Sunday, January 31, 2016

Technical Device

Technical Device is down.

 There is gnashing of teeth

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Saint Barbara

Saint Barbara's Tunnel needs shrubs and trees, things that climb and maybe a field of sunflower to cheer her up. But it's where to put Saint Barbara's Church that troubles. There are several possible splendid locations, all of them isolated, which means we're talking access. It's the case too that a diligent Soul would embark upon a pilgrimage barefoot, sack clothed and well ashed, and this means we're talking worn footpath that wind in the same way that Sheep paths wind, rather than landing strips for giant airplanes, air conditioned lobbies and a Holiday Inn. Always worth remembering that a great many of the more humble Saints have wells named after them. Saint Winifred's Well, for example. Not everyone has a Cathedral.

And here it's necessary for the N-scale Modeler to realize that Saint Barbara had a very, very miserable life. In his attempt to bend her to his will, her possessive Pagan father took great pains to torment her. His name was something like Dioscorus, he really was a horrible man and after many attempts to escape him Saint Barbara was finally trapped by a justice system which considered Christianity a Terrorist Organization that belonged to an Axis of Evil and she was sentenced to death. Dioscorus agreed to be his own daughter's executioner and after the deed was done, on his way home, he was rightly struck by lightning and then consumed by flame. So there's a great deal to think about.

Friday, January 29, 2016

A Huge Relief

It can be disappointing to realize our hero is an heroic hero rather than super-hero. The distinction is well marked by Timotei Candlemass' failure to grasp the board game of GO. An ordinary common or garden super-hero would understand GO but to an heroic hero GO is about as mysterious as it gets. It's up there with Algorithms, Professional Wrestling, the Olympics and skiing.

Sadly for a writer of pulp the flaws within an heroic hero often call for gymnastic thinking in the search of sometimes elegant answers. Currently one solution is to arrange matters such that our hero becomes dependant upon someone who does grasp the game. In the Mercian Court that's easily done. The Lord Liege of Shropshire will win our heroic Saxon in a most dramatic game of Tabular, or GO, and all will be well. A huge relief for me.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

GO and Sainthood

In The Vestry of Monnow our hero comes into contact with a board game which is kind of central to his move from Men's Dayroom II to Men's Dayroom I. Your writer of pulp has spent time unsuccessfully thinking about the nature of this board game, and he came away with the idea that rather than actually worrying the details of the game it would be good enough to simply call the game Tabular and make mention of the game pieces being black and white and go on a bit about the rules in a manner so vague no one would be any the wiser and somewhere along the line there'd a riddle, some nifty to and fro, a winner could be declared, and our hero could get out of King Offa's Dayroom II, join the Witch of Ithaca in Dayroom I so his grandfather might be absolved of sin, finally achieve recognition as a Saint.

A devoted reader might imagine how excited your writer of pulp became when he read that somewhere a machine defeated a person at the game called GO. A very ancient game apparently, it goes back thousands of years, societies have devoted themselves to it, there's no dice involved, it's black and white pieces played on a board, it's all about containing space in the mind and devious plotting of moves, in short the winner doesn't have to be lucky. Here on Earth the heavens opened, Angels blew trumpets, the word Genius was mention several times because clearly Tabular in the Vestry of Monnow is GO. Then your writer of pulp made the mistake of spending time attempting to grasp the rules of GO. We professionals call it research. Sadly the rules of GO and how it's played are totally beyond his capacity to grasp. 

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Fuller and My Birthday

As a Budding Transhumanist I'm not one to mess around with the niceties. In ten days it'll be my birthday, and I expect to hear Jingle Bells and see the Rockets Flare. Yes indeed, we can add Professor Fuller's book The Proactionary Imperative to Ardrey's The Territorial Imperative, and for those with doubt, what might a Transhumanist be? He's one who will declare that we people are "aspiring deities" we have "divine potential" and we are "not just one among many species." In other words we're very special, super clever and there's absolutely nothing wrong with giving other "aspiring deities" plenty of notice about an upcoming birthday.

