction is "And Lo. For Esau was an hairy man, but I am an smooth man." And this follows me through the course of the story as a sort of guiding hand to the mind that wrote the story. So there'll be no proverb at the beginning of One Small Boy. Which is a kind of a relief.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Circles Suck

Well, I feel tired and emotional. Quite why I don't know. But because I often feel tired and emotional for no good reason, I have a great experience of it. And I found that the Christian solution, which is to thank one's blessings, is not much more than a passing palliative that offers little more than a moment or two of intense guilt. Which is why I make a practice of looking to other things upon which to place blame.

The obvious one is my current incapacity to do very much more than hobble around while trying not to cause further damage. But I have also found that when a person comes to an end point, the state of 'tired and emotional' can be anticipated. Which is, as I am sure you know, the genesis of my fundamental objection to the circle. This particular end point has to do with my recent conversations with One Small Boy. And I am certain there is a technical expression for it but through the next week or year, I have to shine and bath him so that he might be made more presentable. And yes, I regret to say, we're talking the semi colon and Cancun.

Friday, September 26, 2014

TGIF

TGIF, that's all I can say. And to sum up the week I made one huge error on the actual date of a birthday, a couple of minor errors in an Amish Store - not a place I might have reasonably anticipated visiting - and perhaps I shouldn't have worn romper wear to The Dentist. Other wise it was an active, 'go get 'em' kind of week with much heartiness and leaping around on crutches.

 Then this morning I hopped out of bed in plenty of time to see the Milky Way with stars almost all the way to the South Western horizon. So there must have been a power cut somewhere in Central Time. What I like most about the Milky Way is, it's our home in The Universe and it's so vast there's no way with current understandings of physics that our species will ever transverse it. But sadly, like so many things with us, we're always reluctant to let facts get in the way.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Mangold Wurzel

The vegetative state can last only so long, and because I am currently playing the role of a vegetable I can say this with some confidence. And here I believe I have achieved woodiness, which in a vegetable means, if ever we are to be remotely digestible we have to be cooked for a very long time. Other wise we just sit there.

And too, I am one of those who have seen a Mangold Wurzel, and this vegetable should not be confused with the Delicate Chard. But if you've never seen a Mangold Wurzel then you could look at the root of a seasoned Chard and imagine something four or five times larger and more gnarled. Strangely, vanilla ice cream helps.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

One Small Boy and the Early Christian Church

The 'Small Boy' has his ups and downs, but he's coming along and by the time my foot is reintroduced to what I will call 'normal foot wear' I hope to have fifteen very short stories, all of them with excellent spelling, and all of them total, complete and utter fiction built around fading memories of my time on earth. And yes, we propagandists can get boring, self obsessed and very worked up because when all is said and done we are wide eyed, highly strung, prone to self canonization and sometimes might exaggerate a little as we go about the important work of messaging.

"And what other burdens might you have in store for others?" I hear you ask. The answer to that question is the Elgon Caldera where Our Hero joins an English Clan and does not manage it well. "Is One Small Boy, our hero?" I hear you ask. The answer to that question is "No. One Small  Boy is far too well balanced." Our Hero's name is Timotei, which let me assure you is purely coincidental. And incidentally, around the time of the Roman Emperor Nero when Saint Paul the Apostle was in Prison, with the help of Saint Timothy he wrote a letter to the Bishop of Gaza, a man named Philemon, who also became a saint. Saint Paul, was of course The Mouth of the early Christian Church.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Scary Two

The Artist is making a marmalade from Green Tomato. The less active one is whispering sweet nothings in the direction of his right foot, and occasionally moving his left knee. And if you wish to know why, it's because he can.

In another world these might be ordinary activities, but here where I live there is crisp morning air, a respectable blue to the sky, a refreshing breeze, and there seems to be an eighth Compost Pile called "Scary Two."

Monday, September 22, 2014

A Big Week

Tomorrow is quite a big day. Granted it may not end well. The day after that I have a birthday to remember. And the day after that I am to go to a dentist.

 So what with one thing an another, it's what the professionals call 'A Big Week.' Nor am I fond of 'Big Weeks' so by Friday, chances are I'll be tethered to a stake.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Virga

I understand it is called virga. Rain falls from clouds but before it reaches the ground it evaporates. This means that for us indoors we can look at radar and feel confident.

Then when we've stared out the window long enough and we've actually gone outdoors it's dry as bone. And too, I haven't seen a Mockingbird for weeks.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Words

I need a name for my page on the great big website where I send emissaries into the world. Last time I tried to find names it became problematic and had it not been for an accident I might still be mulling with those names. Which is not good thing to do at this time of the year, what with winter coming and that kind of thing.

