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Thursday, July 24, 2008
Subject: New Things
Time: 4:51:31 AM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
My boots fell apart. Well, at least one of them did. It was inevitable. Texas is tough even on the most durable cowboy boots. I only wore them for a few years, but they were my favorite boots. I wore them constantly. I only removed them when I slept.....and occasionally they stayed on my feet even then. Sometimes I was too damned tired to take them off. I always removed them when I took a shower.
Actually, I'm suspicious of the quality of my aformentioned boots. They were Tony Lamas, which are supposed to be durable and top-of-the-line. They're sure as hell expensive. I have a suspicious feeling that they were secretly assembled by child laborers somewhere in China. They used cheap glue and substandard stitches. I can hear them laughing now:
We make cheap boot for dumb cowboy.
Boot fall apart. Cowboy fall on ass. Ha ha.
Well, it's no laughing matter to me. I have four (count 'em) pairs of Justin boots (a supposedly lesser brand) and none of them have fallen apart. I'll never purchase another pair of Tony Lamas. Not while I'm sober, anyway.
Boots are an essential part of life in Texas. They're almost as important as cowboy hats. At least for me, they are. A good pair of boots makes you feel comfortable & protected & powerful & sexy & optimistic & important & tough &.......did I mention sexy? And tall. I'm 6' 1" in my stinky bare feet. I'm probably 6' 3" in my boots. Old ladies and illegal aliens only come up to my hips when I'm wearing boots. I tower over everyone.
I suppose I could have my old boots repaired, but I won't. It's time to look around for a new pair. The only problem is that it takes a few years to break them in and get them to look vintage. No self-respecting cowboy wants to be seen wearing spanking-new boots. It's kinda humiliating. Same thing goes for a pair of jeans.
While on the subject of new things, I'm definitely getting a new computer. I saw one that I really want yesterday in Wal-Mart (where else?). I broke into my piggy bank and I plan to to take all my pennies down to Wal-Mart tomorrow.
Yea, I know.....you're probably thinking that my truck will break down again in the Wal-Mart parking lot and I'll have to haul the new computer home on my back. Well, you're probably right.
This old computer is so unbearably bad that it's beyond redemption. If I can't kill it with a wooden stake, I'm going to try shooting it with a silver bullet. Anything this evil has no right to live. It has greatly contributed to my high blood pressure & anxiety attacks & nightmares. We have become mortal enemies. I can hear it laughing at me, long after I turn it off at night.
Next thing I'm going to get rid of is my archaic dial-up connection. I'm determined to catapult myself into the 20th century. Or the 21st century. Or whatever the hell century we're supposed to be in. There's no stopping me now. I'm prepared to face broadband and Vista and everything else. I'll be a new man. Or a better one, at least. You'll see.
So, what else is new with me - besides boots & computers? Not much, really. Busy, as usual. Hot & tired, as usual. Trying to do far too many things at once, as usual. Burning proverbial candles at both ends (as usual). Haven't had much time to get into trouble, but it still follows me around like a shadow.
The foul, stormy weather is finally gone and things are back to hot, dry, drought-stricken normal. Near 100 sizzling degrees every day with very low humidity. No sign of Hurricane Dolly here. I completed a lot of my outdoor work and can now turn my attention to other things. Like writing a few new articles, just to let my editors know I'm still alive.
I started a very late garden this year but I'm optimistic. Last summer I didn't plant my pumpkins until the end of July and my garden still yielded over twenty-five of them by Halloween. Despite having ten million faults, Texas has a wonderfully long growing season. If the crops aren't ruined by the heat, or the wind, or the bugs, or the birds, or the sudden torrential rains, or the hail, or.......well, you get my drift.
This is probably one of my most boring blog entries ever. I have a lot to say, but I'm too tired to say it. My creativity is sapped. It's way after 3:30 a.m. and I should have been in Dreamland long ago. No matter how little sleep I get, the cat always wakes me up early in the morning. She'll come to my bedroom door several times to see if I'm up. If I'm not, she'll eventually pounce on my bed to make sure I get up. Sometimes she leaves strange objects in my bed: cat toys, a ballpoint pen, a scrap of paper. Weird.
I'm beginning to ramble - a sure sign of sleep depravation.
Gotta go, gotta sign off for now, gotta snuggle into the pillows and dream of boots & computers &.............
Written by jayveerhapsody
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Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Subject: Because of KABOOM!!