It's an old argument in Fuller's book. It's a tricky argument and we'd all be very stupid not to take notice of it, try to understand it in order to better dismiss it before it's too late, engrained in the narrative as an inevitable happy ending. Essentially, and I have to paraphrase the argument, we are already gods and stuff like morality, being good to old people, different colored people, poor people, deformed people, the environment, puppy dogs, Salamanders, Spiders and Snails is all very old fashioned sort of thinking and just kind of getting in the way of our realizing our godliness which will arrive with that moment of Singularity when we humans and machines become a brilliant oneness. So fair warning! February 7th is my Birthday and I have access to bolts of lightning.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016


It's kind of The Gulag out there and temperatures high enough for the work gangs. Imagine concrete would set and Ivan Ivanovich would be trudging through wet snow and mud toward the project, he'd have inadequate clothing, his boots would leak, his breakfast would have been lean, hard physical labor, his lips cracked, and his hands so cold he'd not feel the blisters.

The Commissar anxious for his reputation would be pressing upon his reluctant disciples the need for progress, the importance of progress, the value of progress and there'd be no progress without another ten yards of concrete mixed and poured. And far away, six time zones away, there was pork on the table, peeled potato and pickled cabbage for Lunch.

Monday, January 25, 2016

God and Mammon

The argument which suggests that living things are in a state of perpetual war for survival is a powerful one. The moments of goodness observed nothing much more than strategy in the pursuit of gain, that toe hold that enables survival and to survive a creature must combine a cocktail of horrible and sweetness in order to come away smiling, is a very real one.

But to actually fall into that crevice of belief is just so depressing, it's entirely possible that we people have made a God out of delusion. A necessary god that finds expression in the nebulous stuff, things like beauty, rural charm, beef burgers, winning the lottery, entail and the list is a long and rather sad one. But at the same time, what else is there? 

Sunday, January 24, 2016


In any discussion there's always a chance that one of the parties to the discussion will enter an area which I will call Nonsense. I know this, because in most discussions entering the area of Nonsense is something I am very prone to. I don't know why it happens, and I have learned to accept this mental anomaly with what I reckon is good humor.

And too, most of the discussions in my world are actually between parts of my own mind. In short there's pretty much of a quarrel going on inside of me all the time. Then it snows, and the desperate question is how much snow. Well there's no simple answer. And after long, sometimes difficult debate, we've either had 3 foot 8 inches of snow, or 11 inches of snow.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

Tree in Bloom?

Alright Guys, it's a big tree. It's about 50 foot tall, it spans about 70 foot, its trunk is about 3 foot diameter and as a tree it's trying to enjoy the warmer weather. It's made of wire, sawdust, glue, the spongy stuff from carpet underlay, paint, drywall tape and batting.

I'd call it some kind of Oak Tree, or maybe a Horse Chestnut which could be in bloom, or maybe someone has just accidently dropped a whole bunch of sawdust from helicopter onto its branches. Mind you it was supposed to be a Tulip Poplar, but what with one thing and another it didn't quite work out.

Friday, January 22, 2016

A Shivering Naraka

Oh well, not everyone's perfect. Lessons learned I guess. Metrix, I think they're called by the truly insane. The known, unknowns, and the unknown, knowns. There's a whole raft of possible expressions to answer the question why a person might have left his snow shovel and snow shoveling boots in the barn rather than a little closer, like maybe the back porch of his domicile.

But it's true, in the winter wonderland a mind does begin to wander, it settles to a pattern which might best be called "blank," it understands that hell is not a hot place, there's no fire in hell, it's more like a snow dune place, the devils are little white twirls and the sound of branches falling to the weight of ice. The Sabeans were absolutely correct, we should never have wandered north.

