Synaptic misfiring, my diction has gone to Hel.
Digging on driving the TDI this evening, but the sad fact of the matter is that it is simply not as much fun as a motorcycle. Particularly if that motorcycle is a six-speed rigid-framed slammed and chopped bit of lovely mechanical misanthropy.
I can say Fuck The World with no irony.
A fine, if chilly morning. I suggest strong coffee and Al Greene.
The wind is moaning as it passes the corner of the building, and the heat just came on. It seems a fine morning for enjoying a brew under the blankets.
There’s something in the air tonight, ambient pressure changes don’t entirely account for what I feel. Perhaps just more snow with the wind, but it feels as if something is moving, just out of sight.
When in doubt, TARDIS. And, I really need to remember to warm up before cleans and presses. Two lay-offs in less than a year. I don’t know how folks can live without an exercise regimen, it’s terribly dull and my body doesn’t much like it.
I recognize that individuals and groups possess biases that they hold as truths. I do not accept the perceived necessity nor the intellectual and emotional maturity of allowing these beliefs, and the emotions attendant to them, to drive every reaction one makes. Each tempest in a teacup is not indicative that the entire biosphere is in peril, nor that the individuals who believe the sky is...
“Humility is a wonderful asset in the pursuit of knowledge,” from Gene Logsdon’s foreword to Simon Fairlie’s Meat: A Benign Extravagance. I generally avoid nonfiction after taking zolpidem tartrate, but I am low on hero tales. In fact, I am down to Erbyggja Saga and re-reading Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men. I need a resupply, which will of course only increase...
I should say, I am entirely in favor of ‘tribalism,’ if only because it allows for schadenfreude like nothing else.
Every time I watch the 1970’s Battlestar Galactica, I am nearly unable to get past the fact that the Cylons talk using radios on their spacecraft. I understand that without the tinny electrified voices audiences might be left in the lurch, but an cyborg intelligence might well choose a more efficient means of communication. By which I mean they likely would have simply sent electronic...
One hour of yoga, one hour of merengue, one hour of cha cha. Sciatic issues scaring me from any rigorous workouts. And now The Reluctant Dragon, reading it = reaping the benefit of having a young goddaughter.
Yoga and the 1983 special edition of V: the original miniseries. Because I am that dorky. I would venture to say that humanity hasn’t changed positively from this bleak portrayal.
Meat. Simon Fairlie. Quite excited, and I can see my currently-unfinished reading list has slipped back one spot to allow for it. I am going to posit that the book might be better enjoyed while eating grilled beef.
On cold rainy days I am inclined to read in bed for the greater portion of the day.
Growls the sword leaving the sheath. The hand remembers the work of battle.
An afternoon spent reading Agustín and McNeill and covertly repressing populations in service to the patriarchy.
Overalls. One of the finer articles of clothing.
Ambien follies last night, I see. This (late) morning, I am digging around, generally confused by internet terminology. Bingo = at point in flight that crew must return for refuel. Yes, there’s a game that involves the name/term, but I am not in the demographic that plays sedentary games. Neither skill nor danger involved tends to equate to me wandering off within seconds. And, I need...
The fight comes, sooner versus later.
Spanish version of Shakira’s Loca, and cleaning the shotty. The one that’s traveling with me, anyway. ‘Cause that cries of tough guy like nothing else.
Am slowly collecting my kit for this year’s first communications moratorium. Several days near a remote (ish) mountain stream will do me a world of good. Yes, I am that kind of strange, in that I plan commo blackouts into my life. People will likely freak if they see me moving in and/or out of the site, but I think the 12-gauge pump will lend a certain J’ne sais quois to the affair.
My second Ides of March resolution was to finish reading the dozen or so books that I have in circulation around the place. And, some progress is seen.
Vifil was a man of substance, and, if threatened, was well versed in the arts of old magic.
Also no great surprise, but I prefer poetry to people’s voices for the most part.
The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day, And where is there hope or deed as fair?
It still amuses me to no end: the 1975 Honda CB750 (at 746cc and stock configuration) produces more horsepower (hush, I know torque is more important) and has a higher top speed than the 2007 Harley Davidson 80-inch Evolution which has a 1340cc displacement. I haven’t had either bike on a dynamometer, but then the Honda isn’t exactly at OEM specifications any longer.
Christ on a crutch, I am becoming like Grendel. I certainly used to joke about living under a bridge and eating goats rather a lot. Not that Grendel lived under a bridge, but he was troll-like at a minimum. Perhaps it’s ironic justice.
Perhaps more importantly, the May issue of Latina magazine is in. Far too early. And I am less able to turn the pages through the vapid fashion nonsense combined with the xenophobic ethnic self-promotion. You can hate me for that, too. If I wanted to live in a country formally divided along ethnic lines, I would move to one. If you want to make this place into culturally heterogeneous enclaves,...
Commence your hating: that mic-check thing the #ows folks do is stupid, and more than a little irritating. Standing in a crowd that shares your opinions doesn’t require courage. In fact, from where I stand, y’all look a lot like the large groups of cops whom you so enjoy photographing.
Och, I need some isolation. Perhaps I shall do nothing for the rest of the week. I shall surely try to have no human contact other than that I initiate.