 The word 'Propaganda' does not fall nicely on the English speaking mind. Yet I think it an accurate description. What else does a person call, 'marketing' or 'promotion' or 'advertising' or any of those things. And I guess too it kind of all depends on where a person stands on buying stuff. Me, I think in the end I disapprove of it.

Friday, September 19, 2014

A Little Outing

I had an outing yesterday. It was a tractor emergency. Nor was it easy. My foot had to be wrapped in a plastic Thank You Bag and I clung to the tailgate of a pickup so that I might be driven at very high speed to the barn where The Artist had the internal workings of the tractor engine revealed, and there were bits here and there, and there were wrenches I'd long thought lost to the Fox Squirrel.

I cast an expert eye on the progress, asked what I believed were sensible questions, and soon realized I was so far out of the loop I might just as well have been a wall hanging. I was asked to hold a rubber thingy that was attached to a metal thingy while the Artist pulled on some kind of oily thingy, pronounced herself satisfied and on the way home I waved at the Compost Piles.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

A Referendum

Today is a big day for Scotland. Those of us who can reach into our past and find a confusion of European tribes, will invariably have a certain sympathy for the idea of Scotland's independence from the English.  Others will of course see an independent Scotland as the beginning of the end of the world.  And those who do, I think you'll find, have much to lose.

In the grand scheme of our sometimes very unattractive species, today's referendum, which ever way it goes is a grand departure from custom and practice. Instead of dressing up in funny hats, arming themselves to the teeth, the English Tribes and the Scottish Tribes have decided to settle this dispute through a ballot box. I find this moment glorious.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

A Division of Loyalties

The Rabbit is a little irritated with me. He's plodding about in the background, and I can hear his "What About Me." So I tell him it's been at least thirty years and probably more like fifty, so what difference will a little longer make. Then I try not to listen to his reply, because it's rather scathing and he can be kind of cruel with his Keynesian attitude. "In the long run you'll be dead."

I have considered the possibility of suggesting, "It's all about you my friend." But he's got his bit of straw in his mouth, and he's been practicing his swagger and he's been shopping for bonnets. So instead I ask him to remind me when our life together began. "February the 7th 722 in the Julian Calendar," he replies. So I guess he's kind of in a sulk and who knows how long it might last.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

One Small Boy

I'm kind of enjoying One Small Boy. I didn't think I would, because in those days there was an element of what I'll call condescension. Which I'd argue is given stature these days through the expression 'trickle down.' But it's better to go red, think of it as the 'machinations of the grubbing elites' and set it within the context of a power structure with a heartbeat in Cancun or the Wal-Mart.

Writing about it has always been difficult for me. On the one side I stand with a sword in my hand, an oath in my heart and call it bloody ignorance, while my toes will curl at the memory of it. On the other side I stand in the shoes of a watcher, as dull as an historian and impotent.  Nonetheless, I am kind of enjoying One Small Boy, and this is probably because I am old and accepting.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Radical Weather Forecasters

One of the problems of being possessed by lower body un-wellness at this time of the year is the ambient temperature of the outdoors.  It's that sort of temperature that permits long, happy hours of bonding with the earth without necessarily having to wear socks and without risking some sort of near death experience from heat.  And too with the overcast out there, these days are hatless days, which means a Gardener can feel kind of normal.

 By about the beginning of December it gets to be rougher and rougher. Extremities need protection, and it's all rather a nightmare until sometime in March. Then a person looks at the long range weather forecasts. None of them are encouraging. The Radical Weather Forecasters are all excited by the weak El Nino and they claim it's sure sign the polar regions will advance south down the Western Appalachians and poke at us all.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Propaganda

I was once in the Capital City of the United States, and this was of course some years ago when I could leap around, climb trees and help little old men cross the road. So we're talking quite a few years ago.  It was a part of that capital city called Georgetown. Big trees, suspicious soil in which a gardener was never quite certain what he might dig up. A bunch of highflyers had gentrified the area and it was prime territory for the Jobbing Gardener with that line of bullshit that comes up with "Of course Helianthus prefers shade."

After a long July day, I was in the back alley loading up the truck. And in case you don't know the Capital of the United States is classified by the English Diplomatic Service under the title of 'Hardship Post For Climate.' So you might imagine how a red blotchy Jobbing Gardener with English origins was feeling, when an elderly gentleman hobbled down the alley and in a very thick accent said, "You got propaganda."  Never been certain whether he meant it as an insult because chain saws do make noise.  Either way if I met him today I could answer him "Yes! And and here it is."

