Wild fantasies of future adventures
I suppose I should be glad that I was not 'morphed into a giant vermin, but this morning I did awake from troubling dreams.
I don't even know what they were about, just vague fear and paranoia the kind of stuff that does 'anoia (Hah)
I have nothing to say about anything today.
My search for a couple of violinists continues, I have three leads, thanks to Katy and Cornish school of the arts.
Ummm....
Oh yeah, today I must remove the scooter's little carburetor and look for stickiness in it's fuel co-ordinating mechanisms.
Also level up the floor where the new cabinets will meet their final rest.
"Final rest", could that have anything to do with the troubling dreams?
Tomorrow we go north to a wedding on a niece-in-law.
Saturday
or Sunday, I plan to ride the 60 mile loop from home to Black Diamond
on the green river trail then hook up with the Cedar river trail back
home again.
The 60 mile figure might not be accurate, I measured the twisty, squirmy line on the map. Measuring it with the car's odometer might prove it's less of of
trip, but I'm sure it's 50 so if I can combine that loop with a trip
around the lake, It will be 100 mi and halfway to Portland.
Let me see....this weekend the old Volvo will accomplish 300,000 miles.
I will reward it with a new timing belt (not the sandwich) radiator hoses, fan belts, power steering hoses and anything else soft and deteriortable.
It has been to the moon and is on it's way back.
Remind me to get the Alfa, the FIAT, the, Bristol, and the Amphibian on the market and sold before they rot in the driveway.
I don't even know what they were about, just vague fear and paranoia the kind of stuff that does 'anoia (Hah)
I have nothing to say about anything today.
My search for a couple of violinists continues, I have three leads, thanks to Katy and Cornish school of the arts.
Ummm....
Oh yeah, today I must remove the scooter's little carburetor and look for stickiness in it's fuel co-ordinating mechanisms.
Also level up the floor where the new cabinets will meet their final rest.
"Final rest", could that have anything to do with the troubling dreams?
Tomorrow we go north to a wedding on a niece-in-law.
Saturday
or Sunday, I plan to ride the 60 mile loop from home to Black Diamond
on the green river trail then hook up with the Cedar river trail back
home again.
The 60 mile figure might not be accurate, I measured the twisty, squirmy line on the map. Measuring it with the car's odometer might prove it's less of of
trip, but I'm sure it's 50 so if I can combine that loop with a trip
around the lake, It will be 100 mi and halfway to Portland.
Let me see....this weekend the old Volvo will accomplish 300,000 miles.
I will reward it with a new timing belt (not the sandwich) radiator hoses, fan belts, power steering hoses and anything else soft and deteriortable.
It has been to the moon and is on it's way back.
Remind me to get the Alfa, the FIAT, the, Bristol, and the Amphibian on the market and sold before they rot in the driveway.
Labels: Coal, Petroleum, Sweedish longevity
posted by Lane Savant at 10:25 AM
2 Comments:
Re: Violinists: How about Rennie Grossman?? She and her hubby have some kind of business dealing with tandem bicycles.
Re: Vermen: Margrit told me in our daily telephone conversation to tell you and Meredith that a badger has been spotted in her neck of the woods (NE Germany), while previously they have only been in Bavaria.
I just saw an excellent documentary "No End in Sight" howing at the Egyptian. It thoroughly presents in 102 packed mionutes a history of the mess into which we are getting deeper and deeper. Of the many mistakes, by far the worst was disarming the Iraki military; as a result we created overnight an armed mass of unemployed, who are very bitter toward the country that made them unemployed; the decision was made by Bremer and backed by bush/cheney over the objections of our own military, which clearly saw would would and did happen (namely we created much of the armed insurgency against us there. Hope you, Meredith, and Keth can see this individually if not together. As one wounded ex-soldier said in it, the lucky ones are those who were killed; they no longer lived in constant fear of being killed!!
-- Anonomann
You know I feel guilty saying this, but you have always reminded me, or seem to be, a Kafka character come to life --that and a real life rendition of several Crumb characters. You are too damned smart for your own good. You are like a minor Camus character, the one that appears in chapters, and seems fascinating, making we readers want to know more about you --but the writer holds out on us, and the fog of mystery still clings to the Savant persona. You could have been one of the characters in Arthur Miller's THE MISFITS, except you never really have been much of a cowboy, and you probably would have been bored with Marilyn Monroe. So just be grateful that another fine morning has dawned, and your haven't sprouted mouse ears, or have turned into a cockroach, or become a member of the Burroughs NAKED LUNCH sect. Maybe you are a Satre or Beckett kind of guy this day, a fellow stuggling with the existential notion that for Chrissake we should all make some lame ass attempt to be responsible for our actions, and to fully appreciate the absurdity of this particular go around, this specific life --as we revisit our past lives in our day dreams and our night sweats. Maybe, as Seth and Ramtha suggest, your dream life is the reality, and this thing you refer to as your "life" is just a dream; maybe not even your own dream. It might be Meredith's or Meighan's or mine. You could be the incarnation of a glop of mustard on a sandwich, or too much onion or chili pepper. No, that can't be accurate, for you are a carbon unit, full of piss and vinegar and antecdotes. You are a person that I have known for over half a century, and thus could not be the reincarnation of a taco salad disturbance, or the manifestation of an extra thick slice of chocolate cake, right? No, hell no, you are more like one of those shady characters in a Tennessee William's play, one of his early ones, that comes in right in the middle of a scene, has a 5 minute monologue, no one on stage even notices him or pays attention to him, and the audience has no earthy idea what the hell he is raving about --but they find him interesting regardless. Or maybe you are just a few lines of a James Joyce novella, or a few lines of a Dylan Thomas poem --something intriguing and beguiling and non-linear. Or maybe you are the guy who comes to the door in a Sam Shepard epic, asking directions, or delivering a package, and no one has ever heard of the street you are looking for, and they fear the package you are handing them, and they just slam the door in your face, and go back to swigging warm bear and puffing on a half lit stoggie. But then again, when one does get up close to you, which is never too easy to do, one notices the haunted quality in your eyes, like you know some secret shit, some dark and mysterious incidents, like having been a POW, or a drug addict, or you were nearly killed in a motorcycle mishap, and will strap on a hog again, or a Jap bike.
