It had become a ritual I looked forward to. I guess it may have started when I was working a lot of over time. I got home too late to see the six o'clock, and went to bed too early to see the late news. I caught up with the news on the Sunday morning pundit shows. I enjoy watching the banter and expose' attitude of the national reporters who were often at the event domineering the daily news. I like the fact that nearly all of them have bipartisan guests. I can tell when they're token... and "CLICK!"... I'm outta there.
To me it's a welcome change to the talking head anchor man dealio. The larger and more diverse the group of guest commentators there are in the program, the more apt I am to stay tuned. These things start on the over-the-air channels (which amount only to the older national networks and PBS) at nine o'clock and are gone by eleven. So am I. I hate it that the NBC News guy died that ran Meet The Press. He lived hard and died young. But, that's not why I hate it that he died.
I hate it because Tom Brokaw took over the spot. Whatta diva! He constantly attempts to keep the lime light on him rather than his guests (he's not an idiot, he just doesn't have that much original material, and what he has runs out about ten minutes into his shows), who always seem to have more interesting opinions than Brokaw does. They need another Tim Whathisname to anchor that show, and fast.
The Sunday morning news shows are not what they used to be, but I've become like an old gray mare myself, and my daily life ain't nothing to post on the internet, but I'm doing it anyway or I might not have much of a life at all. I write about what's going on with me, which ain't much, literally. How much could I write about cramming food in at one end, and excreting it out the other.
Speaking of excretions, my bathroom is upstairs and nobody can see my house from a public area, so where do you think I go to take a piss? Outside. Recently, I walked outside to the outer perimeters of my unmown lawn and turn it loose. I looked down on the grass of my lawn and saw something wiggling like it was trying to move out of the stream of my piss.
It might have been four inches long (10.16 cm) and at first I thought it might be a small snake. I kept pissing on it and it kept wiggling like it didn't appreciate my gift worth a crap, but eventually I ran outta piss and stopped torturing it.
My conclusion is that it was an ordinary earthworm that might have emerged from the ground to enjoy the warm summer-like weather in November. It couldn't have been a snake because it didn't have a distinct head. I may have the whole thing wrong, but I'm thinking what made me question whether it was really an earthworm instead of some sort of reptile was the ridge-like appearances of lines running from one end of it to the other.
These "lines" were not a different color. The only thing that seemed to define them or offer a descriptive was that the skin was puckered up along that line. I only observed maybe three of these ridged lines. I got the idea that they were visible simply because that worm had been out of the ground for a while, and it's skin took that shape when unprotected by being underground.
Okay, I captured that rather droll drifting thought, but it was laborious to finish, and I'm not convinced it was worth the struggle. Who cares about the shape of earth worms who have been outta the ground crawling around for a while?
The truth be that writing about the simple mundane chores of my ex-is-tense is the most difficult things to write about for me. I'm constantly fighting off the temptation to conclude suddenly that nobody has the slightest interest in reading these vulgar toilette affairs, and are sometime, if not often or frequently, displeased.
That seems a little not right for me to admit that. I have to pretend I'm writing TO somebody or I have nothing to say. A great majority of the ti-me the people I pretend I'm writing to are amalgamations of a cast of thousands and not about any one person, but occasionally I do write TO a specific individual, and I've never had one soul to act like it wasn't them when I do it.
Defining or describing what I experienced when I walked outside to take a piss is not just about what I do in the privacy of my own property. It's about possibles. I'm playing around with an idea I grokked from Sartre last year. I proposed that he claimed certain behaviors as a species flaw. To wit: That homo sapiens can't perceive their own possible directions in real time. They can't see what's possible for them directly. They gotta read the lay of the land and take chances they got it right.
Systems for thinking about things are in the business of conjuring possibles for homo sapiens who don't have a clue they can't do it for themselves. The only thing any of them systems got for sell is hope. If you can see what's possible it gives you hope. Maybe hope, faith, and charity too, but that's another dogma.
I've been writing a lot in the last year or so about how some people ply systems of expertise and try to pass them off for God-given gifts. Primarily the gift of knowing called gnosis. It's one of many given gifts that couldn't happen without divine intervention. It doesn't seem to matter which particular divinity you attribute your gift to, but any ol' god will do in a storm.
"Modesty is the art of power." ~Alexander Pope
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
