life out of control

Somewhere I read that the tales of a Golden Age yearn back to the time before mankind discovered (gradually) agriculture, back when we were Hunter-Gatherers. There is some compelling anthropological evidence to that myth. People were considerably taller and healthier. Especially the domestication of animals exposed us to new diseases. For a hundred thousand years we perfected a way of life that featured self-sharpening tools, plenty of exercise and heaps of free time. Now we have T.V., debt and crappy tools made in China. Not only that, but we live long enough to realy get sick of that crap.
How many songs do you have memorized? Do you play any musical instruments? Probably not many and none. We have advanced to the point of being pure spectators. Know many jokes, stories or even what you had for dinner last night? Is life vivid or pale? How good is your memory? Do you feel? Good, relaxed, awake? Do you feel your body, every organ, every bone, tendon and muscle? Are you serene or are you wounded? Do you love your work? Does it give you a sense of being and of mastery of a skill? How about Christmas? Is it stressfull?
Are you redundant to society? Are you Real?

Real life

After I wrote the Chihuahua trilogy, my doctor upped the thorazine and I came to realize that all that was just in my head, about the vicious Chihuahuas, at least. I still think that THEY are out to get me, which is why I keep a lot of magnets on my car, as that seems to keep the aliens from messsing with my gas milage.
Just kidding! I don't have a doctor!
For dinner last night I went to Dave Hedlins vegetable field and gleaned some lambsquarter, which is an absolutely delectable weed far superior to spinach, in my opinion. It is more nutricious. Along with a succini sqash and an onion that I "fingerblighted" and a small pot roast, I enjoyed a fine meal. Off to the store for some icecream and the evening was complete. I plan on doing it again this afternoon. For some reason "shopping" out of a field is so much more engaging. Trips to the store are o.k., but the experience is as lack-luster as woodchips. Gleaning is primal and brings out the genetic memory of our hunter-gatherer ancestors. They, by the way, had a better life than we do, with all our "contrived convieniences". Remember how the computer was going to save time, paper and make life just about ecstatic? Better living through chemistry? By the manufacturers of dioxins and PCBs!! Electricity too cheap to meter by the Nuclear Industry!!
The bushmen of the Kalahari desert work only three hours a day and live in a harsh environment. They glean all the time, no Safeway there. Poor fools. They need CocaCola!!

I've had enough

this is continued from the previous post.
No more Mr. Nice Guy. Last night was the last straw. I was wearing my new suite of armour, clanking down the sidewalk, feeling snug and smug, protected from those vicious nippers, when---the brilliance of it, the sheer unadulterated deviousness---it was a trap! Somehow they had absconded with a bottle of single malt and knowing my routine, cleverly baited the ambush, there it was---brown bag clad (nice touch) the red top recognizable to connoissuers, devilishly hidden and yet not---I fell for it. I was bending over, not an easy task, even without the armour, when from behind---well, I went down in a heap of jarring and banging and metalic scraping. I was helpless. Protected, none the less, seemingly safe yet as I was to realize, horribly vulnerable, like a new-born turkey chick. There they were, in the light of a full moon, bug-eyed and frothing, frenzied, nearly frolicking, victorious in the fray, joined as one in the melee. Through the visor I could see them, their needle-sharp teeth and sub-vocal growls; it seemed like there were hundreds of them. Then the indignities started. It was, well, when urine a suit of armour, on the ground, you need a crane to get you back on your feet. That's right, urine a heap of doodoo. Not just metaphorically either. Well, dear gentle reader, I don't want to soil this true tale with graphic descriptions, so a wink is as good as a nod, if you get my drift.
I went on for a long time, seemed like ages. The Smell, oh the Smell.

