My sister called me a name I cannot spell, but a fictional nanny invented it in a Disney movie. What if it means I have head lice or something? I have to type quietly as the Juncos are outside waiting on the feeder and I'm in here typing on my blog. They have keen if smallish ears. The Chickadees are patient and wait higher up in the trees. They know I'm a sucker for a feathered face.
I'm reading too many books again. The ones on consciousness collide with the ones on mythology and religion and then I have strange dreams. They want me to believe that some of my anxious moments are because my mother stopped suckling me to take a day job. They want me to think that I wanted to kill dad for having sex with mom instead of me. They tell me Tut married his sister, or half sister. I can't imagine being married to my sister, even half of her. Cher would keep me spinning in circles buying wine, tea and antiques. Jean would make me stay in the kitchen scrubbing pots all day. She'd tell me it was because I did such a great job, but it would still be me with the steel wool.
I gotta take a minute to comment about typing with this damn finger. Okay the steel pin in it stops it from flopping around like a half inflated balloon but this lack of feeling at the end and the lack of responsiveness in the middle makes the whole task of typing for a four finger typist a hell of a pain in the butt. So said I will move on....
There's a cardinal outside, not the Catholic kind, the feathered kind. He seems to have two wives or maybe a wife and a blatant mistress but they keep hopping about from branch to branch as if maybe if they got the right angle on it the feeder would reveal a seed cache or something. Tough luck, guy. I'll fill the feeder once I get this rambling , nagging thought spilled out. Why do you suppose somebody called them Cardinals? If they are named for the faggoty uber-priest then why aren't the under-priests named Robins or Chickadees? Maybe Woodpeckers? If the uber-priest is named for the baseball team are there groups of 9 priests called Dugouts or something. What is the connection between birds, priests and baseball? Ya gotta wonder. Three shrikes and yer out!
I'm going back to the beginning of this whole blog and redacting some of these ramblings, combining them with more from the TBI support group list and trying to do something like a book from it all. I'm hoping my sweety big sister will send me copies of my father's diary during WW2 and my grandfather's diary during WW1. I have a diary from the Civil War but it's from the grandfather of Teddy, my brother-in-law and best dead friend a guy could ever want. I'm sure he'd like me to use it. I have been thinking about records and sculptures and thinking maybe I need to put it all together and come up with a thread that could guide me out of this maze. Because I am not sure anymore what to do, where to turn or what is happening next. That's how life is, so you record the past. Otherwise you end up like Nostradamus and late night TV show host Meatball Adams.
I suppose it's best to start at the start and work your way up but somewhere in them posts will be events I have managed to forget and it may just piss me off again. Let's see.