Not With a Splat! But With a Whimper

This morning I awoke and got dressed in my blue jeans and a white dress shirt. There was no reason to, as I wasn’t doing anything today, so I read my book a little and shoveled some snow. The sun was strong earlier, so in places that were shoveled it did some beneficial melting. But it had to be shoveled down as close to the pavement as possible. The front of my flat, where the sun doesn’t shine, nothing melted. The snow with an undercoating of ice is unaffected. We’ll survive. In the back of my flat, the snow is gone on the stoop and sidewalk, due to powerful sun I mentioned. This is a good thing, as the stray cats will have dry concrete to walk on…something that pleases me. We have catnip now, which stray cats need. We all need a drug to help life go down. A little bit of sugar and all that.

One source of irritation. As I sat here this morning, hunger affected me and I got some chili that Nancy made and “nuked” it in the microwave. Nancy is my wife, if you don’t know. But a bean, a little pinto bean, flew off my tortilla chip and landed on my pristine white dress shirt, not with with splat but with a whimper. Without irritation, but with resignation that I just put a spot on my nice shirt, I removed that damned bean and then tried to clean the spot off. Out, damned spot! I had cleaned out my drawer earlier this morning and had a little pile of things to take upstairs to the bathroom; antibiotic cream, a tube of toothpaste (why was it down here?), band-aids, and Visine. I looked at the spot and decided to put a drop of Visine on it. Why? Oh, perhaps because I thought it might be some kind of home remedy for a chili spot. One that already exists or perhaps one that I would discover. That tetrahydrozoline may break down a chili stain. That was my thinking. It’s not the dumbest thing I’ve ever done by a long shot, but it was pretty stupid. It didn’t work, though. That’s the kind of thing a person like myself does. Weird shit. 

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Not good for laundry stains. It does get the red out of your peepers if you’re high. Almost certainly the only reason I even have it is from my pot smoking days.

So I cleaned out my drawer. My whole world in papers and such exists in the drawers next to my seat on the couch in the living room. Then I decided to take a nap. My formerly clean white shirt was tossed onto the dirty clothes pile and I got buck naked to sleep. Oh, and how I slept, until 5pm. When I awoke, I put on my pajamas bottoms and my Socialist Party t-shirt. There was never any reason to put on anything but pajama bottoms and my Socialist Party t-shirt this morning, and that damned flying bean would have fallen onto that black and red t-shirt this morning if I didn’t get dressed in regular clothes. That wouldn’t have bothered me as much. In fact, what else is that t-shirt good for but to catch a fallen bean, covered in chili sauce? If I don’t get that chili sauce stain, bathed in tetrahydrozoline, out of my white dress shirt I’ll be irked. 

A bean.

Right now, The Lion in Winter is on Turner Classic Movies. What would we do without TCM in this household? What a movie. Nancy and I watch TCM more than any other channel by far, perhaps three quarters of the time. After this, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is on. You can’t do any better than that, folks.

I’m going to have to scrub the stain on the that shirt, otherwise, it will ruin it. Fuck. What a life. Jesus!

A bean.

On another note. Dear reader, do you know how many pills I have to take? A lot. For epilepsy, bipolar disorder, nerve pain, and anxiety. Also for sleep. What a racket the pharmaceutical companies have…my God. And my assortment of pill bottles is nothing compared to Nancy. She has thyroid issues, as well, not to mention allergies and asthma and madness. What a selection has she. This is her, by the way…

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Pharmaceutical companies really need to be Socialized and run as non-profits. I’m a flaming Socialist. My shirt, without a bean on it, makes that clear. I like to wear my Socialist Party t-shirt because it will make it easier when the government finally decides to round us up I’ll be easy to spot. I’m a Red, through and through. 

I haven’t written for my ‘blog, this ‘blog, for a long time. I’ve been living in my snail shell, with little incentive and no inclination to come out. That a new phenomenon. I’m awash in shame and self-loathing. How Boring…Jesus. I’m coming out a bit, though. But why write for a ‘blog, or even engage in conversations with people, about politics or health issues or life? That’s been my way for the last month or so. I’m writing this for reasons that are unclear to me. Do you know what I’m talking about? Surely you must. I’m currently reading the massive novel, The Terror by Dan Simmons, an historical fiction book with a strong supernatural element that would appeal to Stephen King fans. A good description can be found here. But it has endless historical facts that are absolutely fascinating. It’s close to a thousand pages long, and reading it is taking awhile (I’ve already read it once, though…something I like to do), as I read slowly and like to get every morsel. I’m not a speed-reader. It reminds me of the old Woody Allen joke about a man who was a speed-reader and read Tolstoi’s War and Peace. When asked what it is about, he replied, “It’s about Russia.” Not me brothers and sisters, I get ever little crumb. And there are a lot of crumbs to get in this Leviathan of a novel.

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Some not-so-light reading for you.

What else is there to write about. I’ve recently taken up writing to a woman in prison, via the, “Write-a-Prisoner” program. She’s in prison for burglary and resisting arrest. That’s a very unwise thing to do, resist arrest. They don’t like that. She’s in prison for the next 5 years. She’s bright and interesting and well-read. First I introduced her to the Socialist Party, by sending her our Statement of Principles. She’s interested, but not so interested that she is interested in joining. So be it. We’re sharing poetry. I’ve written a lot of poetry…what better way to drive people away than to write poetry. I sent her H. d’Arcy’s “Face upon the Barroom Floor.” I hope she likes it. Writing poetry, and (god forbid) sharing it with other people turns one into a social leper. Poetry. Jesus fuck who wants to read someone elses poetry? Even a friend, lover or comrade. Writing poetry is something you do for yourself. It’s something I do for myself. Sadly, for this poor inmate to whom I write, I share my own poetry with her, but usually not my own, thank God. Anything but that

That said, here’s a poem I love by Walter Benton. I think I’ve posted it on one of my past ‘blogs before (House of Four Cats, perhaps). Anyway.

  Because hate is legislated written into the primer and the testament shot into 
our blood and brain like vaccine or vitamins because our day is of time, of 
hours and the clock-hand turns, closes the circle upon us and black timeless 
night sucks us in like quicksand, receives us totally without a raincheck or 
a parachute, a key to heaven or the last long look 
I need love more than ever now…I need your love. 
I need love more than hope or money, wisdom or a drink. 

Because slow negative death withers the world – and only yes can turn the tide, 
because love has your face and body…and your hands are tender and your 
mouth is sweet – and God has made no other eyes like yours. 

That’s all I got today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About Darren W. Lyle

I'm certifiably insane (I have the paperwork), collect old typewriters (got one?), am 43 years old, and am divorced. I've five pets, of course, and have thoughts. Some aren't good, some are. some are funny, some are just there, but I'll post them when I'm of a mind to.
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