Thursday, January 21, 2016


Of the options available there are two. The Studio is one possibility, and The Domicile is the other. The question, which one to choose. And here my own memories suggest that under conditions of extreme isolation access to information is central to Mental Balance. And the thing about it is, there is no internet in The Studio. There's a radio down there, with its clash between constant adulation of stuff at remarkably reasonable prices accompanied by interludes of crooning by overly preoccupied girls and boys, or by some smug ass Public Radio Service Employee who always begins a sentence with "So." On the other hand, The Domicile telephone line might well survive ice and with an electric supply there may well be an internet connection.

But The Studio is attached to the food supply, rather critical that the freezers don't succumb to a period not exceeding a couple of hours without the electric, and it's kind of entertaining down there so long as The Radio is firmly switched off. "So" what to do.... ? My first thought was to stick with tradition which was to move the generator from one location to the other through the course of a power outage, which could be a couple of days. This might not be easy to do with inches upon inches of snow on the ground. There'll be no water of course and The Studio is closer to Saint Teresa which is something to consider given my own aversion to squatting in the snow, it's not pretty when the thaw comes. And there's one more thing. Fresh paw marks near the back door, it's a doggy of some sort, not small.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Saint Barbara's Tunnel

A rectangular tunnel entrance looks a little sinister. I picture the Sierra Madre and an abandoned gold mine ready to collapse while the good guy is hiding from a bunch of bad guys who have automatic weapons. It's dark in there, it's scorpion and rattle snake infested, there's an old shovel, a water canteen, maybe a big bat, and a couple of bleached bones, all that's left of Humphrey Bogart.

It's times like these a person begins to wonder about the Saints. Saint Barbara, who was removed from the calendar of Saints by the Pope in 1969 following doubts about the authenticity of her story, does spring to mind as a possible name for a Tunnel with a Rectangular Entrance. In her life, as I understand it, she had a way with lightning and those who specialize in the use of explosives, such as miners and artillerymen, have called her their Patron Saint.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016


Sounds bad, but I might have to go to town. I can think of a hundred things I'd rather do but such is the rich tapestry there are times when a person just has to buckle under, get with the program, truly horrible expressions both of them, and there's always the return journey to look forward to, the homeward bound, the glee and sense of accomplishment.

The other thing about it is, if I don't go to town the heavens probably will pour down freezing rain, put weight on the electric lines, cut the power and here I'll be, wondering why I didn't get enough gasoline for the generator. All the same I'll more likely be weighing the alternatives for another five or six hours instead of just getting on with it.

Monday, January 18, 2016

Full Portent

Chill factor is right up there with ugly. Turnips have collapsed with a reading of 7 degrees Fahrenheit which is definitely minus some kind of big number in Centigrade and the Parsley has finally succumbed, it's kind of lying there waiting to be put out of its misery.

Everything else in the garden called it quits some weeks ago, and yet your correspondent struggles on as he adopts the mantle of super-hero. He found his woolly socks and the Aztec style woolly hat, he knows where the snow shovel is and his internet is patchy. All of them signs of "full portent" rather than hope.

Sunday, January 17, 2016


Plaster of Paris is not expensive, it contains no formaldehyde or any of those odd things you might find in something like floor leveling plasters. Plaster of Paris sets up very quickly, and when it's dried hard, unlike so many of those floor leveling compounds, Plaster of Paris is not that flexible. It's actually rather wimpy. To make a slurry to pour Plaster of Paris into a mould the mix is 2 of plaster to 1 of water. The release for the mould is a drop or two of detergent in water. But there's something about moulded-ness that doesn't actually do it unless there's an issue of time and quantity of exactly the same thing.

