BEHOLD AN excellent video noting how the Democrat Party has morphed from the Party of the Working Man to the party that obsesses on Political Correctness, race, open borders, diversity and socialism, all to the detriment of the American Working Man.
TWO DECADES AGO when my mother was about 80, I asked her what entered her mind at night during those moments when she was awake, those intervals we all have.
I was curious about what old people with lots of history thought in the dark night.
If we’re worrying about something before going to bed, that’s what we’ll be focusing on, of course, but at times we awake when there’s nothing worrisome in our lives. Usually, we slip back into our dreams easily, but not always.
I forgot what my mother told me, but I recall it was nothing notable. I thought she’d be remembering the Great Depression or the time she eloped at midday with my father in Athens, but she didn’t mention anything like that. I would have remembered.
Well, now that I’m pretty old myself, I know what old people think, at least what I think. I have a few set skits for those moments. I think, for instance, of a photo of me standing on Cesery Boulevard in Arlington, Florida, posing with a baseball bat as if someone were pitching a hardball at me. I was about 9. I have lost that photo.
But it lives in my mind.
I sometimes think of my very small bedroom in that Cesery Boulevard home, the twin bed, and getting up mornings, stepping across the narrow hallway, and opening the folding canvas door into the kitchen where my mother would be smoking a cigarette. Maybe she’d just downed a Miltown to get her through another day.
What I have thought of more frequently than anything the past 25 years is the moment my last wife told me she was leaving. I was standing in her office door in our Houston home one evening, and she was sitting on the floor going through files.
She mentioned fairly casually that she had found an apartment in Montrose and was moving out. She was shockingly nonchalant. She didn’t even look at me.
Since we had never discussed the possibility of divorce, this was like a meteor. I remember the moment in detail a quarter of a century later. And here is the strange part. Conjuring up that memory during an insomniac spell almost instantly returns me to sleep.
You would think it would be precisely the opposite.
But I’ve just recently noticed that I’m not using that memory anymore as a substitute sleeping pill. The 25-year-old habit has died. I do still think of the kid with the baseball bat, and mornings walking from my small bedroom into the little kitchen and seeing my mother, but not the moment my wife announced she’d had her fill of me.
A single Tylenol will also send me to dreamland, but where’s the drama in that?
YESTERDAY, WHILE I was Oiling the Cat, my child bride was not idle. She was cleaning the windows. We are a dual-labor couple. And since I bragged on my work, I’m now giving her equal credit so no one will call me a sexist.
It’s been a good morning so far. I have Al Gromer Khan on the music machine in the living room playing Tantric Drums. A touch of incense completes the scene.
Like most of the Hacienda, the window designs are mine, my idea 100 percent. Alas, I hired a crappy carpenter way back then, and the windows have been an ongoing problem, especially from the outside where they have warped.
I also stupidly told the carpenter to include the glass in his work. I did not want to fool with details. Of course, he installed the cheapest, thinnest glass available. I keep meaning to have it all changed, but so far I have done nothing. Inertia for 17 years.
I imagine these windows will outlast me.
But they look nice, especially on clear, cool, sunny winter days like this one.
Below are two more.
A keen observer will notice that Dining Room window #1 is the only one without the section in the middle that can be opened. It initially was like the others, but there was so much leakage during the annual monsoons that I had it sealed off.
We’ll be installing a canvas awning outside that window in a few weeks. It’s the window most exposed to the elements, not just rain but brutal sunshine which requires the wood to be refurbished every few years.
SOUNDS LIKE a chapter title in the Kama Sutra: Oiling the cat.
But it’s something more mundane in this case. The cat — a panther, actually — has posed on our front door for almost 17 years now. And the cat, like kitties everywhere, requires care, something I’ve put off too long.
I cleaned him this morning, the entire door too, and then applied a coat of 3-in-One furniture oil. The cat’s coat was dull before, but now he’s nice and shiny.
Cats like that.
The door design was my idea, and it was made by an artisan hereabouts during the Hacienda’s construction in 2003. There is an identical design on the inside of the door, but not being subject to the elements, the inside looks almost like new.
The inspiration for this was a panther vision I had under the powerful influence of psilocybin in 1997. It stuck with me, and now I see it daily.
This cat is my friend.