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Halibut's End story

What I have done is download a free e-book reader from: http://www.adobe.com/solutions/ebook/digital-editions/download.html I have windows, so boldly I downloaded the Macintosh version, and after about two hours dealing with that kind of fugue state a mind can enter into when discussing delicate matters with a technical device, I realized I should have downloaded the Windows version of the e-reader. Delighted to see it came with a detailed instruction manual which on the scale of comprehension was right up there near four out of ten.

I then Googled Halibut's End Story. One of the links took me to a  rather sinister picture of what was obviously the bloom of Amorphophallus. To read a sample of the book, I clicked on the yellow button that said "epub."  And I chose to save the file. Oddly enough when the file was downloaded, and I clicked on it to see what it contained the e-book reader came alive.  It's actually quite fun looking for spelling mistakes  and hunting down semi-colons. The Artist is certainly enjoying herself. And I'm told by Smashwords that I can make corrections. 

Friday, September 12, 2014

Clopping Around

Time passes, lower body un-wellness I have been assured by the professionals, is improved by a specialized repose that I am beginning to think only the Yogis from the Indian Subcontinent have mastered.  It requires the injured extremity to be higher above the ground than the heart. This might be something a Bat can manage for hours at a time, but I don't believe the Gardener is emotionally or physically capable of lounging around head down for more than about two and a half minutes at a time.

 And I'll tell you this much, it's a big interruption to routine. One can't just leap up visit a Compost Pile. Oh No. The simplest thing has to be plotted, well in advance. And then there's the clopping around in the prescription footwear. It's the kind of shoe one might expect to see on the foot of a beatnik in Cancun. However for the budding writer, who is determined to understand the semi-colon, and the various spellings of the word 'nature,' it might be a wonderful opportunity.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Social Nature of the Self Interview

According to advisors The Self Interview once complete, is then to be distributed to a budding writer's unfortunate friends and relatives. The strategy here is to elicit more questions for the Self Interview, answer those questions, get some kind of interaction going. Some kind of back and forth, some kind of regular communication. I guess it would be like receiving junk mail. As well, I've been told, the sole purpose of social media is to promote the Self Interview, and to this end words like Facebook, Twitter and  Iamfantastic.com are bandied around. And here I look at the patterns in my life and realize that as a budding writer, who at the present is in some degree of lower body un-wellness, I am being pretty much asked to forsake all that I hold dear.

It's also true that I don't appear to be a well socialized person, and this is a difficult thing for me to accept, but over time I have learned to live with it following my attempts to rectify the condition through happy talk, banter, this sort of thing. And I'll give you an example. A couple of sentences here and there, which I think remarkably humorous, have on more than one occasion resulted in some dramatic un-friend-ings and a great deal of un-likings.  My old professor from the university, brilliant man. Old comrades from a number of cruel and unusual boarding schools. Men and women I have been though hell with while engaged in gainful employment. The great majority of my neighbors. Not to mention the relatives I have unwittingly pissed off.  There's a host of them out there, a panoply, or at least sixty two of them. All of whom I am certain would be delighted to receive junk mail from me.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Self Interview Questions

One of the other questions is: "Who are your favorite writers?" The question itself doesn't always come like that. Apparently there's a difference between a writer and an author. Guess it goes back to Eighteenth Century, when some one like Walking Stewart was sent off to the East India Company to work as a writer.  His job was to fill in the company ledgers and write the odd letter of complaint to a Maharaja. And too I have found that of the two words whether someone describes themselves as a writer or as an author, says  much about what it is they think they're doing. You kind of have to think that authors smoke pipes and are kind of picky around breakfast time, understands puns, that sort of thing. Whereas a writer tosses back the coffee, he's careless with his cigarette butts, knows when to wear sandals and probably has a shovel somewhere lying around gathering rust.

 And too, I think a writer might answer the question "Who are your favorite Authors?"something like this: "You have the religious thinkers and the philosophers, the big heads as I like to think of them. My own interest in them kind of ends with Sartre, where everything gets kind of bogged down in specialization and prancing around in front of television cameras to fund second homes in the Lake District. Then on through Genet before going backwards to the more interesting stuff.  Peter Cheney's tales of Lemmy Caution, special agent of the FBI. JG Ballard, just love his Downed World. There are some damn fine comic book Authors around. Not sure I liked anyone from the eighties or nineties. Dull, dull years for us people. But things are changing. I like George Monbiot, he nearly died once near to where I spent time as a schoolboy. A useful experience for a writer. I could go on......"