A stiffer mix of Plaster of Paris dries very, very quickly indeed. Something like seven minutes on a cold day. But with a stiffer mix, 2 and a little bit more of plaster to 1 of water, you get a thick paste that can be troweled onto a damp surface and then you can scratch at it with pointy tools, stiff brushes, and if you're very lucky, and if you work very quickly, you can produce a couple of square inches of something that remotely resembles a rock formation. Then you have to worry about what happens when the plaster finally cures hard, the moisture gone from it.  It's been a couple of days waiting for that to happen.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Foreign Travel

An issue with the older mind is an "Irrational Impatience." Not saying that all older minds struggle with the problem, simply saying that some older minds might struggle with this problem, offering yet one more good reason why at around the age of fifty five a person should really come to the end of his or her time upon earth. It's a good hour and half along winding and sometimes very steep roads at moderate speeds in a motor vehicle from the place where I live to the "Part Getting Place." And you're right it does mean crossing several county lines, which puts a person well beyond reasonable walking home distance with attendant thoughts of the how useful it might be to always carry a bicycle in the back.

The new part smelled shiny, it had the tang of correctness and it was sitting cheerfully beside me. Indeed just prior to an interruption, the mind was in regular order, doing things like thinking about supper and whether it could risk dropping the cigarette butt out the window, when a big orange triangle suddenly emerged through the drizzle and fog. And granted the black horse drawn buggy should rightly be well marked with a big orange triangle even if it does detract a little from the medieval charm and/or the convictions of a religious nut. Very aware of the sharing nature of the Public Highway, but it is my understanding that horses can trot, they can do much better than plod, even if there's about twenty of them apparently going to a funeral or a wedding. And these horse drawn buggies were definitely plodding for what felt like two hours.

Friday, January 15, 2016

OEM and Stuff

Waiting for a part, and maybe I'll be able to pick it up today, before the weekend starts. It's an auger motor. It's an electric engine that runs a series of gears that turn a chain at 4RPM, and this chain turns an auger. The first attempt at getting hold of a new or refurbished motor failed miserably. I got the wrong part. In the bright world that's called Total Incompetence. I ordered an auger motor that ran clockwise. The auger motor for this device is supposed to run anti-clockwise and if it doesn't all hell breaks loose. Yes indeed there's been ennui and considerable grumbling between the bits and pieces of me that still speak to each other, and there's been a reemergence of the Hibernation Schism which no amount of tinkering with materials with which to model rock faces has managed to quell.

Then in an attempt to hunt down an anti-clockwise auger motor I was finally forced to enter the world of phone calls. Not one of my strengths, and I was ill prepared for the usual questions, like "what's your telephone number?" The answer to which seems to disappear while under stress which does nothing to inspire confidence on either end of a telephone line. I was however well prepared to demonstrate knowledgeableness in the area of clockwise and anti-clockwise motors with special reference to the initials OEM, which I reckoned on being critical to a grasp of anti-clockwise electric motors. I mentioned OEM several times and reckoned I sounded pretty professional until I made the mistake of wondering what OEM stood for. Original Equipment Manufacturer and nothing to do with which way a motor turns. Currently I give myself a 35% chance of being here in May.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Exorcisms and Herbal Additions

More time than usual trying to find my coffee mug this morning. It can just suddenly disappear and it's as though it had never existed. Of the options available to explain the disappearance, one is a forgetfulness verging on Alzheimer's. This would make sense given the problems I have remembering my telephone number, home address and what might have happened yesterday. And it's the case that I do like to think of this type of forgetfulness as being a consequence of the mind devoting itself to a Higher Calling such that the existence or other wise of a telephone number or an address or some kind of past becomes briefly insignificant in the grand scheme of cycle and recycle that pretty much dooms us all. But with respect to coffee mugs it's more likely someone or something has chosen to occupy their own morning hours by deliberately hiding them.

