Fools in April 2020

3/29/2020: Up at about 2:30 AM. Tried to get to sleep again, but no go. More obsessive straightening (I wouldn’t call it cleaning) and rearranging, and planning in my head what to do tomorrow. Prayers, Bible. Went to bed about 4 AM, setting the clock for 6:25 AM.

Got up, prayed rosary, and had Mass on EWTN. Andy called me in at 9:30 AM or so and I fried bacon and eggs and made pancakes. Cleaned up. About 12:45 they called me from shopping. I got up and got an apple, then started sorting the Writing Files. They needed it. Put Elf & Bear stuff together in order, and Alben stuff, and Gothenburg stuff, and AGODP stuff, and Ortha stuff. The diaries, poems, and dreams were in good enough shape. Sorted the rest into Ideas, Story Beginnings, Developed Stories, completed Stories. That leaves [sigh] the Drawings to work on. It’s now almost 5 PM.

Not too long after Susan came to me and asked me to start supper. I tried a new idea: cooking the hamburger in a baking dish then cutting it into square patties, and it was simple and worked a treat. Also fried onions and mushrooms together for the patties and made avocado dip and there were some very nicely spiced HEB Taco flavored tortilla chips. Andy had been mowing and doing other yardwork all day, and he began again after supper. Came out and watched Kenny reading more Jungle Book and came to his aid when he fell short of his time by reminding him there was a second Jungle Book. ‘Tis now 8:30 PM, and he should be back shortly to read Dracula. Which he did. As usual, there was an interruption as he froze before the end. Bah. Bed 10 PM.

 

3/30/2020: It was a cool night and I think having a thicker pillow to cushion my knees helped. Still alarming pains in the veins and general weakness, with some loss of stability when I get up, especially if it’s dark. Up about 4:30 AM, wrote some notes on “A Friend You Haven’t Met” (AFYHM). Dressed, prayers, Bible. Now 5:30 AM.

Wash at 9 AM, which I finished by 11 AM. Ramen at lunch. Made broccoli salad. John called and told me he was off work (paid) for a while. Amy was off as well (not paid). He told me that just before all this coronavirus started, Morgandy got a package direct from Wuhan, China, and they’ve been in dread of that for a while. Poor John. He seems particularly worried.

Supper fish rings and couscous. The drizzly rain of the day finally let up by evening. Rosary. Went in at 8 PM and made Kam supper, washed up, and retired for the night. Moved action figures from one bureau to another. Listened to Kenny reading The Second Jungle Book and then Dracula.

Had a strange reluctance all day after making the notes in the morning to write anything. The usual apprehension of not being able to match my conception with the actual incarnation. Well, tomorrow is another day. I hope.

 

3/31/3030: Up about 7:30 AM, showered, dressed, said my prayers and read my Bible. Watched Perry Mason face a gorilla.

That Good Old 1960's Gorilla

 

Translated a page, wrote a paragraph, went in, and boiled eggs and made chicken salad. Had ramen, with an egg and bread. Borrowed a mirror from Susan when they came home for lunch, and I buzzed my head. Kam has some school project on his plate; doesn’t want to work on it just yet but makes sure I stand ready to help him.

Sunny but cool all day. Watched some “House”. About 3:30 PM went in, grassed the dogs, fed the pets, stuffed the peppers, and shucked the corn. Brought the garbage bin in. Supper ready at 5:30 PM. Got a good block of writing in on AFYHM (4 pages) and some notes. Interrupted my flow to help Kam with his homework – a dreadful thing for a 56-year-old man to have to worry about. Went in and washed up, then returned home. Said Rosary, and now at 10:30 PM I’m ready to hit the hay. Tomorrow’s April Fool’s Day. Sheesh. I wouldn’t be surprised with the country being as paralyzed as it is if some fool still tried to flush a cherry bomb down the toilet of the world for the hell of it.

 

4/1/2020: Up about 6:30 AM, prayed, wrote a couple of pages of AFYHM, more prayers, Bible, than transposed a page of KK [King Korm] while I made some ramen. Now about 8 AM. Went in at 9 AM and made Kam his bacon and eggs. For some reason I’m particularly ravening this morning, so making some more ramen (with bacon grease, bread, and a leftover bell pepper cap) right away. Heard news of Rick and Morty new episodes come early May, so that’s a thing. Sunny, but a little cold this morning.