Time: 11:53:55 AM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
I had initially planned on writing a long, rambling 4th of July tribute - expressing my opinions on our country & freedom & independence & other related topics. Unfortunately, my plans were rudely thwarted by the sudden KABOOM! that happened on July 3rd.
All right, I know what you're all thinking:
First, you're wiping your sweaty brows in unanimous relief, while saying Thank God that Texas bastard isn't going to ramble again!!
Second, you're asking What the hell is a "sudden KABOOM???"
I'm gonna explain.
Late on the afternoon of July 3rd, right before the beginning of the long Independence Day holiday weekend, we were bombarded with one of the worst storms I ever experienced in Texas. It came with absolutely no warning, and decided to concentrate entirely on the sleepy little community where I live. It lasted over six long hours and dumped at least five inches of torrential rain over everything.
Streets were flooded. Yards & fields were flooded. The lake overflowed. Crops were ruined. The fierce lightning strikes were so abundant that the local fire department couldn't possibly keep up with maintaining the wildly assorted fiery ZAPS that occurred throughout the county.
The storm was massive, epic, Biblical - strongly reminiscent of an old Hollywood extravaganza. Amidst the wild sweep of rushing water, I kept waiting to see Cecil B. DeMille float by - - perched on a gigantic camera tower with megaphone in hand. I could almost see hunky George O'Brien heroically rescuing luscious Dolores Costello from the great deluge caused by the wrath of Jehovah (Noah's Ark, 1928)
An incredible lightning strike directly in back of my house quickly brought me back to the reality of the moment. All lights were out, all phones, all related things. It was after ten o'clock at night and I rode out the rest of the storm in pitch blackness.
Me and the cat nervously paced from room to room. Usually only the cat will pace during storms. This time I was sufficiently unnerved enough to join her. I took a couple healthy swigs of hard whiskey to calm my frazzled nerves, but kitty would have no part of it......
Should I abbreviate an infinitely long story? Yea, maybe I should. I'm a merciful kind of guy.
The storm gradually subsided around 1:00 a.m. and electricity was eventually restored around dawn (when I didn't need it). My land phone and computer were out for six days.
I guess I should finally admit my deep, dark, disgraceful secret here - the one that I've been trying to hide from everyone for years (Wow, I'll bet your fanciful imaginations are going rampant).
Sensitive people should hold their ears until I say this.........
Okay. I'll admit it. I still - - - I still have a dial-up connection on my computer. I think there are only two people left in country who have dial-up. Me and a ninety-two-year-old lady in Mishawaka.
Anyway, because of the damn dial-up curse, I couldn't use my computer until the telephone line was repaired. And, believe me, getting a phone fixed is not an easy task in rural West Texas on a holiday weekend. Or any time, for that matter.
I wore my cell phone out trying to call Windstream customer service for the next four days. The robotic recorded mantra "All circuits are busy - please try again later " is still echoing in my nightmares. When I finally did get through, I was offered nothing but an endless series of more recordings.
Press ONE if you want to communicate in English
Press TWO if you are a new Windstream customer
Press THREE if you are an existing Windstream customer
Press FOUR if you are with another company and are considering becoming a Windstream customer in the near future
Press FIVE if you are delinquent on your account
Press SIX if you want to discontinue your phone, internet, or satellite television services
Press SEVEN if you want to reactivate your telephone, internet, or satellite television services
Press EIGHT if you have a question about billing
Press NINE if you have a question about billing in Spanish, Arabic, or Classical Latin
Press the POUND KEY if you want to have sex with any of our customer service operators....
..............say, WHAT?????...........
I couldn't get a real-live customer service person until Tuesday afternoon (July 8th), and he was almost as difficult to deal with as the stupid recordings had been. The guy's name was Tyrone, and if he was physically accessible I would have gleefully strangled him to death with my phone cord. At the end of our "conversation" (for lack of a better word), he gave me a long pitch about some kind of insurance coverage for my telephone. In case I ever needed it. I told him it would be a cold day in Hades before I'd insure my phone. I'd insure my ass before I'd insure my phone. It's worth more.
Some time around mid-Wednesday morning (July 9th), Windstream service trucks began invading my neighborhood. A big fat dude shimmied up one of the poles behind my house and did some fancy fixing maneuvers. Shortly after noon, my phone rang (I'd almost forgotten what the sound of ringing is like.....).
Hello? (that's me talking)
Yea. This is Bill with Windstream. Just to let you know, we got your phone working.
Hallelujah! Thanks a lot!
No problem. Have a good one!