The Artist has of course been a prime suspect, but The Artist is on her travels, which means there's a strong possibility that something or someone has gained access to the domicile and is badly messing with me. And I know who it is, he has penchant for hammers, the smaller wrenches, and Philips head screwdrivers. He has a mountain of them some where. A few years ago he took to constantly hiding my spectacles and rest assured it was very irritating. I cleverly solved the spectacles problem by attaching a loop of string to their earpieces and now nobly carry them at all times around my neck. It does look a little dorky, a few steps away from being a mental patient, but I have accepted the look and carry it with dignity. Clearly a coffee mug which contains liquid cannot reasonably be carried around the neck. In short, your correspondent is actively seeking the services of a genuine Exorcist and not some kind of Herbal supplement. 

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Scenery and Track People

While "Alright Guys" might be a model train enthusiast's Utube opening statement in some parts of the world, the simple "OK" figures quite large in opening statements from other parts of the world. As well there are different areas of interest, track-laying, scenery, engine reviews and the host is wide ranging. Interesting to your correspondent is the sense he gets that different areas of interest occupy different personalities. Scenery People, those interested in rocks, landforms, lakes, rivers and so on, tend to be a little rambling, emotional and easily side-tracked by ancillary thoughts associated with an often disastrous personal life.

Track Layers are usually more pompous, they tend to be purists, prone to reminisce, and a person can't help but reckon them a little Right Wing in their political affiliations. They use words like "Remote Frogs," "Pico Flex," "Code 55," "I'm going to hand lay my next layout" and it can all get very confusing for novice Utube viewer. The other interesting thing between Track Layers and Scenery People is the distribution of hair on the backs of their hands. I've not done a complete study, a more random sampling rather than anything remotely scientific, but strangely Scenery People tend to have more hair on the backs of their fingers than the Track Layers.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Princes, Cattle and Kings

I guess if I was a hard working well subsidized Cattle Rancher who had to get up very early on a cold winter morning to feed my Cows and my Dogs, and maybe my Cat or the grandchild's Guinea Pig, I could just go ahead don my cowboy hat, pop a perfectly legal clip in the semi auto hunting rifle and occupy the Green River State Park because public land is against my own personal and far more sensible interpretation of The Constitution and History.

Pretty certain other Pioneering type Cattle Ranchers would join me, we could smoke cigars, cook out, make jokes about beans, try not to get too drunk, say terrible things about the President, endlessly discuss the decline of our nation, its porous borders, the hopelessness of its Federal Government, Praise God for the enemy, be all tough around the obvious solution of turning the sands of the Middle East to glass as the only truly resolute way to set an example to the rest of a disobedient world.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Cave Dwelling

The idea of the real is one thing. The real is another. Interesting to note the ambitious philosophers who have chosen to consider Climate Change in terms of an Ethical Dilemma. For those in doubt, Ethics is an attempt to be thoughtful around the question of Good and Bad. Some might argue it's a modeling of ideas that produce real outcomes. If it wasn't for Luther, others might suggest, there'd be no sin of poverty and one way or another we'd all make it through the Eye of the Needle.

Your model train enthusiast and tender to Compost Piles would prefer to think of the Dilemma posed by the Great Minds in terms of the Rudeness of our Species. We are truly obnoxious guests, worse than the Tasmanian Devil. Not sure attempts to remove ourselves from the Dormobile of Earth and set up camp on somewhere like Mars is actually the way to go, except perhaps for the Disgustingly Wealthy. Keep in mind, mine is a purely Cave Dwelling Political Position which holds that our species should have learned how to hibernate. 

Sunday, January 10, 2016

4% and Bogies

Alright Guys. The O-6-O Shunter manages a 4% incline on a curve that has a 6 inch radius. And it'll pull one eight metal wheeled Caboose and one modified eight metal wheeled Bulk Carrier up and around those curves. The carriages each have two bogies and these bogies don't turn on the carriage frame as far as they might and as a result stick a little on the 6 inch curve.

Modification of carriages is tricky, one false move with the blade and there may well have to be an N Scale knackers yard and an N Scale Emergency Ward. But it's all good and I still reckon if it had more carriages the 0-6-0 could pull at least two more of them up and around 4% inclines, and it could probably manage a total of six carriages so long as those carriages are all curve friendly. 

