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Monday arrives. But for me, it is just another day. The only way I know it is Monday is because Snookums goes grocery shopping this day, and I’ll have to lug the groceries in at some point. Still a bit sore from the latest undiagnosed attack of pain yesterday. It was by far the worse one.
As a mechanic, I know how frustrating diagnosing a random fault can be. At my last visit with the doc, we concluded that it likely wasn’t the heart or lungs, though the symptoms sure mimic a heart attack. I know I got to do something about it, but at this point I am not sure which way to proceed.
But here I sit with the afterimage of the pain still fresh in mind, and sip coffee while trying to come up with something interesting to bash about. Still fuming at the guardians of freedom who sat silently while Michelle Wolf savaged Sarah Huckabee Sanders at their big soiree. Not much I can do about it but fume. For a time I wished mightily that I was a female attendee so that I could get up and coldcock that spiteful wretch. I don’t think I would get much more than a year in prison for it.
But alas! I am not a woman, and I wasn’t there. I am just a doddering old white guy in Nowhereville, Texas. I champion nobody. I just fume at injustice, sip coffee, and rant online. Sorry.
Not much happening here … one day this week I’ll head to the garden shop for my porch plantings. My waterfall pump didn’t pump, but via the miracle of UPS and Amazon.com, a new little pump will arrive this evening, along with some hose accessories. And the summer birdbath needs to be set up. The winter one is a bit small, so in the summer, I set up a concrete one with a huge bowl that can accommodate more birds.
A mocking bird has set up house in the pecan tree shading the porch. It yells at me, and I yell back at it. Such are the diversions of a geezer.
It feels odd to suddenly go from cold mornings to sunrises near 80° in one day. I chose this property as a place where I would finish out my life, spending it searching for the presence of God rather than trying to pack more book learning. I tried that, and became a saturated sponge of knowledge without any spiritual power.
Early in my walk I had a learned mentor who held doctorates in religion and philosophy, and although an agnostic, he put me on the firm path of standing in belief. God has used a parade of flawed guides to direct my feet, from an ex-football jock cum used truck salesman who slept in the trucks he sold who taught me that you need a principle to be true to, to a crazed sex addict who taught me that a spiritual path always carries self-doubt with it.
Over the years my knowledge of his word has grown, and I still pore over scriptures seeking out His presence. The apostles spent much time stamping out heresy in the early congregations, yet those congregations moved in great power despite their lack of scriptural sophistication. From that I learned that theology, while important, is not the goal that I pursue.
So I have hung out in the first chapters of Genesis for a few years now, seeking out the basis for my relationship with God and an answer to why the body of Messiah is so powerless. Yeah, I have heard all the excuses, but truthfully, the edah does NOT move in the power of that first century body.
T I have long wished to share the beauty of those revelations, but alas! I am not a teacher. I am a braying jackass, and all I heard while teaching those revelations was my hee hawing. So you will just have to seek out those pearls on your own. I have enough opportunities to sound like a braying ass as it is.
So, it is back to my little porch garden. I filled the little waterfall in the corner, soaked the bed of sweet alyssums, and sort of picked things up and straightened a few things. A rich and cooling ichor arose from the planters as they engorged themselves with water. Peace has returned to my little sanctuary in the Pampas in central Texas, and I catch the breath of God that pours into this lump fashioned from the red clay.
But the evening thoughts turned morose
And loosened the hidden rage
There was no crying “Mama!” there
So by the secluded river he died alone
Enjolras is a fictional character in Victor Hugo’s novel “Les Miserables”. A revolutionary who clearly sees the evil of the times, and who charismatically calls the people to man the barricades against a repressive government.
Of course, the young are drawn to him, never having been exposed to war and believing in something larger than themselves. There was much evil in 1836 France, just as there is in America today. Secret cabals ruled against the royalty and the people then just as they do today. I am surrounded by Enjolras’s, all warning me about the danger about us, of being stripped of liberty and made into tools of the oppressors, and if I will just join them at the barricades, we can slip the tightening noose of the oppressor.
And they aren’t lying to me. From the beginning of time there were oppressors. Nimrods who seem to grasp the reins of government and enslaving man with effortless ease and putting them to work building grand towers of confusion where they rule over them. And from time to time Enjolras’s have arisen and called men to battle, only to die at the hands of the enemy after their comrades deserted them.
