Watch Bird Box on Netflix. (via Your Eyes Blaze Out)
T.G.I.F.: Let’s Go Bert Box
January 11, 2019 by 23 Comments
What’s Your Spirit Bird?
January 5, 2019 by 75 Comments
I sit at the kitchen table preparing to read the NY Times. I separate the front section from the rest of the paper, and then pause.
I get up, go to the fridge and grab the remains of yesterday’s leftovers.
I turn to the Opinion Pages, my first stop, and scan the titles. My eyes spot an essay by Margaret Renkl. I’m a fan-boy of Margarets. I see that her piece is titled “Spring is Coming“…well that’s a bit aggressive on January 5th, no Margaret?
I read on.
“There’s a New Year’s tradition among bird-watchers: The first bird you see on New Year’s Day is your theme bird for the year. Your spirit bird, the bird that sets the tone for your encounters with the world and with others, the bird that guides your heart and your imagination in the coming year. It’s hardly a serious ornithological exploration, but there are plenty of birders who will wake before dawn anyway, no matter how late they stayed up on New Year’s Eve. They will drive off to some wild place teeming with avian life, all to increase the sunrise odds of seeing a truly amazing first bird. Who wouldn’t love to be matched for a year to the spirit of the snowy owl? What a gift to be guided for 12 months by the soul of a Bohemian waxwing!”
I pause.
Yea, OK, it’s January 5th, it’s well beyond New Year’s Day but there’s no reason I can’t find my bird now. I need my spirit bird Now.
I stop nibbling on my sandwich. Get up. Step out the back door, watch, and listen.
Silence.
I wait a few moments longer, in my short sleeve t-shirt, in 38° F temperatures.
Nothing.
Perhaps some encouragement. Come on Red! Where’s that Red Cardinal? There are four bird feeders in the backyard. All hang on their poles silently. No breeze. They don’t swing. They are Still.
Nothing.
I step back into the house, pull the sliding door closed, and finish up Margaret’s essay.
No Bird. Wonder what that means.
I reach for the remaining quarter of my sandwich, and look down…
Chicken Sandwich…
What a gift to be guided for 12 months by the soul of a Bohemian waxwing!
Photo: Ostdrossel
Running Away. From the Salt Benediction.
December 15, 2018 by 74 Comments
We have a bad situation here. (Very)
One needs to take personal accountability. Yet, if I could, I would, find anyone, anything, to blame.
The digital Nokia scale (Nokia Body Cardio WiFi Smart Scale in Black) was a Christmas gift from the kids last year. The gift wasn’t a subliminal message, but a blow with a blunt instrument. They see it, I can’t hide it. Man boobs. Pooch maturing to hang belly. And everything else, sliding, down, down, down.
So, for the next ~320 days, the morning ritual is the same. Step on the scale. Step off the scale. The Scale wirelessly sends the data to the iPhone app. The app fires off a notification:
“New weight measurement available. Stepping on the scale every morning and opening Health Mate regularly will help you stay on track.”
Right. Right.
Tuesday:
Nokia alert: “Good job. Your weight is up only 0.3 lbs from the day before.” Monday. Box of chocolates from colleague as a holiday gift along with a thank you note. A constant beckoning presence on my desk, a siren call. I put the conference call on mute. Pop a chocolate covered caramel in my mouth. Close my eyes. Let that blessing melt down my throat. [Read more…]
Walking Cross Town. With Woo Woo.
December 8, 2018 by 70 Comments
It’s a blank screen.
At the bottom of the iPhone, there’s a Start arrow symbol: >
Below the arrow, is a timer.
09:00.
My finger hovers over the arrow. Oh, for God sakes DK, it’s only 9 minutes. How difficult can this be?
P: “As we get started, settle yourself in a comfortable position.” Her voice is soothing. Or seductive? Jesus, DK, focus.
The Pacifica app’s headline: “Reduce Stress. Feel Happier.” “Apple’s Best of 2017…psychologist designed tools for mindfulness meditation, relaxation, and mood/health tracking.” Only you DK, only You, can get anxious in front of a Meditation exercise designed to reduce the same.