Doctor's visit

this is continued from the previous post.
Well, I'm changing Doctors. I didn't like this one anyway. All he did was give me some band-aids for the "scratches", he called them. Scratches, nothing, I was lucky to get away with my life!
To tell the truth I have started to doubt my sanity vis a vie the damn Chihuahuas. As I said, I have mentioned it to my friends and anybody that will listen, but they just look at me weird. What do they know, they just watch TV in the evenings and have no clue what happens outside after dark. Besides, the hell-hounds have become smarter and I have to change my strategy in dealing with them. I mean, you have to respect their abilities. As a pack, they function remarkably well, singleminded, to say the least. I don't especially think that they are out to get me, it isn't like they wait for me in ambush by my front door. Sometimes, I don't see them for days, which was kind of disappointing, back when they were few and unorganized. Now, it is serious and frightening. I even thought to go back to just watching TV and using a stairmaster.
I remember when I first saw three together. That's when I first got nipped by one of them. It drew blood and I swear I have never seen such avid lip-licking in all my life. Its' bug-eyes rolled back into the constricted crantium, a un-dog-like moan escaped its' scrawny, wrinkled throat and it did a jig or a dance like a footballer celebrating a touchdown. I was aa-mazed. The other two got to dancing all excited too, whining for a taste. That probably was my first mistake. In retrospect, I was guilty of introducing them to a habit forming substance, my own blood.

Sharp-toothed vicious little beasts

Don't get me wrong, this is a great little town; I love it here. There is one problem that is being totally ignored, like a bad case of denial. It is the roaming gangs of ravenous, ankle meat loving Chihuahuas that rule the streets at night. I have endlessly complained about them, and nothing is being done. Instead the townspeople are focusing their ire on the shinanigans of the wing of turkeys that harm nobody. I am at the end of my rope. My evening walks have become excursions into a surreal battlezone, worse than Apocalypse Now. I can no longer rely on my Five Iron to keep me safe. My shouts of "fore" will no longer be heard. It simply is not safe anymore. I need to up the ante on those vicious f***ers.
It all started when I quit watching television and began taking walks instead. The first few Ratbags were cute, I admitt and I even thought about adopting one of them. The lowly Chihuahua, alone, is remarkably adorable. In a pack, however, they take on a dark nature absolutely hidden in the light of day. I have read that nearly all breeds of dogs decend from the man-mauling brutes that the Romans brought into battle with them. With the tiny Chihuahua, the size must have been bred out, thereby emphazising latent viciousness. My ankles hurt, just thinking about them. More later, as I have a doctor appointment to sew-up the gashes on my throat.

The most-abused drug

I meant to research how many people are addicted to television. Last week I got another sampling of the power of T.V. to suck the life right out of me. If I were the Decider, I would fanagulate the end of Television. I would frame it in the context of a terrorist plot to deplete the last two functioning brain cells in viewers' heads. I would do it on T.V. of course, just before 33 eco-friendly nut-wacks suicide themselves across various power transmissions lines, bodies burned way beyond identification, except for their passports, which would miraculously slip out of their Hemp fiber jeans. All 33! That's possible ain't it?
The power outage would bring the country to a standstill and I would make millions on the stocks of candle manufacturers and battery fabricators. There would be a congressional investigation and I would gladly testify, being very concerned about the lack of T.V. and all; wanting to get down to the truth, you know. I would insist that the procedings would be conducted in secret, citing national security. If anybody objects, I would simply mutter the words traitor or sedition. Then before that august commitee, I would pinky-explore my presinus appendage or roll my eyes at the tedious bi-partisan harranging of the Decider.
That's what I would do if I were the Decider and if you are laughing, you are NOT like military underwear --- supporting the troops.

straight out of nature

When I stumbled outside this July morning, I realized just how far removed we are from nature. I lit my cigarette and siped my coffee, shivered slightly in the pre-seven o'clock fall-misty dawn. I have been housesitting all week and in this, a typical cookie-cutter suburban (I hate to use the word "Home") roofed Box, with piped-in water, gas and electricity, not to mention the T.V. (piped in and officially sanctioned How-to think), I can feel the post urban Hunter-Gatherer in me scream silently and fade into nonexistence. It's the screen doors and the air conditioning; the conveniences; washers and dryers (now you can have more clothes); the closets to store them in; Fashions to sabotage "How you look", the rat race of esteem, power and MONEY. There is so much crap and frosting on the cake that it takes a shovel to get to the center.
Real. Royal. Regal.
Who are we, really? What do we need? What is the point of all this stuff?
Last week I saw a patch of poppies in the bright sun light. I was glued to the ground, still and awed. It felt like food for the soul. Now that may sound trite and I would be the first to point that out. Food for the soul. EAUGH. However, in that experience there is a hint about something very real. Something essential. If life is varying shades of gray, notice the occasional flecks of color. They add up. Work hard!!