In which creeping annoyance threatens thermo-nuclear meltdown in my brain

I find this idea of “soaking” the dishes to be a function of bourgeois privilege. I was challenged on this recently by the principle dish soaker hanging around my house. My rebut:

A) Lower income households (especially than us) are statistically more likely to have unresolved vermin problems which would demand immediate cleaning of things like dishes and sink areas.

B) It assumes the availability of monies to replace items ruined over the long term by repeated soakings ie: wooden or wooden handled utensils.

C) It assumes the availability of other equitable dishes to use in place of the ones not able to be used.

D) It assumes future leisure time to “get back to them”, extra space available for a temporarily nonfunctional sink, a certain laziness, and a my needs above the needs of the many, attitude.

E) It is really freaking selfish which is a characteristic one tends to associate with the bourgeois.

BOONDOCKS!!!

Is probably my very favourite cartoon and comic. One of the only lights I have in my life at the moment is that season three of the cartoon is going to start one week from today. That makes life bearable when it is all so very crazy. Here’s hoping, that by next Sunday night I’ll be sitting here all alone, with Oliver chillin’ upstairs, noone squatting in my basement, and just a couple of cool cats wandering about taking care of their important cat business.

I wish Aaron McGruder would be our next house-mate...

Samsara, you’re soaking in it

I am having a very difficult time personally. I also have a severely problematic situation at home. Last night the stress was so bad I only had 2 hours of sleep, only to go to work and have my client stroke out on me. I feel so very strange. I hate my life at the moment. This could mean I lose my job. Samsara is a superbitch.

“For me to poop on”

I think that if I felt like I could talk about my bowels I would blog a lot more.

More J. MacD; all apropos 'n stuff

“Illness is an ego trip, especially after you have started to feel a little better. You turn inward. How do I feel right now compared to five minutes ago, an hour ago, yesterday? Is this pain in my hip connected to the infection? Is it something new? Why can’t they come when I ring? All intensely personal. Petulant. To each one of us the self is the most enchanting object in all creation. Sickness intensifies the preoccupation with the self. And, of course, the true bore, the classic bore, is the person who is as totally preoccupied with himself all the time as the rest of us are when we are unwell.”
John D. MacDonald

John D. MacDonald on death

"Picture a very swift torrent, a river rushing between rocky walls. There is a long shallow bar of sand and gravel that runs right down the middle of the river. It is under water. You are born and you have to stand on that narrow submerged bar, where everyone stands. The ones born before you, the ones older than you, are upriver from you. The younger ones are braced on the bar down river. And the whole long bar is slowly moving down that river of time, washing away at the upstream end and building up downstream.

Your time, and the time of all your contemporaries, schoolmates, your loves and your adversaries is that shifting bar on which you stand. And it is crowded at first. You can see the way it thins out, upstream from you. The old ones are washed away and their bodies go swiftly by, like logs in the current. Downstream where the young ones stand thick, you can see them flounder, lose footing, wash away. Always there is more room where you stand, but always the swift water grows deeper, and you can feel the shift of the sand and gravel under your feet as the river wears it away. Someone looking for a safer place can nudge you off balance, and you are gone. Someone who has stood beside you for a long time gives a forlorn cry and you reach to catch their hand, but the fingertips slide away and they are gone. There are the sounds in the rocky gorge, the roar of the water, the shifting, gritty sound of sand and gravel underfoot, the forlorn cries of despair as the nearby ones, and the ones upstream are taken by the current. Some old ones who stood on a good place, well braced, understanding currents and balance, last a long time. A Churchill, fat cigar atilt sourly amused at his own endurance and, in the end, indifferent to rivers and the rage of waters. Far downstream from you are the thin, startled cries of the ones who never got planted never got set, never quite understood the message of the torrent."

It is risen

I got me a fresh sheet of virtual paper and I roll it into the carriage...

I think I’ve been sick of typing. I’ve even found it difficult to effectively do e-mail, and that is one of the few ways to reliably get ahold of me. The FaceBook, 2-3 sentences and I’m out, has been de rigeur around here.

It was a really harsh winter around La cerise de chateau, maison du fumeur de detente. So right now forsythia is like the breath of the atman made manifest on earth.

I had a really, tremendously, bad bout of infection that started just before Thanksgiving. For the most part I missed all the holidays. On Thanksgiving itself I was too sick to even walk next door. About a week of 104 fevers. Since then it’s been a long, slow, road back.

I popped into UBU’s one of the very first good days, that was a good thing, getting out, into town, having lunch. Now I have have to pop back and give him back the books I bought as well as a few additional. I find myself in the market to get rid of, in some cases sell, books. That is something I’ve never been good at at all. It feels pretty free to be in a place where I can let a book go deliberately as opposed to losing it.

I’m ready to let more things go.
I have started sorting out anything I don’t have a pretty legitimate claim on to be sent back. I’m watching the hoarders and I don’t want to be there or leave that for someone else to deal with. Keep the precious and let the chaff blow away. That’s the new mantra. There will be a porch sale this year.