From e-mails to John: I got up fairly early when my brain juice was still pretty fresh and surprised myself by producing a few entire pages on the new story (tentatively titled "A Friend You Haven't Met" or AFYHM for short) in a sort of breeze. It was still getting things 'cranked up' but I found it so technically fascinating, even apart from what was happening, that I galumphed along until I found a good stopping place. There are still a few introductions to do, but the real action is immanent. So we'll see how that goes. Afterwards I translated a page of script to prose, and I vowed that I never would do bits in script again - unless I'm writing a script. It's not hard but it's irksome.

I was reminded of [a quote] this morning for some reason and posted it on Facebook. Here is the longer version of the anecdote:  

 

The story is told of Zusha, the great Chassidic master, who lay crying on his deathbed. His students asked him, "Rebbe, why are you so sad? After all the mitzvahs and good deeds you have done, you will surely get a great reward in heaven!"

"I'm afraid!" said Zusha. "Because when I get to heaven, I know God's not going to ask me 'Why weren't you more like Moses?' or 'Why weren't you more like King David?' But I'm afraid that God will ask 'Zusha, why weren't you more like Zusha?' And then what will I say?!"

Later: And here it is, almost evening. I spent the early afternoon starting to sort drawings, and it’s been so many years since I actually looked at them, that they were a sort of revelation. I'm making a special file of drawings by and of the family; there a quite a few by you in there. I've also started to gather, for the first time, all my "Last Drawings of the Year", starting from 1982. There are quite a few gaps, and I don't know if they are still misplaced, accidentally thrown away, or just never got drawn. As I say, there is much sorting yet to do. I'm also putting groups of drawings associated with specific writings together.

For supper, I brewed a prodigious pork stew that should last for at least two days. It contains pork roast, onions, celery, carrots, potatoes, and cabbage, and there is jalapeno cornbread on the side.  I'm dreading this evening, for Kam has computer homework to do, and guess who is assisting him? Gathering his attention and getting him to work is like herding cats.

And so: Kam and I worked on his stuff, and it wasn’t so bad, except that for one of his assignments a site he needed to reference was down. I finished going through the drawings, finding a few more last pictures, beat the folders into some kind of shape, and put them back. It was something of a revelation looking at them again with a distanced eye, but also with that inner knowledge of their place and origin in different times of my life. I could write a short biographical explanation about each of several 1000 pages! (That’s just a guess, as to number.) Listened to Yen reading Dracula (missed the first part of the evening, helping Kameron). 

Found an old drawing by Susan (she must have been about 7, she says) of the back yard at Loop Drive. A blast from the past, indeed. She also reminded me that I need to get in gear for SSI [Supplemental Security Income], a daunting prospect.

 

4/2/2020: Up about 5 AM, showered, dressed. Short prayers, but also Litany in Time of Plague. Caught up diary and looked at sites. Ready for longer prayers. Prayed, and did Rosary.

Family Medical Center: 303-5224. Appointment Monday, April 13, 10 AM. Well, that’s done.

Since Kameron had to be up to meet his pastor, he was ready to go ahead and do his homework after lunch. That’s out of the way.

I was ready to go in at 4 PM and grass the dogs when there was a sudden boom of thunder, and it began really raining. When it slows down, I’ll go in to heat the stew and take care of the pets.

Did so and went in about 7 PM to clean up. Got some Broccoli Salad and a new thing, Kameron’s miniature Jack-in-the-Box tacos. Watched Elijah play some world of Warcraft, then Yen reading Jungle Book and Dracula. Lost the connection about 10 PM. Wrote a page or so of AFYHM. Read some ghost stories.

Ready for bed, I guess. Having little stinging, shooting pains in my legs, abdomen, and now throat. Is this it? Is it coming on me? Now my hand. Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of Hell, and lead all souls to Heaven.

 

4/3/2020: Up at 6 AM, still alive. Dressed, prayed, Bible.

