Thursday, January 26, 2017

Postcards From The Long Strange Trip

While contemplating what, if anything, about which to write today (I contemplated and then decided against comparing DJT's taxpayer-funded construction project to a WPK, Sr. Idiot Project), I hopped into the WABAC Machine to see what was rattling around inside my skullcap on this very date last year. To the surprise of no one - least of all me - the answer was...


For a period of time in the latter half of January last year, for reasons that were important to me then and remain so presently, this space went dark.  Then, much to my chagrin I struck a pose akin to Alice McMullen's favorite existentialist, Henry David Thoreau, and made the journey back to civilization from the solitude of the pond.  Metaphorically speaking.  What follows are both sides of the coin, in the order in which they appeared...

...Til tomorrow. 



The Geronimo Adjustment

- James McMurtry

An experiment in peace-keeping that began on a Saturday morning many April moons agohaving proven only moderately successful - and even then on an intermittent basis - has reached its inevitable, predictable conclusion.  For now, at least. 

For a considerable period of time, this place had served as my elixir.  For a long time, it had effectively tamped down the noise emanating from all of the competing voices inside of my head.    I know not when.  I know not how.  I know not why.  All I know is that, for present purposes anyway, it has ceased to fulfill that function.  

Will it ever again?  There are too many questions to count to which I do not know the answer.  This one is among them.  If it does once more offer a port in the storm, then perhaps I shall return to it.  If it does not, then I shall not. Either way, I am confident that the continuing sovereignty of the Republic is not dependent upon that particular question's answer. 

Unless Prince Albert of the Valley creates an entirely new Inter Web, which eviscerates that which has come before it including but not limited to this little outpost, the thoughts and ideas that have been written here since that very first Saturday all those Aprils ago shall remain right here.  They shall be available for further examination and contemplation - although not for use and appropriation ("Ain't no property like intellectual property!") - at your leisure should you wish to revisit them.  Or, should you either lose a bet or commit a disorderly persons offense and be required to do so, which it seems to me is a far more likely scenario.  For present purposes, at least, (borrowing a line from myself and something I wrote a lifetime ago), "There are no more words to write."

So, allow me one to borrow a line just one last time (with meaning, of course) from the Poet Laureate of Freehold, "One sunny morning we'll rise I know, and I'll meet you further on up the road..."

Until then...


P.S. - Do yourself the favor of watching the 2 minute-plus clip from Cheers that has been provided for your viewing pleasure.  First, it is the final two minutes of one of the truly great TV comedies (in my opinion at least).  Second, if you do not watch it through to its conclusion, then the title of this piece will make zero sense.  It would be a shame, would it not, to have slogged through all of this bullshit for the past seven and three-quarter years only to have missed the final payoff?  


The Price of This Particular Form of Refuge

Einstein, a man much smarter than Yours truly, once remarked that insanity is defined as performing the same act over and over and anticipating a different result.  From Professor Einstein's perspective perhaps, therefore, I am indeed insane.  I know not.  Again, I readily acknowledge that his noggin was significantly bigger than mine - at least in terms of its contents.  I win hands-down in a contest of diameter and/or circumference.  Apparently, we would end up in a flat-footed tie in terms of cleanliness of work area - based upon information of which I have only recently become aware

"If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind,
of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?" 
- Albert Einstein 

Ah, the joy and torture of a cluttered mind! 

But I digress.
I did not know how much time I would take from this space when I stepped away from it for an indeterminate period of time.  Through no fault of its own it had become a distraction.  However, I underestimated the amount of stability it provides to my day-to-day.  

And I think that I acted a bit in haste - although I had contemplated doing what I did here for some time prior to doing it.  Truth be told, over the years I have developed the habit of writing a day or two ahead.  Sometimes more depending upon the subject matter.  This piece was originally written to be - as its name suggested - the second-to-last piece that appeared here.   But for a bout of insomnia on Saturday night, this dreck never would have been spawned.  I, for one, cannot fake giving a rat's ass about the Patriots or their quarterback.  

The great American philosopher Hillary Norman Peterson once observed that, "You can never be unfaithful to your one true love.  You'll always come back to her."  While I have little doubt that Margaret is my one true love, to whom I would never be unfaithful, I suspect that the cheeky nymph that is sanity likely has scored a spot on the "Adam Kenny True Love" medal platform.  I am a fairly fucked up cat.  But for all my whistles and tics, I manage to keep my shit together and I do so, on a day in/day out basis, far better than most of the supposedly sane persons with whom I interact.  

It turns out, upon further reflection that I needed to remind myself of the purpose that this ritual performs for me.  It is one of exercise and of exorcism.  I need both.  

Every form of refuge does indeed have its price.  That is beyond question.  

The only question is one's willingness to meet it.  I consider it answered.

For today, at least.

Even in a perfect world, 
Where everyone is equal
I'd still own the film rights and
- Elvis Costello


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