But once in a great while, they do succeed despite their meager numbers. But always at a great cost of lives and human suffering, and great civilizations are born, only to succumb to even more clever and subtle Nimrods building their towers with the carcasses of patriots.
Look, Enjolras. I took up arms, and I fought. Now I just want to go into my dotage without the sounds of cannons in my ears. OK?
Mr. Bladder has now trained himself to wake me at sunrise, and Tic, the latest acquisition to the canine side of the family, conspires with him. However, it has been a long-time ambition of mine to free myself from that infernal tick tock machine.
So far, I have been moderately successful in getting back to sundial time, but there are many conflicts. Doctors, for one. I wasn’t aware of how linked in to the medical profession I was. They insist on appointment times set by the clock, not the sun. And Snookums, the love of my life, is a total creature of habit, and governs her life quite nicely by the clock.
In fact, we have wall clocks in every room of the house that we regularly use that enforce her daily routine. Rouse at 7:00am. Morning ablutions at 7:15am. Pour coffee at 8:00am. Feed mutts at 8:20am …
I have a ‘Jewish Clock’ installed on my tablet that sits on my desk that keeps a form of God’s time. It was designed for prayer observances, but the designer mistakenly used the Roman system of twelve-hour days on it, with the 11th hour being the last hour of the day. The 12th hour being sunset.
The Jews had a sundial with eight hours on it, the last hour being the 7th hour of the day. The 8th hour was called sunset.
In the first century, Jews used both Roman and Jewish time, but it wasn’t a major problem because they referred to the Roman clock in Latin, and the Jewish clock in Hebrew.
Those two distinctions were lost when the modern scriptures were written in Greek, and that gives Bible expositors headaches to this very day.
However, for us old men who wake at dawn with full bladders, and nod off to sleep shortly after sunset, our sun clocks only have five hours. Wake, Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, Sleep. We wake with the sun, sleep with the sun. And eat with the damned tick tock machine. And that what makes us grumpy …
And the vision of all is become unto you as the words of a book that is sealed, which men deliver to one that is learned, saying, Read this, I pray thee: and he saith, I cannot; for it is sealed: And the book is delivered to him that is not learned, saying, Read this, I pray thee: and he saith, I am not learned.
So this phrase runs through my head today as I listen to the … ahh … sages of our generation drone on and on, lulling the people to sleep in the hubbub and murmurings. I watch wisdom being stripped from my countrymen, like there was never wisdom to begin with.
Eight generations from then ‘til now.
I read the ancient prophesies, and wondered how it would be that a people would curse God in the midst of calamity. Yet here it is, and in the midst of calamity, a people too wise for God have arisen. In thinking themselves wise, they became fools.
This is not going to end well …
It’s a little hard to believe. I am sitting out on the porch, barefoot and wearing shorts. Writing on a laptop is not my all time favorite way to type, but dragging the desktop outside is too much of a hassle.
My neighbor has fired up his lawnmower and is cutting back the winters growth to give the bermudagrass a head start, but I think he may be about a month early. The skies are scuddish and rain laden, and you can almost swim in the humidity, but we takes our victories where we gets ’em.
So I plan my summer planting. Gardens are out now, but I think I can handle container plants on the porch. I am tired of the sweet potato vines, with the exception of a very purple variety that flowers. So, thoughts of ivy, and morning glory’s float by, and maybe some taller posies to screen the top rails. I like peeping at the neighbors from behind a wall of greenery.
Still, some physical maladies threaten even that much activity, but then I think that maybe I shouldn’t plan on what may happen, and probably should make my plans based on what I can accomplish now.
It will be good to spend more time puttering and less time fighting the forces of liberal darkness. It is time to let another generation address that. I can still shoot back, but it is highly unlikely that I can use tactics, cover and concealment as effectively as I used to.
So … the daffies are waving in the humid breeze, the paperwhites will pop any day now, the hydrangeas are spent. Yet to come is bluebonnet season, but this year should be a good-un for them.
Then comes the indiaen paintbrushes and blankets, and the long hot summer. A little caution is in order as the rattlesnakes and copperheads start moving to their spring hunting grounds.
The stock pond across the way is brim full, and the neighbor is fattening up some herefords and shorthorns destined for the feedlots.
Yes! A Texas spring!!