3-5-9 Lying, reclined on my bunk today, listening to music, sports, politics, and news in general, I find myself smirking smugly to myself about how none of what I hear talked about on the radio has any effect on me and who I am and how I live.--or does it? Naw. I am free from everything that I hear perpetrated through the airwaves that, to me, is so obviously intended to effect an opinion (that I disagree with, which are most all of them) in the ears of its listeners. So, I recline in a state of grace where my sense of secureness reigns supreme over all those who keep spewing their preferences that I should worry about all manner of this and that that I haven't the least urge to let myself worry about. That's pretty secure, if you ask me; no matter the tidal waves of urgings that I accept that the world is becoming ever more insecure.
And then I busted out with horselaughs to remember the words to a song that I rewrote in 1993 that expressed; “Greedy-ass basturds, lying 'bout the facts: You can shove your ugly business up your own damn cracks!” . . . and don't botha me . . . still cracks me up after all these years . . .
Po' po' 'merika, but not me. No one can foreclose on me. Can't turn my water off or even charge me for using it! Ditto electricity; even though I've offered to pay for my electricity-usage. And I don't owe no thousand-dollar-a-month shelter cost expropriation from my general fund. A minute spent digging a hole in the earth 'pays' sewer charges. I have always felt that my very best form of insurance has been and is: To consciously deliberately work to improve my ability to exert a diligent consistent habitual vigilance and growth-oriented perseverance upon the continual maintaining of essential vital infrastructures that I feel are appropriate to my honorable life-urges toward the sustaining of my continuum. Vehicle insurance, being required by law, thwarts my sane attempt to be my own insurer; but I drove down in California without insurance for two decades without incident because I AM better than just a good driver. Have never been involved in any automotive incident that required insurance claims or money out of my pocket. Does this fact not give me license to boast a little about the quality of my driving ability? My bank aint going under. Yeah: I use a bank, and only because they then do not charge me five dollars to cash my social security check every month, if I do direct deposit. And even if they do go under, I am still going to be very well situated to just hunker down and ride this one out, or die trying; and at this age of my life, that wouldn't be such a terrible feeling-of-loss as if I were a younger man . . .
So?: What was I trying to get at with this typing exercise here? Beats the shit outta me . . .
It's another in the lengthy line of wintry moist days and I've run out of stuff to do that doesn't require going outside and scurrying around in the cool moist uncomfortable ambiance. Even have re-ordered my only existing manuscript of the book that I guess that I am still, supposedly, writing. In preparation for the big push—number eight, this time—to again type the whole darn thing into a computer, in, what I would be willing to bet now, one final (?) go-round attempt to render a real book this time, and not just a highly-disordered pile of loose and bound pages, overflowing with rewrite ideas and crossed out texts, redline, blackline, and penciled arrowed lines switching text positioning: Truly a bi-i-gg mess; disgusting too. I severely detest disordered things; yet have lived with this one for three full years since I last held it and scribbled more scribbles onto its page-sides; and then I glued thirty more pages' worth of other rewrite exercises into the bound manuscript. I should have triple-spaced the ding dong thing instead of the requisite double-spaced because I, Hardway here, really truly needed more room than the professional competent educated writer/ editor. And blabbiddy blahbiddy discombooberated balderdash and bafflegab mumbles yer dad, on & on.
03-06-09 Yesterday morning, my left foot slid out from under me on a frosted slippery grassy slope outside the studio and landed on my left side. At the time, I only noticed my thin cotton pajama bottoms getting cold wet through to my skin, and got up to go back to bed at near 8 AM and sleep until mid day, like I normally have been doing for many months now. And when I awoke and got up to go out and carry in more firewood and water, I couldn't understand why my left forearm's outer bone was expressing loss-of-power to lift and move, with an ache that caused me some worry for the bone's integrity; but I had not yet remembered having fallen in the morning. so could not fathom how I might have stressed it. It wasn't until this mid day, after going out at turkey-arrival time (7:30 AM) to scatter feed then scurry back to bed to sleep until near noon, that I discovered that my pelvis is complaining about it having also been stressed by the fal that I remembered the fall and realized the correlation between having hit the ground on my left side and why I have two achy points; the pelvic complaint being the more debilitating, as it sends significant-enough spasms up my back muscles and tendons as to hamper maybe 40 percent of my heavier lifting chores. I can still walk about and bend over to pick up stuff, in spite of the stress upon my weakened body parts.
This has me dedicated to do next to absolutely nothing for minimum two weeks to let the stresses heal. I don't know what exactly defines stress-fractures, but guess that this defines cracks as opposed to clear breakage, and I would guess that whatever defines what I have suffered would come close to that definition. Minor enough, I believe, that I will not go get broke seeking medical attention.
But you can rest assured that this old bird dad of yours isn't just going to come popping up into your scene anytime soon, if at all. I have about ceased to be as exicitable about maybe joining up with you in helping to further some of your projects, but think I have realized that most of what I might be able to add to whatever you (or your mom) are trying to maintain and see grow, is pretty much negated by lots of interferrence from other, more staid, conservative-leaning, parts of my being's personality; not to mention how old and ugly I appear to most all of who I would guess your fan base visualizes about their images of a fun party band and slick song-singers, etc. Wish your mom had a bigger back yard. I could dig and dig and dig, and weed and weed and weed. That is something I am competent at. My garden space is nearly overtaken by brambles, thistles, grasses, and weeds. The lower portions of my, now, eleven year old wire netting rabbitproofing has rotted through and gardening cannot be a viable expenditure of energies until re-rabbitproofing it all—which seems just too much work, anymore.
So, anyway, I am out of action for a few weeks, or whatever, but can still manage driving my truck and schlepping bags of groceries and birdfeed and pieces of firewood and gallons of water; it's just that I must go far slower than normal for a while and not lapse into getting myself roped in to any physical exertions that might endanger the recovery process in my two dinged up bones.
latest book title idea: GUILTY PLEASURES
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