Friday, March 24, 2017

Friday the 24th Nonsense

Often said over its soon seven years, +Time is neither journal nor diary. Starting October 2010 with CaringBridge to keep folks posted after being told I had two to five months to live, it emigrated to a WebLog hei├čt +Time the day I left Cleveland Clinic in February 2011 with refurbished heart and new lease on life, as mental aid to physical renewal: exercise the brain. Little personal history, lot about cars, some about Panama City and StAndrews, bit of Bible study from my position down the dusty trail, now and then a thinly disguised political rant, occasional disdain of standard Xn theology far off the beaten path in the briar patch but never so frank and bold as to have my diocesan come for my collar. 

During sabbatical however, the constant urge to give it up in favor of reading books where I felt impoverished, take up a new hobby, improve my German or NTGreek, try Hebrew again, learn the Russian alphabet anyone who knows a little Greek can master wacky,

watch a few old films acclaimed as classics, in lieu of MLP go sit on a Bayfront bench in the park below 7H. But a person upon whom I depend keeps forbidding it lest the brain atrophy even further, so I write; rubbish, I write, post. My nonsense with a capital N.

Same temptation this morning: turn it off. But I’m threatened: no breakfast. So, write. Today's blogpost is dedicated to a sausage patty and a simmering pot of speckled cheese grits from Callaway Gardens.

Last evening watched Casablanca yet one more time again on TCM, memorizing the movie script to lip-synch from the pulpit one Sunday. Looking at two things. Friday comics in the PCNH, read them all except Frank & Ernest, and the lectionary readings for the upcoming Sunday. Also, all this gardenia week, struggling with disabling, excruciatingly white-faced sciatic pain, so far taken forty million aspirin, read forty thousand websites advising how to respond, treat, cope. Wee hours call of Father Nature took more than ten minutes to get there including several debilitating collapses enroute, by far worse than those kidney stones of yore. Time for some of my Navy language, I’ve had this before and with the aspirin, profane language was the only helpful remedy, to so blaspheme creation as to scorch the earth and sear the Tempter's beard. This morning reading Russian socioeconomic life in 19th century so as better to understand Pushkin, Eugene as well as Alexander himself. Of an old man reading about life in imperial Russia: my God, he really does have absolutely nothing to do, get a life, self, buy a motorcycle or take up skydiving. 

64°F and windy at 7H. Windy enough to tip over heavy potted azaleas.

On our way to Tyndall this week we caught a charming old sailing ship just docking and being secured. 


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