Saturday, January 9, 2016

Neanderthal and I

The argument over whether or not Neanderthals and the remaining extant Human species to which you and I belong interbred has been up there in the ether for several generations. Objections to the idea were often fierce, and without the science that permits an unraveling of a genome those objections were as much an utterance from a Pulpit as anything reasonable.

The baby Neanderthal head was too big to pass through the birthing tube of a darling Human Being. I recall this objection being debated. Not so much in a lecture hall but in those corridors of power where vast quantities of beer are consumed. Discussion raged this way and that, but found no resolution. Then it deteriorated into name calling, head measuring and a series of ancillary entertainments all of which seemed reasonable at the time.

Friday, January 8, 2016

Afon-Bedd and Cane

Afon-Bedd, the Tri County Lunatic Asylum formerly known as Pen-y-Fal, has finally accepted our hero as a likely candidate. It wasn't easy. And it might have had something to do with the name change as much as anything else. Pen-y-Fal means Sugarloaf, and there are hills with the name Sugarloaf in Wales, in Ireland, a most impressive Sugarloaf in Rio de Janeiro. Indeed I'm told that around the world there are over 400 Sugarloaf hills or mountains and there's a Sugarloaf Mountain right here in Kentucky. It's a couple of hundred miles north and east of where I live and it's near a town called Morehead which is one of 425 towns recognized by the Commonwealth of Kentucky as a Home Rule class of City. Home Rule means that a city can kind of do what it wants as long as it doesn't break state laws.

 The other area of dispute between your writer of pulp and our hero had to do with the extent to which our hero was deserving of a place in Afon-Bedd. Matters had achieved so great an impasse that our hero had actually walked out of Afon-Bedd, and he'd advised his narrator that he had no intention of ever going back. The compromise was achieved through a series of interruptions to the professional examination of our hero's mental health which resulted in number of delays in the more formal decision making process. At the same time "I will not be marked by Cane!" remains our hero's fundamentalist position. And as I understand it "by Cane" our sensitive hero means "the stigma of insanity." Meanwhile your writer of pulp is very much looking forward to our hero's return to Afon-Bedd and he does have some confidence that this time he'll remain for at least long enough to reenact the Vestry of Monnow.

Thursday, January 7, 2016


When he's down at that level where a person needs a pair of tweezers to lift a ten foot plank there is a moment when he raises a call of anguish to the Great One. "Have mercy, or at least tell me why I'm doing this!"

The friend who lives too far away is absolutely correct. Wood shakes on tiny roofs guarantee a place in the rubber room. And no good pretending they might look a tiny bit real when they're painted.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Doors and Walls

Have to think of a doorway as being a little over half an inch high and a little under a quarter of an inch wide. Anything more precise becomes joyless in its exactitude which is another way of saying "the eyes can't see that well." But on the ruler it's possible to measure "a little over" and "a little under" in the search for a proportion that gives an appearance of something that might actually be.

Then when it comes to something like a 6 inch plank, which would be 1/32 of an inch, the mind does begin to pace around a little in its search for alternative building materials. This wall is around 20 foot long and its a about ten foot to the roof peak. The planks on this wall are 1 foot 8 inches wide. Who knows what to do about the roof.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

The Grasshopper in Winter

The Artist was kind enough to suggest that in just three  months the current Winter will be done with. I mention this because in the course of Winter a poorly occupied mind devolves toward a search for meaning which on or around May 10th it invariably discovers in the lifecycle of a Grasshopper. We all know that Grasshoppers are idle creatures that hop from place to place when agitated. It's the diligent Ant that should inspire meaning in Winter.  Either that or vast quantities of passion filled words that actually make no sense whatsoever beyond the sounds of their purring. No wonder the Lifestyle Therapists call to the promises of Structure through an assortment of chipper top ten lists.

