Time

Time in a Bottle

Mornings after checking out the daily word, (fungible) I scroll down to the “thought for today.” Some are more profound than others, this one not so much, but proverbial. “There is only one way to achieve happiness on this terrestrial ball, and that is to have either a clear conscience or none at all.” -Ogden Nash, poet (1902-1971). Even if Nash is right, I don’t necessarily agree or find it so, but I’d certainly never admit that.

These years, my best morning getting up time seems to be a quarter-hour either side of 3:30. Just so this morning. Linda must have been snoring again and not wanting to bother me, because she’s in what she calls her “snoring room”, the bedroom on the far opposite corner of the house, NW vice SE where I am. Not so pretty good, this nevertheless means I can make coffee upstairs, open the blind in the door by the bed and watch for the PCNH carrier as I sip coffee and type Nonsense. I stuck my head out to test the day only to be covered over with muggy.

The typing is pretty good now. Thoroughly a cheapskate with myself (I’ve always resented me when I bought myself a new car, for example, and usually not kept it long but soon got rid of it in favor of my favorite, which is a creampuff jalopy such as the 1999 Buick Century the Cramers found for me, a neat little car and by far not my first older Buick over the past sixty years of car ownership), I’ve been wanting but not needing so not buying, one of the MacBooks with the illuminated keyboard. But to get a new computer, unless one is Ogden’s man who can find happiness without conscience by borrowing one that some fool isn’t minding, one must pay for it, and for me that’s an agonizing thought (paying, not borrowing). However, we needed to replace Kristen’s computer a couple weeks ago, and that step was eased in that I could take her old one, which has lighted keys. Now I can lie stretched out here in a half-dark bedroom and type comfortably.

I’m into used computers and used cars.

The main and only worry about writing a daily blog post is they find out you’re as deranged as they are. Words are a barometer, a thermometer, they can take your pulse, plot your devolution, check your temperature. Mind, that they’re gunning for you is no sign you’re paranoid, it’s them, the lot of ‘em. The proof: I’m not the one who reads this Nonsense, that’s the red flag, the real gauge of sanity. Not who writes it: who reads it.

Investigation reported on ABC news. Food Trucks: how clean are they? To mind? Every evening we were in port, just as the sailors were being piped to a healthy Navy supper on the mess deck, a food truck would come rolling down the pier offering an alternative, the word would be passed “the Navy Exchange Canteen is now on the pier” and the chow line would evaporate. I once, but only once, heard over the 1MC, “The roach coach is making its approach.”

If I’m destined to be a religious person of sorts, it’s pretty much The Episcopal Church for me. Within limits. As well as being true to my heritage, TEC aka ECUSA is the only church I know, besides maybe UCC, where you can’t get blasted for theological heresy (as nobody knows what if anything is orthodox in this box) but you can get blown out of the water for being politically incorrect. However the benefit of age is that anyone who doesn’t like it can lump it. Or stuff it. And with the march of time, the age is about to get worse.

Not to be indelicate, but the autopsy issue in Missouri brings to mind Judges 19:29. Everybody wants a piece and will keep examining until they get the results they demand. In Bible scholarship it’s called eisegesis. ὁ ἀναγινώσκων νοείτω. What are the Feds after?

So far this morning I’ve scanned the email, read only Anu Garg, but not opened any of the online newspapers.

If this time-turner really worked, or if Jim Croce hadn’t gotten into that airplane that day, I’d take us back to 2000 and we’d never have gotten into this mess in the first place. We certainly wouldn’t be where we are today, that's fer sure, that's fer dang sure. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyTfbtZeGeU ὁ ἀναγινώσκων νοείτω.

PCNH is at the end of the concrete path, so I'm outta here.

The salt air hits this Florida Native in the face like a breath of heaven. Speaking of which, there's that green light across the Bay. Jim Croce, where are you when we need you?

Heaven: salt air, Anglican Chant, and that red Duesenberg touring car on the circular drive in front of my mansion. Time. Or after.