Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Fred Brighton-57

"The only true consistency is inconsistency, and true inconsistency is inconsistently inconsistent."

Brighton's Theory of '57 shook the philosophical world, and they all went down to the local pub to have a few pints of brown ale and to discuss the implications of the young philosopher's new work.

"So, in other words, the Universe could be just cooking along, doing it's thing, and then POOF it all changes, with no obvious connection between one Universe and the Next. That moment before, that last moment of the Old Order, that might have been a minute ago. But up on the top shelf of your bookcase there is a mote of dust where before there was none.

"And the names of the Demons of the Gate are Belief and Perception, And Belief wields a mighty staff to block the passage of unbelievers, Whereas Perception swings the Green Jade Sword, which alone can cut through all blocks to Knowledge and so to Wisdom."

The cat climbs onto the top of the outdoor sink and then leaps to grab the lip of the sill of the bathroom window. Then she scrambles and cries and scratches at the siding with her hind legs. Someone opens the screen and pulls the cat through, and then replaces the screen.
"Where you been, cat?"
"Me? Out."
Tch tch tch. "That's what you told me last night." The light goes out, the door closes. Now muffled:
"I'm beginning to think you ain't gonna pay back that money. I'm beginning to wonder about this friend of yours, what's his name?"
"Yeah, Burt. I think I should meet this guy. Soon. Like this afternoon. Now what?"
"...me out! Now!"
"Alright, alright. Here's the kitchen door. Now go find that Burt meatball and get MY dough!"
The cat runs to the birding station and waits to see if a bird is going to land there. She waits a minute, then two. Her tail twitches, just the tip, from side to side. Suddenly she whirls and runs to the shady side of the house, to the outdoor sink. She jump to the small screen covering the bathroom window and starts to loudly proclaim,
"You'll get your goddam money when and if you learn not to replace the fuggin' window screen! Now get in here, NOW!"

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Daddy's Day

I found myself calculating the difference in time to California and heading for the phone as I saw it was Father's Day. No, it's too early to call Dad. Lessee, earth to the One is about a lifetime away. It's Sunday today... oh, so listen...can you hear the sunshine hitting the air and shifting the layers? It hits the leaves and pushes their fluids around, changing sugars and such. The trees wave their branches about in the breeze to expose all the surfaces to the sunshine. In that way our Father shines upon us from all directions, giving us heat and moving our fluids around.

What? Father? Will usually waxes poetic about Mom, especially on Holy Days. But remember, the Tree has two sides and we are reminded to honor the Father and the Mother. Yesterday was Solstice, today is Sunday and it's Father's Day. I'd like to go sit with Dad in the back yard while the birds are singing and calling to one another. He loved their singing and he loved to watch them fly. I know that when he watched them fly, he was flying too. I've been with Dad in the air, I know how he loves those lazy eights and looping turns. We'd go flying nearly straight up in that Cesna 175 until it'd pause, we'd be weightless, and then we drop, loop and turn until any normal man would have passed out or thrown up. I always got to the brink of passing out but held on because sometimes, on a crazy whim, Dad would hand the controls over to me and say, "Here, Stud, take over."

My razor is dull, I can't finish my shaving. It's a disposable but I use it for about a year before tossing. It must be about a year. It's always strange going to buy a bag of cheap razors with a couple day old beard, maybe half shaven. I feel like I need someone to help count out my change. "Here we go, Billy. How many pennies do we have?"

Dad used to hunch his back and roll his shoulders. I never thought much about it until recently, when I roll my shoulders, trying to relieve the stinging, burning fibromyalgia pain. I get up and walk around, angry and impatient, waiting for the damn pills to kick in. I sit down, continue typing, mis-spelling and rolling my shoulders. Dang, it hurts. Dad used to snap at me when I bothered him for something or another. Like starting the lawn mower or finding where I'd misplaced his hammer. I always thought he was mean. Now I'm mean. But it's just because my pills haven't kicked in. Dad didn't have pills to kick in. The best he had was beer and a shot. Yeah, I've tried that but the next day it's worse. I think if I had to live like that I would have to be grumpy the second or third time a kid asked me to get up and do something.

"Here, Stud, take over"

No can do, Dad, you're the man, I'm just a close second. I can fly a Cesna for a few minutes once you get us up into the air, but I'm no mean eagle. I happen to know my Father can really fly. I know he trusts me to carry on down here until I get my wings and can join him in a dizzy, crazy , lazy eight way up where the Sun shines in all directions, warming us and keeping us smiling.

I love you Dad, call me sometime when you get a chance.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Delayed Responses

I was mincing some dill and sage to put in the dumplings when, as usual, I thought of Dad's dumplings. His mother had taught him how to make cut dumplings and for years our family enjoyed the chicken and dumplings he made. Several years ago he and mom came up for a visit and I made chicken and dumplings for them. Mom said she "liked" them but Dad was vocal in his criticism. "Your Grandmother knew how to make good dumplings. These are drop dumplings! It's not the same, Bill, just not the same. I don't know if I can eat these."
Well, he did eat them and I bet he sort of "liked" them, but every time I make dumplings I think about Dad's cut dumplings. It's like making a pie crust, you need a sizable clear space to roll out the dough, then you have to cut them and set them aside to toughen up. They are great, but my drop dumplings are fine too, especially with fresh dill and sage in them. But I have decided, and you can hold me to this, that the next time I make dumplings, just for Dad I will roll and cut them. I bet Margaret will like them so much she won't let me make the drop kind anymore. That would make Dad chuckle, wherever he is now. I bet Grandma is cooking for him and I bet she's trying new things he won't approve of. Dad needs to loosen up, especially now that he's dead.