Wrath Against That Quiet Night

 Do Not in Noisome Wrath Resist That Quiet Night

When comes the time for evening's quiet repose,

Maturity must show respect for those who pray

For endless life, against the dying day.

But life's own wearying burdens plainly tell

The quality of the life to be foregone — 

Should not contend, but now go on alone.

Thoughtful souls, who see their plight,

Know forlorn hope, and sad regret, 

And grant that what life gives is what you get.

Strong men, who hopefully watched ten

 Thousand suns rise, and faced each challenge anew,

Depart calmly: "I did what I had to do!"

Sad men, tired of strife, enlightened by age

Might yet resist what fate decrees,

And cry out in anger 'gainst the failing breeze.

But here, my sisters, with familiar anguish

Let me go, willingly, 

Silently, peacefully, quietly

Into that quiet night.

Mickey Basden,  2017

Why I Remember

 

I Remember

  a vMULTI- POET CONSENSUS

The pavement stones resound, as I totter o'er the ground

    With my cane.

If I should live to be the last leaf upon the tree,

    Let them smile, as I do now.

Into this Universe, and Why not knowing,

   And out of it, I know not Whither.

The best laid schemes 

    Lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I  —

    I took the one less traveled by,

For each age is a dream that is dying,

  Or one that is coming to birth

I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, put out my hand, 

        And touched the face of God.

I kiss the lips of Silence;  in the end.

   I come again unto the breast of Night.

I …  Remember ...

… And turn down an empty glass.

WHO’S CHANGING?

 WHO’S CHANGING?

Oh, No, Not Me!!

The sky is just as blue as it was when I was young. The gentle breezes of Spring and Autumn are just as soothing. A good steak, when I can manage one, remains a gustatory delight, as of old.

The haunting cry of the first flight of October geese still thrills, and the blown rain of Winter evokes the same longing for hearth and home that I felt in the 1950s.

So it certainly is not I. The changes must be apart from this old warrior.

But all around me are unpleasant innovations.

Why are the voices of the women heard on radio and TV so nasal and whiney? When I was in school, the teachers admonished us to speak in full voice, and to avoid “talking through your nose.” The trend seems now reversed.

All the channels on TV, which is my normal diversion when resting, have a background  “music” consisting of growling, noxious, grating electric guitar sounds —  often with a constant, annoying drum beat, insisting that the listener adopt an attitude of frantic attention —  which by its very presence interferes with the attempt to understand what is spoken. 

I remember when the dialogue in movies was accompanied by soft, soothing violin music – or blessed silence – thereby permitting me to hear clearly the lines of the speakers and actors. Now, due to the overwhelming volume of the background music – or noise – I frequently give up, and change channels in disgust. And often finally, in surrender to the unreasonable noise, simply turn off the TV.

Have I changed so much that I am no longer appropriate to the world around me?  Am I the only senior citizen who finds the Brave New World too intimidating?

The young women are, if anything, more beautiful; but to my perception they attain that beauty later in their life. Now, girls of eighteen are immature, not quite ripe. It takes another three or four years for them to blossom into full beauty. And they try desperately to disguise their beauty by adorning themselves with tattoos, metal studs inserted in various parts of their anatomy, and ugly clothing. I long for the conservative prettiness of years past.

I see beauty in the ladies of my own age. True, their years are showing, and some are in fact becoming faded. Even decrepit. But the youthful beauty persists, requiring only the perceptive eye of a connoisseur to appreciate it, by looking beyond the sags and wrinkles, to the beauty that is eternal. Similar is the ability to recognize the tune of a free-style improvisation of a popular old song by a Dixieland jazz band. The melody is almost hidden, but the recognizable “skeleton” of the song comes through. And the improvisations, cleverly overlaid atop the original structure, serve to improve the experience. 

Ah, the beauty of old wine! 

Where Did You Get Laid

 Where  Did You Get Laid?

A question for the egg ...

My adventures in the kitchen began in the 1940’s.

Simple things, as befit a child — like making toast for jelly. And scrambling an egg. Or sometimes, frying the egg, and having fried eggs with toast.

Often, what began as an attempt to fry eggs became preparation of scrambled eggs. If I clumsily broke the yolk while turning the egg, I then stirred it to make scrambled egg.