So. Here I am on the afternoon of the 9th, reveling in the luxury of a working phone and a working computer (even if my computer is hopelessly ancient and possessed by the Son of Satan......).
That was the good news.
The bad news is that more storms are expected tonight.
Wishing you peace & fair weather,
Jon
Written by jayveerhapsody
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Saturday, June 28, 2008
Subject: TURBULENCE
Time: 4:55:40 AM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
This is your pilot, Captain Cowboy Jon. We're experiencing a little bit of turbulence. Please fasten your seat belts as a precautionary measure.
SEAT BELTS??!!?? Hell.........better prepare your parachutes..........
It's been a horrendously rotten week. All of my weeks are rotten, but this past one was horrendously rotten. The planets, moon, & stars are obviously in some kind of conspiratorial position that is detrimental to Sagittarians. I'm too tired to get technical, but it probably has something to do with midsummer madness. Except for the fact that it's not midsummer.
I don't plan to write a burden of details. It would take too long. Besides, this is a blog - not a manifesto. I'll just sort of highlight a few of the horrendously rotten things that have been plaguing me. Just a few......
I guess it all began with the searingly hot weather that came out of nowhere over a month ago and never left. Talk about unwanted guests.
Turn on the Weather Channel and some grinning Cupie Doll will say "Atlanta is suffering through its third day of temperatures in the 90's."
90's??!? Hell, if it got down to 90 here, I'd light the fireplace. No one ever mentions West Texas. In the haughty eyes of civilization, we don't exist. It was 108 degrees the day I planted my newly arrived trees and shrubs and most of them perished. That was the beginning of my Horrendously Rotten Spell.
It was hot & dry. Now it's hot & wet. We've had thunderstorms every night for the past two weeks - - they come like clockwork after dusk. Naturally, all the rain began the very day (night, actually) that I started landscaping the front yard. I'm digging, hoeing, leveling - putting in sidewalks & bricks & borders & stepping stones. So the rains came and made everything a soggy mess. I'm now considering an Italian theme: canals and gondolas.......
Let's fast forward to my worst day this week. It happened on Wednesday and was the Mother of Horrendously Rotten Days:
I should have known it was going to be a horrendously rotten day when the toilet seat turned on me early in the morning. It's probably hard to imagine, but even perfect faux cowboys have to go to the bathroom now and then. As soon as I sit down on the toilet seat something snaps.
The seat is cheap plastic crap (no pun intended) made in China. After the snap everything slides to the left, and all of a sudden the seat and I are on the floor! Major malfunction. As I pick myself up, and untangle myself from the toilet paper, I make a mental note to look at new toilet seats when I go to Wal-Mart.
I'm wondering if a lawsuit is probable. I suffered humiliation. And a bruised ass.
Besides toilet seats, I also need to get other things at Wal-Mart. I need some more stepping stones for the front yard.
Fast forward to Wal-Mart:
The stepping stones are in the garden department. The Wal-Mart garden department is a makeshift Quonset hut set up in the parking lot. There are no clerks out here. No cash registers. In order to purchase something in the garden department, you have to figure out which items you want - then go inside the Wal-Mart store, stand in line at a check-out counter, tell the clerk what you want to purchase outside , wait while they ring the items up on the cash register, then go back outside with your receipt and wait until they send a customer service employee from the main store to the garden department to check your receipt and retrieve the items you want.
Nothing is simple in Wal-Mart.
I usually have to be drunk (or at least vigorously inebriated) in order to successfully endure the garden department ordeal.
To complicate matters, the clerk in the store is new and has never done the garden department routine before. I have to walk her through the process, show her where the catalog book is so she can find the item numbers of the stepping stones, help her scan the prices.
By the time I get back outside to the garden department, I'm 30 years older and considering purchasing a rifle with a scope. I can see the headline now:
Disgruntled Wal-Mart Customer Goes Berserk
By the time I finally load the stepping stones into the back of my truck, I'm beyond exhausted. It's 105 degrees. I only had two hours of sleep the night before. My ass hurts, courtesy of a defective Chinese toilet seat. All I want to do is get home!!
Wanna take a guess what happens next? Go ahead. Don't be afraid. Just remember: there's a Heap Big Curse on the faux cowboy - - -and Wal-Mart is laughing at him.
My truck won't start. Dead as a proverbial doornail. I've been through this routine before. The truck tends to get tempermental in Wal-Mart parking lots. I hop out, dive under the hood, and do some fancy mechanical maneuvers. Fifteen long minutes later, I finally get it started. My exuberation knows no bounds. After checking the ignition, I hop out of the truck again to close the hood.