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Genre

With respect to the word 'genre' I thought, "character driven, comedic, transgressive fiction with biographical under currents and hints of raw unapologetic angst." And because I am a pompous ass, or pompous arse depending on perspective, who is also hopeless at spelling, the issue of what transgressive fiction might mean in the description of a genre will require study.  I do know that all things in this world beyond mine essentially have to live on a shelf, so that they can be isolated and if necessary contained.  The shelves of 'transgress' are for things that step across lines.  And some of those things, some may consider rather disgusting and probably unhygienic.

The word 'comedic' separated by a comma from the word 'transgressive' might go some way to separate the humble "Halibut's End Story" from something like Miller's "Tropic of Cancer" or D. H. Laurence's "Lady Chatterley's Lover," where the nature of the transgression is in 2014 perhaps a little less apparent than it was in the 1930's, 40's and 50's. But then there's the shelf of 'Comedy' which as I understand, has its root in the idea of inducing laughter, rather than wails of anguish. And as we all know what might induce laughter in the odd isolated individual could well produce nothing much more than a yawn of confusion in another.

Monday, September 8, 2014

The Mono-Pedal

To us mono-pedal, the bipedal quickly become distant cousins.  We might spot the odd one or two waiting to cross a road, glare at them a little from the passenger seat of vehicle, but on the average trip to a hospital, there aren't that many of them to be seen. Until your indentured chauffeur makes the right turn onto the bypass near the ice-cream place, and then just this side of the car dealer there's a couple of hundred of them skipping and jumping around kicking soccer balls at each other.  It's a depressing and somewhat haunting sight, refreshed a little by the patient car parking where in the shelter of some very depressing looking bi-pedal structures a group from the off-duty can be seen enjoying their tobacco and setting a much better example to the kiddies.

The attendant medical professionals, in their assortment of often unflattering outfits, are of course all bipedal. One sits patiently through the confusion of paperwork, and pause a while to ponder the origin of some of the questions. "What are your hobbies?" being probably the most peculiar.  But in the world of the bipedal there's whole lot of stuff that makes very little sense, and we mono-pedal have to learn that not everyone can be like us.  Interesting too, before I was privileged to join the ranks of the mono-pedal I was something like six foot seven, one hundred and seventy five pounds of grit and muscle, but now I'm a little over a hundred and forty nine pounds of something vaguely resembling a damn fine looking freckled cottage cheese and apparently I'm something like a well balanced five foot three.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Propaganda and Genre

The right foot is a shoveling foot. Not the first time it's failed to respond to instructions without kicking up a fuss, moaning and groaning. So I have learned not to shout at it, learned to accept it as a Bolshevik, and in the process I have in the past gained insights into the nature of  the revolutionary angst I too am prone to.  My left leg has always been a quarrelsome little bastard, but I am able to blame it's character flaws almost entirely upon English cousins. A long rather dull story that includes a field game called 'Hide and Seek.'  A most pointless game topped only in it's pointlessness by another field game called 'British Bulldogs.'

Either way without access to working legs and and their feet, a Gardener has a chance to indulge one or other of his many passions.  Quite what they are have yet to be determined, which means I might have to buckle under, get with the program, understand the nature of discipline, become hard, cruel and mean. Which is I've decided the only a way a person can even begin to think about writing their own interview for  "Halibut's End Story," "Saint Haddock's Book," "Mr. Cod's Tanager." All of them fishy tales of an as yet to be identified  'genre.' I feel confident that hobbling around in great pain may at least go some way toward identifying what the word 'genre' might mean.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Compost Pile Names And A Moment of Clarity

Falling down stairs gives a mind a moment or two of clarity. Possibly I should do it more often. And a good knock on the head does wonders for the Compost Pile Naming Sentence. While in recovery I realized Compost Pile Naming has nothing to do with a sentence, never was supposed to be a sentence, never will be a sentence.  That sort of complicated approach to an aide memoire, just seems to piss Compost Piles off and is obviously quite beyond my capacity.

So for those who might be interested these are my names of our Compost Piles. "The Wishing Well."  "Compost Pile Number Two."  "Compost Pile Number Three."  "Iambe, The Goddess Formerly Known As Isis." "The Mean Girl." "Foucault's Compost Pile."  "The Scary Compost Pile."  I will now write these names in stone, and I might even make little plaques, perhaps draw a diagram, maybe invest in a couple of solar powered flashing neon signs.