With practice — and a proper spatula — I became adept at turning the flipping eggs.

I also enjoyed flipping pancakes, and reveled in tossing them higher than really necessary, just to watch them turning in the air. Me and the skillet and the egg turner became well acquainted, through the decades — the fifties through the  noughties saw me expanding my cooking techniques.

Then, in the second decade of the twenty-first century I hit a wall. Suddenly I absolutely could not turn an egg in the skillet without damaging it. The beautiful over easy fried eggs that I remembered simply were no more.

I sought thinner spatulas. I tried different skillets. Although I abhor them I even bought one of the coated non-stick griddles.

Still the eggs come apart when I try to turn them.

I studied the process … and observe that the egg, freed from the eggshell onto the eager pan does not pool, in a thick, viscous puddle of egg white surrounding the yolk, as I recalled them doing in years past. The egg white seems watery, and spreads out as if fleeing the company of the yolk. And the errant egg white cooks into a thin, transparent membrane that is suitable only for discarding.

I am reluctant to present the appearance of a conspiracy theorist. But I am stumped.

Bumfuzzled. Dismagaligumfricated.

And with a sad, resigned awareness I accept that much of the merchandise that we so eagerly consume is imported from far and distant lands  —  and is in many ways inferior to what we have enjoyed in the past. 

In an earlier essay I counted the number of eggs frying in my skillet — and concluded that nowadays chickens and eggs are smaller.

Today it is confirmed.

I put eggs from a new carton — the package marked Grade A Large — into the 3 quart stew pot, to boil them. Anticipating deviled eggs. Yum!

To my surprise, the pot that last month could hold only nine eggs, snuggled around the bottom, now has room for the entire DOZEN eggs!

I wonder  — are the eggs for my kitchen laid in China?

 

Wester egg hunt

 Trying to locate a reference article that had caught my attention several years ago.  Couldn't find it in my files, so I searched the internet.  I searched using various configurations of wording that might title the review.  Google did not find it.

Tried the BING  search engine—  thinking that maybe a different search engine might have better luck.

No bang from BING.

Tried YAHOO.

Yahoo simmered and sputtered.  Then it delivered the desired article.  

Yippee!  Wow!!  Hurray!

Good to know that looking in another direction is worth trying.

Life is Good!

 

Life is Good!

It's about three o'clock in the morning. My collection of photographs brings sad happiness. Memories. She was beautiful … I survive in my cozy nook by meditating and relaxing. In my hygge.

It's about chocolate.

It is about alcohol; it's about sinful pleasures ... I enjoy a cup of coffee, with a slug of chocolate syrup and a shot of vodka.

It's about coziness and comfort that engender a feeling of contentment and well being.

My TV provides music, and visual diversion …

Willie Nelson, brought to me by YouTube, sings of lost loves …

I share his happy sadness. Stardust.

Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald immerse me in the ecstasy of their new love. Such is the intensity of their blending that my eyes water...  Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life. 

I am content.

And happy.

Life is Good!

Capital Solution

 Late last night a group of Democratic leaders met to discuss the immigration problem, and particularly the Republican tactic of bussing unqualified persons, not even registered to vote, to DC, and NYC, and Chicago.

The consensus was the recommendation that immigrants, in numbers proportional to each recipient state's population, be bussed from the border of Mexico to the capital city of each of the fifty states. 

Ice cream at midnight

 Some while back I thought it desirable to read some of “The Great Writers” ...

The "Classics."  

So in 2016 I bought an assortment of books, and set for myself a schedule.

I planned to read at least one — maybe two, each year.

...plans … gang aft agley  …

The pristine books lean in virginal splendor on my shelf.

I continually rebuke myself … 

“You should READ...”

But in fairness I note that mine eys have seen their glory … they now submit to the ravages of approaching old age. 

I'm only 85 —  I should be able to do better . . . I should read before I grow old. 

Who'm I fooling?  I'm already too old.

But I have made a compensating discovery.

YouTube is an acceptable alternate source of knowledge.

While I don't find anyone to read to me from Plato, I am able to hear the commentaries of men of great perception and intelligence.

Jordan Peterson.  Victor Davis Hanson.  And others.