While in the process of closing the hood, I must have awakened the West Texas Gods of Merriment. Or something like that. A HUGE gust of hot wind suddenly slams the truck door shut. Not all the way shut. Just shut enough so that I can't open it.
I'm locked outside and the engine is running. My keys, my cell phone, even my wallet are all in the truck. I panic. Then I panic Big Time. I consider breaking a window. I scan the parking lot for help - as if the Lone Ranger might come out of nowhere and rescue me.
Help and rangers are nowhere in sight.
I desperately try to pry the door open but it won't yield. It's hotter than Hades. I'm sweating profusely. I try to avoid the curious stares of passers-by, who probably think I'm trying to steal a vehicle.
Eventually a gigantic SUV pulls up next to me, about three feet from my truck. The doors open. Three big fat Mexican women emerge.
Let's pause the scene here for a moment.
I'm hot. I'm tired. I'm panicked. I'm in NO MOOD to be sensitive or politically correct. These aren't large, beautiful Latino women. They are humongous TexMex Tacos.
Shortly after the women emerge, no less than twelve kids climb out of the vehicle.
For a moment I forget my predicament, as I watch in utter astonishment. How the hell did they all fit in there? It's surreal.
Each of the dozen kids is eating or drinking something: candy, soda, ice cream, hot dogs. I'm tempted to grab one of the sodas and run, but manage to restrain myself.
As if on cue, all the kids gather around my truck and silently watch me trying to break in. They are completely expressionless - - chomping their goodies, drinking their sodas, and watching me. I am unwittingly providing the afternoon entertainment.
Step right up, kiddies! Watch the crazy, sweaty gringo as he tries desperately to break into his own pickup truck! I suppose I am rather amusing..........probably better than America's Funniest Home Videos - - or whatever the hell that TV show is called.
I'm embarrassed. I'm way beyond feeling uncomfortable. I'm ready to crawl under the truck to escape from their penetrating stares. If this is a small sample of what Hell will be like - - I'm more than ready to repent and change my wicked ways.
After a few more endlessly excruciating moments, the kids reluctantly disengage their attention from my sorry plight and follow the three fat women into Wal-Mart. I breathe a very parched sigh of relief.
Desperation has no pride. I finally decide that there's nothing I can do but walk home and get the spare key to the truck. Reluctantly, I start tredding sand. The heat is incredibly intense and a miserable desert wind is blowing.
Within ten minutes I'm moving in slow motion. Within eleven minutes I'm starting to hallucinate. Dozens of Wal-Mart parking lots waver before me, all equiped with palm trees and waterfalls. My mouth is so dry that my tongue feels like it's a brick in an oven. I won't even be able to yell for help.
Holy Crap, I'm turning into a pillar of salt! They're gonna find Lot's wife wearing a cowboy hat!
By the time I reach the house I'm catatonic.
I won't dare describe my walk BACK to Wal-Mart. It would be far too painful.........
For those of you who want a happy ending:
I made it to Wal-Mart in one piece and got my truck home safely.
For those of you who don't like me and want a bad ending:
My feet STILL hurt, and emotionally I will never fully recover.
Jon
Sometimes known as
the Faux Cowboy
Written by jayveerhapsody
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Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Subject: Inherent Danger and Diablo Night
Time: 8:24:24 PM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
Danger and I have always been partners. Well, almost always. My existence has often teetered on the edge of destruction. I've very often courted calamitous situations. I've eagerly rode the long road to ruin and came back to tell about it. Long before I ever even thought about documenting my experiences on paper, my life played out like a dimestore novel. The vast amount of chapters I've unwittingly lived never fail to boggle my mind. How I managed to survive is a miracle. If cats have nine lives, I must have had 999. I never puropsefully tried to have an exciting, unconventional life - it just seemed to unfold that way.
Fortunately, I've been keeping personal diaries and journals since I was ten. That's about - - - - well, heck, I'm not going to say how many years. That would date me to the point of extinction. Let's just say that I have a helluva lot of old diaries & journals in storage. And I've only written about a small fraction of all my wild, adventurous experiences. Maybe a book someday. Or two books......
I think I've just noticed the improper use of a conjunction at the beginning of a sentence. That's one of my bad habits....but it's only a MINOR one....)
Why am I saying all this? Darned if I know. I'm not bragging about my past life. I'm merely thinking about it, and - in retrospect - gasping at how colorful & rich & varied & absolutely unconventional it has been. I guess I'm lucky to have survived to tell about it - - and to reflect upon it with the distance (and wisdom?) of age.