From John:  It's been pretty weird.  I've been doing various chores, both inside and outside, when the weather has allowed; looks like we are in for a pretty rainy week ahead, so probably not a lot of lawn work will be in the offing for a while.  Reading, watching various things and trying not to think too much about the horrors sweeping the globe.  It just seems like a bottomless pit of shit, to be sure.  Do ya'll have any masks? It would probably be a good idea to wear one if you are heading into the Family Clinic- that place is kinda skeezy even in non-plague times. Ask Susan- they probably have them from the shop, for painting, etc. We are past the point of worrying about over-reacting to this now. We got our new washing machine delivered today, and boy, has that been great, being able to catch up on laundry. Not having one for last couple of weeks has certainly added to the stress- we could use the Loth's washer, and did a little, but the pain in the butt of ours crapping out right as society crumbled was pretty harsh. But now-luxury!

Made Kam eggs and bacon. Made myself ramen for breakfast. At lunch, ramen again, with an egg. About 3 PM started preparing the fried potatoes (peeling, getting the pan) and spent right up to 5:45 PM frying them. We had supper (fish, taters, broccoli salad); I said a rosary about 6:30 PM. No writing so far and I don’t know if I will. Day rainy, damp, and cold.

 

4/4/2020: What a blaugh day. Hard, heavy rain, and cold. Prayers, Bible. Ramen for breakfast, ramen for lunch, with the house closed up and didn’t see anyone until 4 PM, when I got Kam to do homework and I got leftover broccoli salad and (what else) ramen. Finished, went in, and got the leftover chicken salad. Watching “Targets” Boris Karloff, Peter Bogdanovich. I did write 3 new pages on AFYHM and sent the whole thing so far to John, in a fit of ennui. No kid’s reading from Yen tonight; Dracula later.

E-mail from John, as I sent him AFYHM so far: Ha! Okay, this is going to be fun! Just saw I had this a little while ago- I've been pretty much bumming around today, and finally checked in on the wide world.  We watched "Time Bandits " last night- I almost cried just from the sheer nostalgia it evoked. I watched "Brazil" a few nights back- that one is still the brilliant bummer I remembered, seeming more and more prescient every time I watch it again, which has been about once a decade these last few times. The idea of Roth and Korm on the loose in "Walnut Springs” is certainly tantalizing! I love the Monroe Engbrock and Danny Daniels references! Keep rolling, if the weather allows- that heavy gray is certainly a zap on one’s gumption.  I finished "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance " - an interesting philosophical examination which, strangely, but not unpleasantly, had more to do with Greek philosophy than Zen, although that does tie in, in the ineffable way it can tie in to anything else.  Send more when you can!

Notes

So the town of 'Walnut Springs' is based on my hometown of Seguin, Texas; indeed that used to be its name in the old days. 'A Friend You Haven't Met' (see elsewhere on this blog) was a strange little endeavor, a bit of fun to bring together the Bureau of Shadows with the Morg/Ortha stories; I had been writing so many of both then. The tale brings a lot of town lore into it as well, suitably fictionalized; it is indeed almost 'a love letter to a town'!

I remember what a struggle it was to get Kameron to settle down to his homework, to resist the temptation to just do it for him and be done with it! I'm pleased to say in the end he completed his work by himself; my input was mainly encouragement and guidance, and getting him to buckle down to it. I'm afraid he had some of my dilatory, last-minute nature. 

What a lot of cultural balloons we kept and keep in the air to help our spirits stay alive! Perry Mason, Dracula, The Jungle Book, Time Bandits, House, Boris Karloff, -- even Rick and Morty, to an extent! I remember how sad it was seeing certain resources sputtering out, certain shows discontinued, as the lights went out all over the world and we huddled around our campfires.

As you can see by my health panics and my recollection of Covid times, I have a tendency to pessimistic dramatics.

A Wish That Your Heart Makes?

I have sometimes fancied that it will one day be our restored preternatural power (either in Heaven or after our Resurrection) to have total recall of our past, whether to relive the best moments of our life and have them grow sweeter in the process, or to recall our worst moments and repent and redeem and heal them with forgiveness.