My own recent preference in the area of structure is through attempting to understand the phases of mourning the predicament of our species might inspire. The heart whines for a betterment which it discovers in random acts of discipline, some more enticing than others. Then there's the friendship between the mind and its two hands. It's a much underestimated happening in a search for oneness amongst those of us who fail to grasp that hands are our primary voice. The vocal chords a much later innovation in our often desperate search for precision. But how can hands talk or explain except to the deaf? My answer is to try threading a needle without my glasses on. Yes indeed by May I'll be a Grasshopper.

Monday, January 4, 2016


Because of Monday, 2016 begins today. Resolutions will naturally include a couple of random statements about general attitude toward the short days, shaving more regularly, the importance of physical exercise, the centrality of our hero's role in The Vestry at Monnow to the future of Western Civilization and ultimately the thing about resolutions is their futile and self serving nature.

I mean who really cares if in the second half hour of the day your correspondent rouses himself from what's loosely referred to as "His Chair" ventures forth into the frigid front porch air where he engages in a number romantic and poorly coordinated Tai Chi gestures in order to determine whether his heart is still capable of pumping blood. The Little Boy Buck with his two spike antlers takes absolutely no notice so why should anyone else.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Weather Issues

There's an increase of adjectives in the world of weather forecasting and a certain wariness from those of us who stalk Weather Forecasters. Never let it be said that weather forecasting as a creative form is without its moments of preamble, those steps in the narrative that leave the audience guessing, waiting and hoping. The form is a long way from Comedy, unless interpretive dance, drawing lines on maps etc. can ever be thought of as humorous, so I guess that leaves the Weather Forecaster's genre somewhere between Mystery and Horror with Weather Forecaster as hero.

Perhaps more important is how in a world that's approximately 38 square feet is the role of Weather Forecaster written. Keep in mind that this world runs from the rocky hills of Kentucky through the Down Lands familiar to the Celts of Britannia to a switching yard in the rainless swamplands a little North of Lake Victoria. Certainly a tricky problem, but there is light at the end of the tunnel in the form a Doppler Radar Station ringed by a contingent of determined dancers, some carrying spears, others dressed as Druids and a couple of guys with brief cases taking notes, and clearly it's the Doppler Radar Station who emerges as hero. 

Saturday, January 2, 2016

The First Saint Timothy and I

The very First Saint Timothy knew the Virgin Mary and before he was chased through the streets somewhere in what's now called Turkey by ancient worshippers of the Leopard and stoned to death for being a really irritating person around Bacchus type excesses in the area of the alcoholic beverage, chewing on roasted haunches of goat and other sins of the flesh he penned the very first version of the Hail Mary. Back then of course, the Church was a great deal more pure in Spirit, martyrdom granted a guarantee of Eternal Bliss. And there have been times when your own correspondent has asked himself whether Eternal Bliss might become just a little bit dull after maybe a year or two and consequently he has pictured heaven as a kind of Amusement Arcade where Bliss is a mathematical conviction on the slope of life which means the pews of heaven are filled with the wholly irrational. 

 While it's true that I recognize myself in the First Saint Timothy, his purity, his sense of mission, his preoccupation with the obscure, and I'm quite certain that his knowledge of the Virgin Mary was an entirely healthy one, I have nonetheless always been a little suspicious of him. Considered him prone to obsessing on a nostalgia for the Glory Days when the Carpenter or the Fisherman walked the earth and its waters performing the odd miracle, pontificating on this and that, and the First Saint Timothy kind of stuck in the role of linesman to one of  God's very own Opening Batsmen. Well there's good news for 2016 with respect to the First Saint Timothy there's no remnant of a Doubting Thomas in your correspondent. It's entirely possible he wasn't in the least weird. He was absolutely correct. For him it was the shores of Galilee, for me it's a table in the Guest Room. And for those interested I'll be preaching the word in Grocery Store car parking area which means that any day now I could well be chased toward my own place on a heavenly pew.