There is no doubt whatsoever that I was afflicted with an acute case of Self-Destructive Syndrome. It definitely stemmed from my chaotic childhood - - - but I don't feel like getting Freudian and going there now. It would take too long. I wasn't always wild or unconventional. In school I was a wimp. A nerd. A sissy. I started first grade when I was four, so I was always about two or three years younger than everyone else in my class. Those differences in years are enormous when you're a kid. I was quiet & timid & well-behaved & disgustingly studious. I never made trouble and never sought it. Not until after I graduated, anyway.
I attended high school in a quiet little old-fashioned town nestled in the rural hills, somewhere between Riverside and Orange Counties. It didn't seem like Southern California at all. It was too quaint. Later, shortly after I graduated, my parents moved to Anaheim. I suddenly had access to the beaches and L.A. and a jillion (yes, jillion) exciting things to do and every despicable vice imaginable. Quicker than a hummingbird wink, I was completely ruined.
I had shed my prissy persona like a snake sheds its skin. I traded my Clark Kent suit for a Superman outfit. My Peewee Herman persona metamorphosed into Midnight Cowboy Delux. I never looked back.
Twelve years in Texas have only served to make me even more tough than I already was. California Tough melts like ice cream in the boiling WestTexas sun. Life in the Lone Star State will give you callous of the soul. It's not for the faint of heart. True Texans can eat barbed wire and wash it down with armadillo piss without even flinching. And that's only an appetizer.
Is it only my imagination, or did I begin another sentence with a conjunction?
I guess I'm a hard dude to figure out. My relatives have been trying to figure me out for years. They politely read the things I write, then think to themselves What the hell is going on with Jon? Is he for real? What does he mean? Am I really related to him?? Yea, I'm for real, but my layers are deep. My character is so multi-dimensional that sometimes it even confuses me. But I'm real & genuine.
I undoubtedly will always have a wild streak pulsing through my veins - the only thing is lately I'm often too busy and too tired act upon it. Did I mention too old? Naw, never.....I still quench my insatiable thirst for danger now & then - - just not quite as often as I used to. My Texas environment is unconventional enough to assuage my adventurous spirit, pique my imagination, and placate my desire for danger. Perhap that's why I'm here.
Last night I took advantage of the rampant restless in my soul. I let myself succumb to the burning blasts of the dusty midnight winds and the sightless depths of the moonless sky. I abandoned the suffocating house and found myself riding in the blessed emptiness of the vast countryside. It was still incredibly hot, but not as stifling as in the house. The enormity of the land and the sweeping pulse of the desert wind quickly revived me.
Blessed escape was my only objective........
.........and this particular escape eventually brings me to a notorious watering hole way out in the thirsty wastelands of nowhere. It's a cantina of sorts. I call it El Diablo. Rowdy and raw and drenched in midnight danger, it's the kind of haven I desperately desire.
This scorching night has made me thirsty for anonymity and blessed oblivion, thirsty for hard drinks and soft lips. I'll take whatever the cards have to offer.
In this danger-infested oasis I wear my tough-guy mask , my dark hombre facade. I convincingly assume the character that I am not. I'm damn good at it, especially after a generous reinforcement of beer. Washed down with a couple shots of tequila. We're all playing roles, whether we know it or not, after all.....life is indeed a damned stage.
In the custody of 80 proof, the scene eventually becomes intense, sharply-defined, and somewhat romantic. Amber lamp light and thick cigarette smoke and boisterous laughter and calculated smiles and jumbled voices and....somewhere in the distance.....the delicious strains of Mexican guitars.
For an hour or two I absorb the atmosphere like a sponge for future reference. After all, I'm a writer. For me, even relaxation can eventually be put to good use. I'm easy, but I'm also shrewd.....
Later, in the parking lot: a drunken brawl - a fight with knives, but no blood. Two hot-headed Mexicans are in an impromptu battle, staged against a black,starlit sky. I watch in detached fascination - like I was watching a play. One of the men eventually collapses in utter drunkeness. The other finally surrenders and leaves the scene.
Fraught with drama, this place was once the scene of a murder. In the custody of too much whiskey, a bad moon, and a dangerous love triangle, two guys fought inside the cantina. One shot the other. The cold tile floor was stained with his blood for a long time. It was sort of an intriguing attraction - - and something to contemplate while you were having a drink....or a love affair.......