Paranoia, Christ, you never really had to deal with much. Let me tell you about some goddamn paranoia. Paranoia is working in a large organization, civil or otherwise, and all your supervisors, bosses, and whip crackers are resentful of your verve and intellect, and they spend every waking moment trying to trip you up, providing pitfalls and pratfalls. And fellow employees who are idiots, most of them, who are mostly listless,lazy, ill-informed, moronic, and some are even mishapen. They all huddle in gaggles and whisper shit as you pass them in the hallways. No one sits with you at lunch, so you take to eating alone in your office. They send you memos telling you first what a marvelous incredible work slave you are, and then follow up with memos that chastise you for being so good, for making them look so bad. You are told that you are destroying the morale and the moral fiber of the entire organization, but most people are afraid to confront you, so all they can do is conspire to screw up your day, and make your life a misery, as best they can in their inept ways. Paranoia is getting out on the damned freeway and someone has announced to all the sonsofbitches that you are commuting at exactly that time, and hordes of them hover around you, cut you off, flip you off, ride your ass, box you in, make you slow down, force you into the wrong lane. Paranoia is one day looking at your wife and noticing that she is pensive and tense and frowning, and you finally get around to asking what the matter is, and she gives you one of those looks and says," You know very well what the matter is." and stalks out of the room, and of course you have no clue what the hell she is referring to, probably to some comment or event that happened the week before or the year before that should have been dealt with at that time, but wasn't, like an emotional carcinogen that morphs into cancer when least expected.
I hope you find your fiddlers three. You deserve them. Nice to have Katy assisting you and believing in you. I have never really stepped foot into Cornish. It always seemed too esoteric or corny to me. The Cornish School for the Arts. I was a University of Washington Drama stud, who minored in English and History after all. I don't need no stinking cornish. One of these days I will have to check it out. It is probably a delightful place.
As to your carburetor, when I used to bring my junkers to Palmer Automotive, you always told me I had terminal vapor lock, and the only logical cure was to buy a new carburetor. Was I gullible? Were you the actual asshole mechanic who took advantage of my, and other's ignorance? Did you just put my old carburetor on the bench and rebuild it with tiny gaskets and stuff, and just pretended to put a new one on, just put it in the cleaning tank and wiped it off and made it look new and sent me merrily on my way? Gosh, that twists my tookus.
I do not believe in "final rest". Your soul is cosmic energy, and it will never rest. It has not rested for century upon century, leaping from life to life, from body to body, from country to country, from dimension to dimension; hanging on to some genetic memory, some old traits, some old desires, some old pain. You will never experience a final rest, only some form of rebirth, renewal, fresh as a scoured toilet bowl, opening new petals on a new situation. So get over it big boy --you have millennium to go. Your journey is long and joyful, and you have solar systems to go before you "rest", and thankfully there will not be any finality about it, just rejuvenation.
North, not to Alaska, but to where? Sedro Wooley, the north Cascades highway, Concrete, Mt. Baker, Bellingham, LaConner, Port Orchard, where north,where? Oh yeah, just north of Marysville, at Smokey Point. Be sure to look up Jack Robinson when you get up there.
Saturday will be the best day of the next seven to take a bike ride, lots of blue sky, and low temps, like 71 or so. Remember all those picnics and hikes we took as kids to my grandfather's fishing hole in the Green River canyon, climbing down those cliffs, and hopping about those jagged rocks, and swimming in that cold river, leaping off 15' perches? It is a good thing you are not a bitch, because along Green River and Cedar River there might lurk a Green River killer wannabe who would want to start a little somethning sumpin with you. 60 miles sounds about right. Some pretty country too, though not as pretty as 40 years ago. One of these days you might as well peddle down to my house in Sumner, and will throw the bike in the back of my pick up, and run you home. Consider it.
Christ, 300,000 miles on the Volvo. Is that the original engine? It makes my 169,000 miles on my 92' Isuzu look like chump change. I was kind of proud of it until you helped me to see it wasn't no big deal in the great scheme of quantum mechanics.
By the way, get off your ass, and get the Fiat, the Bristol, the Alfa all running again, paint them up and wax them, and sell them before they turn to rust buckets and spider houses. And damnit, have the courage to launch the Amphibian one more time, and let me be there, and call Kiro, and King, and the Seattle Times, and Arne Zaslove, and let's have a party.
Glenn
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