Friday, September 5, 2014

Self Interviews and Compost Pile Sentences

    There are exceptions like Nietzsche of course, but generally with  the big writers, the famous names, like a Hegel or a Heidegger or a Genet, or an Elberry, a person doesn't really think of them as men wrote their own interviews. I can understand an Arthur A Pennyfinger writing his own interview, or whoever that writer was who created Lemmy Caution of the FBI, writing his own interview, but even so there's something fundamentally wrong with writing your own interview, but I guess in a world not that dedicated to doing the right thing a person has to follow custom and practice rather than pontificate about right and wrong.  And too there's a whole literature out there dedicated to writing your own interview. The points to press home, the importance of being dedicated to your craft, the usefulness of the semi-colon, and a generally respectful and positive attitude, and horribly enthusiastic. And you can be directed to read what may or may not be the self interviews of others, which once accomplished can on occasion really put a person off even thinking about reading a writer's book.

The place to start I'm told, is with a list of questions.  Some of them incredibly ridiculous such as "Where do you write?" An obvious answer to which is "A yurt on top of a mountain, where do you think I write." But one can get the drift of what is expected of both interviewer and interviewee, even if both entities appear in the same person. One can consider it a dualism and buckle under, which is something I am going to have to do, and as some might know I have indeed listened or tried to listen to and answer my own questions for a long time. The question "Why do you write?" is a regular on the self interview circuit, and after deep study I have noticed the answer to it sets the tone for subsequent questions.  And too, I fully appreciate that delving into "Why do you write?" can result in a series of primal screams, one such primal scream has given me an opportunity to better understand my current obsession with Compost Pile Naming Sentences. It's a delaying tactic on my part.  A frailty that has to stop because Compost Piles are clearly anarchist in their desire to remain anonymous, and they have powers that are way beyond my ability to fathom.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Barred Owls, Crows and Compost Pile Naming

It's a pretty well known fact that Gardeners are more like Barred Owls than they are like Crows. Barred Owls are lonely creatures who call out at night and will sort of creep about quietly in their trees in the daylight minding their own business. Crows are colony types, they have quarrels and disagreements and spend many hours flying around making a great deal of noise while mentoring each other in how to correctly harass Red Tailed Hawk.

So it might be that each individual Gardener should have his or her own Compost Piles. That way there would be no need for a Compost Pile Naming Sentence, there'd be no misunderstandings about what bit goes where.  And I guess too that some Barred Owls are more authoritarian, dogmatic and pompous than other Barred Owls. It's a characteristic of Barred Owls which you can sometimes hear in their hooting.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Neighborliness

The other thing to recall about Compost Piles is their temporal nature. It's their location that retains a certain permanence.  They are not roaming, or in anyway nomadic, they don't wander around,  They do not benefit from rotation, in the way that a Tomato does. And too, "The Compost Pile" as a neighborhood has a  long tradition of service to a wider communities.

 It's like a graveyard if your like, and here I don't mean one of those flat things out in sunshine, grass cut to within an inch of its life and the odd bit of colorful plastic strewn around.  I mean something with character, a certain ambience, a place to find solace, a neighborly atmosphere and good shade on a hot day.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Scary Compost Pile

It might be necessary to take a deep breath and see how matters stand with the increasingly problematic Compost Pile Naming Sentence. What we have are seven Compost Piles. The first has for a long time been called "The Wishing Well." Then there is "The Lined Compost Pile."  Next is the "The One Next To The Lined Compost Pile."  After that is "The Long Term Compost Pile."  Then  there is "The Compost Pile That Sometimes Isn't a Compost Pile."  Then there's "The Foucault Lizard."  And the Last is "The Scary One." And if you want to know why it's called the "The Scary One,"  it's because something untoward dwells within its orbit, and a Gardener sometimes needs to make a lot of noise around it so that everyone might know who's in charge.

Mind you "Being In Charge" down there amongst the Compost Piles, is a fairly loose concept. In terms of the structural arrangements in that part of my world, probably makes more sense to considered something like "Anarcho-Syndicalism" as a better description. For those unfamiliar it's a slightly old fashioned way of describing what might be called "Trickle Up Libertarians." Which is tricky, because that kind of makes me the "Trickle Down Libertarian" when I am down there amongst the Compost Piles, trying to boss everyone around by giving them names, generally laying down the law and disparaging someone who might lay quite large eggs and not own feet, but who might well have made a good life for themselves and their family in the "Scary Compost Pile."