I take a long swig of cool beer, then toss the empty bottle far away in the distant dust. The night is hot and ripe and filled with rich possibilities - and, of course, danger. I light a cigarette and lean casually against a fender of my truck - while the rabid heat of the desert night spills around me and soaks up what's left of the sweat.
Shall I write more?
Nope. I'm all written out for now. Besides, if I write more, I just might soil a clean blog. Let your imaginations go rampant........
Jon
Written by jayveerhapsody
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Thursday, June 5, 2008
Subject: Classic Coke and Dehydration
Time: 4:21:20 AM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
I used to love Coke as a kid - - the soft drink, not the illegal stuff. Coke was better than Pepsi, better than just about anything except Cactus Cooler (anybody remember that? Naw. Probably not. You're all too damn young!). Cactus Cooler was popular in Southern California - way back when mini-skirts ruled and Jim Morrison was lighting our fire.
Wait a minute, I'm getting way off track. And I'm starting to feel old.
Anyway - - the other day I bought a case of Coke on sale. Classic Coke, it's called. Disappointment supreme. It's carbonated crap in a can. Classic carbonated crap. I'll drink just about anything if it's full of sugar and carbonation - - but this was completely undrinkable . It didn't taste like the Coke I used to know & love. It didn't taste like any kind of Coke. It didn't even taste like a soft drink. What the heck do they make it out of, nowadays? If they use water, it must be unfiltered Texas river water. It tasted like they added motor oil and dirt to the sugar.
Am I just getting fussy and senile, or is the quality of everything deteriorating? Even Pepsi isn't the same. I prefer the lesser-known brands, such as Sam's Cola.
Am I gonna throw out my case of Classic Coke? Hell, no. I'll just add whiskey to every can I drink. No doubt my enjoyment will intensify.
I didn't plan to write about Coke. Actually, I didn't plan to write about anything in particular. As I've said many times before, blogging is becoming more and more tedious for me, less and less fulfilling. I've said everything I can think of already, and have said it with many variations. I don't even interest myself any longer.........
June, already. The official start of summer is still over two (or so) weeks away - - and I'm sick of summer already. Intense heat invaded Cowboyland right after Memorial Day and has no intention of leaving. I'm not talking about ordinary heat. I'm talking about a Death Valley, skull & crossbone, mummification, circling buzzards, instant cremation if you go outside kind of heat. The coolest it's been during the past two weeks is 105 degrees. As if the heat isn't enough, scorching desert winds have been wickedly weilding havoc over the parched land (kinda poetic, isn't it?). The relative humidity is seldom over 5% and the intense dryness sucks every drop of moisture from your body. Can't sweat. Can't whistle. Can't spit. Can't even curse, because the words dry up as soon as they leave your lips.
The trees and plants that I ordered for my yard arrived one day before the heat wave. I planted them. I watered them. I fertilized them. Well, actually, I didn't personally fertilize them.......I put fertilizer on them (I don't want you to conjure up the wrong picture in your mind....).
The next day, of course, it was 108 degrees and the plants went into shock (much like everyone who first arrives in Texas). I watered them profusely. I shaded them. I sweet-talked them. I reassured them.
I watched the damned things wither and die right before my dust-ravaged myopic eyes.
Moral of the story? Landscaping has no place in West Texas. Unless you utilize tumbleweeds and cacti (that's the plural, isn't it?).
In all seriousness, the area of Texas where I presently live is infinitely better than where I used to live. I'm on the high plains, where the altitude is over 3,500 feet. That's damned high for Texas. There are more trees here. And more green things. YET, we still get the brutal heat and wild winds.
On a brighter (if not cooler) note , I finally bought lots of non-living things to complete my landscaping projects: bricks, borders, stepping stones, concrete (I'm going to do my own cement work). I blew a couple hundred buckeroos (that's American dollars) on the stuff. It was all piled up in my truck and I unloaded it yesterday. At high noon. When it was 106 degrees. I'm still experiencing hallucinatory flashbacks.......
None of this is very interesting and I'm starting to bore myself.
Blame it on a dehydrated brain.
Written by jayveerhapsody
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Monday, May 26, 2008
Subject: MEMORIAL DAY: IN MEMORIUM
Time: 12:38:19 PM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
I wrote In Memorium several years ago as a Memorial Day tribute to soldiers everywhere. It has been posted on my blog on at least two previous occasions and I thought I'd recycle it again today.