Their insightful analysis provides understanding that has eluded this old man's failing brain.

It is perhaps a manifestation of the theme of my blog post “Midnight Snack.”

But I shall feast on a bowl of ice cream with cookies in the form of philosophical dissertations on society and politics. 

Nutrition serves the brain as well as the body.

Defense for a Jogger

 

When I was boating I always had with me a life preserver to protect my life.

Isn't there something that a solitary woman jogger could carry with her to provide protection?

ALCOHOL DEPENDENCE

 ALCOHOL DEPENDENCE

A friend recently confided a concern about becoming dependent on alcohol. 

I, too, am concerned about becoming dependent. The specter of alcoholism is particularly fearsome because of a family member's alcoholism.

Naw, I’m not concerned about it – I am already dependent. But that’s not the same as being an alcoholic.

To me, in my case, being dependent means relying on whiskey to provide relief from pain – either physical or psychological.

“Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget ...” 

          The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

I usually have a shot of bourbon in my morning coffee, due to waking up with Arthr1, and frequently I have no more until the next day. Sometimes I will have another late in the day.  

And sometimes I get kinda blue …thinking about my beloved Lady, my parents, my son, or my life-long hunting buddy... all departed … and I will find surcease in a couple of shots of vodka.

I have observed that there is a unique, unpleasant physical sensation of pressure in my head that accompanies the “blues”, and a drink – or two – will relieve the pressure and restore my usual carefree indifference to my situation.

That is dependence.

Alcoholism is – well, like the SCOTUS justice said about pornography, “I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.” (I always wondered at the extent of his “seeing it…”)

Alcoholism, by my definition, is the ongoing, excessive use of alcohol, to the extent that it negatively impacts a person’s relations with those around him, or his function in society.

So I try to avoid more than a couple of drinks in any one day. And I avoid driving for several hours if I’ve had any – even one.

Let’s lift our glasses high !! 

Alien Snakes

 Some time back I  bought a small ranch in south Texas.  Lots of snakes. Killing ‘em when I met ‘em. Hanging their carcasses on the fence.

Visit from an old friend, from my college days.

I hold him in great respect, for he is more intelligent than I — and certainly more in tune with nature.

Indignant that I should wantonly kill so many of God’s creatures, he implored me to quit killing the snakes.

“But some of them are poisonous — dangerous.” I replied.

“Then learn to identify the poisonous snakes, and spare the non-poisonous.” He was insistent.

Did. Learned to identify the ubiquitous rattlesnakes, copperheads under the oak trees, water moccasins down by the tank, and the rare and beautiful coral snake.

Removed them from my ranch, welcomed all others.

Made my friend happy.

Until recently. 

I learned that many people with more money than sense were buying poisonous exotic ( read foreign) snakes, imported by pet stores, and unfortunately — and presumably unintentionally — releasing them.

And the snakes adapt. And propagate. And some are dead ringers for some of our non-poisonous snakes.

A specific example: there is a native Texas snake, species unknown to me, a slender green snake, about a foot long, harmless  ... in 1950 I had one which entertained me by crawling into and out of my shirt.   

That was okay until it made an appearance while I was in the kitchen, standing near my Mother. Well, all three of us survived. But I didn’t take the snake into the house again.

Now I have information (isn’t the internet wonderful?) that a certain exotic, identical in appearance to my playmate of years long since, has been released and established itself in the wild, —  is propagating across the Gulf coast ... and is deadly poisonous!

The snakes were imported by a dealer in Florida, and eagerly purchased by lunatics who value the possession of a deadly snake. 

I won’t comment on that mentality — but it certainly is regrettable that the snake is now loose in the United States. A utility worker in Florida was bitten by one, with serious result.

About 20 years ago a COBRA escaped into the wild in Alabama. Not recovered.

How many other exotics are out there —  and may be indistinguishable from our native non-poisonous varieties?

So now, I’m back to killing any snake that I encounter on my ranch.

 Certainly we should, as the Donald suggests, prohibit the importation of foreign snakes. 

But there remains a concern for those already in our country.  And until there is a valid LITMUS TEST to identify those that are dangerous, all snakes must be regarded as potentially dangerous.