P: “Sit on a chair or a cushion on the floor…If you feel comfortable doing so, close your eyes…” (Long Silence)
This pilgrimage isn’t to Mecca, not to the Wall in Jerusalem, and not with Him upstairs. But a prayer to the new God. My palms cradle my Smartphone, and the glowing screen feeds me. I was off on the last leg of David Rome‘s journey: As we grow from childhood to adolescence to adulthood, eventually our most fundamental relationship becomes the inner relationship with ourselves. [Read more…]
T.G.I.F.: It’s been a long week
December 7, 2018 by 22 Comments
Photo by Michael Lane: Hippo butt bite from The hilarious winners of the 2018 Comedy Wildlife Photography Awards (Telegraph.com Nov 15, 2018)
Running. The Day After, and Spewing…
November 24, 2018 by 59 Comments
That’s me running. The morning after Thanksgiving. Actually, no, it’s not. It’s not even close.
I’m not running near the ocean. I don’t have Ray Bans. I don’t have orange Nikes or a tight fitting orange running jacket. I can’t have anything that snug around the belly that would trigger IBS, as one can’t be too careful a few miles out without facilities.
16° F. What the h*ll am I doing out here? It’s her. She’s responsible.
My posture is not that. My chest isn’t raised, leaning forward, taking short sips of cool air. I’m hunched over, panting, and I’m a mere 1.3 miles out. And oh, I’m damn sure, that if she were a runner (I don’t know that she is), she would look like this. With her sh*t all together.
While I know jack about my body parts or their workings, I do know that something just ain’t right between my right hip and my upper thigh – we’re hobbling here, not running.
I’ve never met her. She’s a WordPress blogging acquaintance. Unclear why she Follows, but I’m sure it’s rubbernecking. She’s a writer. Like a real one. Professional. Not like this show. [Read more…]
Walking Cross-Town. Just Magnificent.
November 10, 2018 by 47 Comments
Tuesday.
10 a.m., I’m heading for a morning meeting in Manhattan.
I exit Grand Central station onto Madison, and head down 47th.
Light mist turns to a sprinkle.
Then drizzle.
Then, Wow! Rain in sheets.
Sidewalks are filled with Suits, morning shift shop workers, and tourists, loitering. Umbrellas spring open, mushroom caps blossoming in a time lapse video.
Walker in middle of sidewalk, sheltered with a giant golf umbrella. He does not shift left or right. His umbrella clips me in the shoulder as I try to pass, tipping his umbrella into mine, rain soaks my pant leg.
Really?
Walkers, giggling, three a breast, each carrying an umbrella. I tuck into a store front to let them pass.
Seriously people?
Walker, approaches me directly ahead. Mid sized umbrella. I walk on right side (This is America!) He refuses to shift lanes to his right. I slide left to avoid him, and dodge oncoming foot traffic – glaring at him as he passes.
Hey Man from UK, Etiquette! Drive on the right side of the road!
Walker, dead ahead, 10 steps. Smartphone and umbrella in his left hand, cigarette in the other. I slide between him and the building on the right, when he lifts his cigarette, the embers catching my coat. I jam my umbrella into his to brush off the ash, and he’s jostled into another walker. He shouts “Excuse me!” as I pass. I glance back. Cigarette hanging from his mouth. Light build, short. A Ferret. But who’s judging?
I smile, shake my head, turn my back to Ferret and keep walking, my right hand scanning my coat searching for the burn hole.
I stand at the stop light and wait, lifting my face to the sky. The rain has let up. The Walk sign turns, I step off the curb onto the crosswalk. I don’t see the puddle pooling in front of the street drain. My foot sinks into the cool, filthy, rain water which fills my right shoe.
Damn it@!*$
I limp into the building. The wet sole of my shoe squeals with each spongy step on the marble floor. The wet sock and foot slide back and forth inside the shoe.
I step into the elevator. Breathe DK. Breathe. Amazing. You’ve managed to work yourself up into a full lather in a 12-minute walk across town. You’re Elmear McBride’s Magnificent:
“Magnificent, somehow. To give in. Wreck yourself so completely. The beauty of it.”
Photo: Metro.US
Deep Thought.
October 30, 2018 by 19 Comments
Source: Reno Gazette-Journal, Nevada, November 8, 1961