This wasn't initially intended to be a pro-war or an anti-war statement. I merely wanted to depict - in some small way - the untold human suffering of those who have sacrificed so much. Upon re-reading this, I've come to the conclusion that it is indeed anti-war. There's nothing good or noble or heroic about mass bloodshed and blind hate. Sadly, I doubt if we will ever see the apocalyptic day when mankind will turn their swords into plowshares or their spears into pruning shears........
Today I'm dedicating this to the memory of two WWII vets: my father John, who was in the Normandy invasion, and my Uncle Jack (John G.) who passed away yesterday.
Jon
In Memorium
They speak of death in such casual terms, those who have never known it. They distort, dilute, romanticize, minimize it in ways that can only be conceived in the profound ignorance of the living.
Will they think of death differently when its cold unexpected kiss touches their own lips, when the bitter finality of its presence lingers longingly on their useless tongues? Will they know then how unreasonable, unkind, unfair, unrewarding, unthinkable it is?
But I am only a soldier - hardly a name, nearly a statistic.
I do not pretend to understand those things which are beyond all reason. The breath of my soul still lingers in the luxury of abandoned innocence, the privilege of fleeting youth, the sweet memory of the cherished country that I long to see again but shall see no more. I hear the distant echoes of voices so familiar and see the fading images of faces so loved. They taunt me like traces of a half-remembered dream.
The stark reality of this moment is strangely remote: like someone else's surrealistic vision, someone entirely unknown. I yearn to wake up, yet I am awake - if only in vague consciousness and the agony of momentary lucidity. I also yearn for the blessed sleep that will eventually quench my gnawing weariness. This great, impending finality that haunts me is inevitable. I have resigned myself to the fact and there is no turning back.
It happened so quickly -
like the strike of a serpent, like the slash of a razor-edged blade,
in the instant of a moment and the gasp of a breath.....
In the white sun's burning glare, in the suffocation of an impossibly scorched desert afternoon, in a land more foreign and distant than mere dreams could ever take me,
I was struck down.
The shot stung like the crack of a whip. The silent scream that rose within me danced dumbly against the shimmering horizon, then faultered in complete helplessness.
In the deceiving wake of a tumbling shadow, I saw myself fall hard against the searing bosom of barren earth - alone, isolated, caught in the company of excruciating heartpounds and desperate gasps for breath.
My thoughts were slowly processed, laborously conceived. Mute words desperately tried to take shape. Everything drifted dumbly into the pool of impending darkness that was quickly flooding my mind.
Will my flowing blood ever quench the fierce thirst of these drifting sands? Will the moaning nomadic winds ever stop long enough to hear my anguished cries? Do the soothing arms of elusive night ever dare to embrace the lonely and abandoned?
At first, the numbness within me is too intense to even register pain. The pain comes later, gradually, stealthily - so firmly in concert with the brutal, burning earth that I can hardly distinguish one infliction from the other.
They speak of death in such glowing terms, those who have never known it. They speak of honor and heroics and selfless sacrifices and noble causes in ways that reek with profound ignorance.
Will they think of death differently after its cold, unexpected kiss touches my lips, after its unspeakable permanence has silenced my tongue? Will they hear the weeping whispers of mothers and fathers and widows and children and brothers and sisters and lovers and friends? Will they ever truly see the enormous expanse of anonymous ghostgraves that stretch out through the vast tide of time to the very brink of eternity?
Who cares about the lost ones now? Not Jesus or Buddha or Allah. Not presidents nor leaders nor kings nor queens. Not pompous diplomats nor paltry politicians. Not putrid self-absorbed, self-righteous pseudo-reverends who hide behind the guise of compassion.
Our names are inevitably engraved on worthless monuments. Our deeds lurk behind the shadows of posthumous medals and folded flags. Our memories are pressed into deafening silence between forgotten pages in dusty archives.
In time, our very existence vanishes with weatherworn gravestones into the haze of distant millenniums and the crumble of forgotten bones.
But I am only a soldier - no longer a name, merely a statistic.
I don't pretend to understand those things which are beyond all reason. What I was still lives in the hearts of those who loved me. My ideals, hopes, dreams, promises, and unconditional love will sustain and nourish them through dark and empty times.
I will be with you in your prayers at night and in your first thoughts at the waking light of dawn. I will be there through tears of rain, depths of emotional drought, through uncharted waters and uncertain mists, through the promise of rainbows and bountiful days. I will embrace you in the whisper of an unexpected breeze that rises on the edge of dusk.
In the crimson glow of a desert-dusted sunset, a sulphuric sphere of bloodred sun melts on the horizon, dripping with the passion of the blood that once pulsed through my veins. As the last conscious
gleam of light fades from the sky, as the first fresh stars slowly awaken, the soothing cloak of night covers me. Cool and comforting darkness quenches the final throes of suffering and pain.
The shadows are deep, the stillness isprofound. The rising moon in all her glory cannot find me now, the milky spill of her translucent light will never betray me. The sunless chill of night bores deeply into me, penetrating the gaping wounds, finding permanent residence within my slumbering soul.
I am only a soldier..........only a soldier........
Jon
Written by jayveerhapsody
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Thursday, May 22, 2008
Subject: BLAME IT ON THE WIND
Time: 8:42:22 AM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
Fierce hot winds shrieked up from the bowels of Mexico and swept across West Texas with a vengeance. The past few days have been searingly hot, way over 100. Any trace of humidity has vanished. It's drier than death's whistle.
I love the wind and the bone-cracking heat. I love the mummy tomb dryness. The ruthlessness of this vast wasteland inspires me at times, when I least expect it. It's as restless as my soul and as reckless as my existence. Words can't explain it, my thoughts are scattered aimlessly like the dust.
Only four hours of sleep Tuesday night, yet I was up before dawn on Wednesday. Inexplicably - - even before having a slap-in-the-face cup of coffee - - I was outside in the yard. It was already windy and eerily dry. I did some repair work and other stuff, then suddenly found myself with a brush & a can of paint. A cowboy Michelangelo at dawn: painting the trim on a huge storage shed. I've been meaning to paint that thing for a year. Why the spark of inspiration? Who knows. Dust in the brain, maybe......
The rest of my day? Got 12 gallons of drinking water at the local watering hole (it's not free, folks. 25 cents a gallon).
Did some dreaded grocery shopping. Why dreaded? Because it's boring. And I do it too often. And it's damned expensive.
Prepared some manuscripts which I have to send to an editor. I did this reluctantly. Desk work irks me. Editors irritate me. I'm in no mood lately to think seriously or deeply or rationally. Dinner was a taco salad at Dairy Queen. And a banana split. And a couple of Cokes. Next to Wal-Mart, Dairy Queen is a staple in West Texas. It's where the elite go to eat.
Writer's Tip: " And " is a conjunction. Never use it at the beginning of a sentence.
Piano work in late afternoon. I don't need to think seriously when I play. I let my mind wander. My hands were already cramped & sore from doing the early-morning painting. My music made them even more cramped and sore. Pianists have sensitive hands. And sensitive souls.......
Tonight - -
Tonight is a symphony of sensations, an excursion into the depths of a West Texas dreamscape. The wicked winds howl & rage with a brutally hot breath. Ten o'clock. Eleven o'clock. The temperature is still in the 90's.
Out in the middle of midnight nothingness: me & my truck & a bottle of whiskey just to sip once in awhile. I don't want to be drunk. I just want to put a soft edge on a hard night.......I'm tired & sore & mellow & lethargic - - in desperate need of nourishing sleep - - but this night is too good to waste. Too intriguing. Too dramatic. I want to savor it, immerse myself in it's enormity. It's my inspiration.
I discard my hat, my sweaty shirt, and let the hot peppery wind carress my flesh and tossle my hair. The wind wails across the emptiness and moans and snakes sullenly away, then comes back again. It's a soft lullaby now - whispering in my ear like a coercing lover..........then it's a sudden shriek, harshly scolding me for sins almost forgotten.
The apricot moon is rising in the uncertain distance. It makes a valiant effort to shine but is quickly eclipsed in a shroud of haunted dust. The dust thickens, the winds becomes so furious that I'm finally forced back into my truck.....which shakes and sways in fear of the night.
The moon is now a smouldering ghostshadow, an orange disk, hardly visible in the dense fog of dust. The lure of the night has become a burden as I drive slowly through its wake.
I'm too restless to go home, to eager to ignore the prospect of adventure. There are too many hours left before dawn.........
Written by jayveerhapsody
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Monday, May 19, 2008
Subject: Shut Down......and Ice
Time: 5:29:26 AM EDT
Author: jayveerhapsody
Mood: Loopy
I'm in a rotten mood. Nothing in particular, just a simple conglomeration of everything. My life is becoming too complicated, too stressed, too loaded with crap - like an overflowing toilet (colorful analogies are my business). I'm doing far too many things at once. I'm burdened with too many personal responsibilities.
Actually, stress & chaos have been my constant companions for as long as I can remember and I probably couldn't live without them. On the edge. Under pressure. Over the top. Heck, I think I had hypertension when I was th |