And I’ve further fancied that this total recall would cover not only our waking moments, but our dreams, and we’ll finally know clearly what they meant and whether or not they were simply the brain clearing out mental garbage. I have further farther imagined that we will somehow have the power to finally share these dreams fully, and not just as a clutched handful of fading, withered images. Perhaps my most tenuous hope is that others will finally see what I mean and might actually be interested in them.

I have attached these thoughts to Tolkien’s theory of Subcreation, which found the most full-bodied example in Leaf by Niggle, where the imaginative production by an artist is given reality and things half-guessed are at last fully expressed and perfected in the afterlife, thus adding in their small way to the creation of the Prime Creator. There are people in my dreams I would like to meet, and dreamscapes I would like to wander and explore. And as for my waking creations...! Korm and Roth already seem real and separate from me, and I would love to explore the streets of Morg City. And Bob Bellamy might be able to teach me a thing or two.

Of course, the flipside might also apply if I go to a not-quite-so desirable afterlife. Complete memory might be an added pain and affliction as I relive all my poor decisions and missed chances. I can remember some nightmares that might well add to the pains of Hell. But then Hope is one of those virtues that I try to hang onto. And I reflect that if my strange whims and fancies about Heaven are not true, then something better will be.

As King Arthur in Excalibur might say, “It is a dream I have.”

 

Life is Brief, But When It's Gone, Hate Lives On and On

Just yesterday I had made some offhand remark about my grandmother, Nanny, to my nephew (she would have been his great-grandmother), and he asked me, “Did you really hate Nanny so much?” I was immediately reminded of this quote from King of the Hill: “Hate is a strong word, Mr. President. That’s why I used it.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9B7egX52K2Q Hate

“Sylvia Doiron was born on December 31, 1920 and passed away on Wednesday, November 12, 1997. Sylvia was a resident of San Marcos, Texas.” - The only obituary I could find.

"Dr. Pym has only treated one side of the psychology of murder. If it is true that there is a kind of man who has a natural tendency to murder, is it not equally true”—here he lowered his voice and spoke with a crushing quietude and earnestness— “is it not equally true that there is a kind of man who has a natural tendency to get murdered? Is it not at least a hypothesis holding the field that Dr. Warner is such a man? … “So we see,” resumed Moon, in the same melancholy voice, “that a man like Dr. Warner is, in the mysterious workings of evolution, doomed to such attacks. My client’s onslaught, even if it occurred, was not unique. I have in my hand letters from more than one acquaintance of Dr. Warner whom that remarkable man has affected in the same way. We are in the presence, as Dr. Pym so truly says, of a natural force. As soon stay the cataract of the London water-works as stay the great tendency of Dr. Warner to be assassinated by somebody. Place that man in a Quakers’ meeting, among the most peaceful of Christians, and he will immediately be beaten to death with sticks of chocolate. Place him among the angels of the New Jerusalem, and he will be stoned to death with precious stones. Circumstances may be beautiful and wonderful, the average may be heart-upholding, the harvester may be golden-bearded, the doctor may be secret-guessing, the cataract may be iris-leapt, the Anglo-Saxon infant may be brave-browed, but against and above all these prodigies the grand simple tendency of Dr. Warner to get murdered will still pursue its way until it happily and triumphantly succeeds at last.” -Manalive, G. K. Chesterton.

So it was with Nanny. Was it a simple coincidence that her first husband chased her around the house with a knife? Or that her last husband (and her last ‘boyfriend’) both threatened to kill her? Or that her own oldest son said that they had to part, before he killed her or killed himself? When she finally passed away (from natural causes, to all appearances) there was still some speculation among us about whether she had been done in. When the man who was going to preach her eulogy asked my mother and her other brother if they remembered any particularly happy or tender moments they wanted mentioned, they were both stumped for an answer. And they were the people who most defended her while she was alive.

Though God knows why Mom did. I suspect it was a form of Stockholm Syndrome. After Nanny and Poppa Harold separated, Nanny made sure that Mom never contacted her biological father again, more as a test of loyalty than anything else. I think Nanny withheld her from Harold out of spite to him rather than any other reason. My uncles did contact him in later years, but Mom never dared to. When Nanny passed away, and we learned that Harold himself was on the downward spiral, Mom finally was able to talk to him. I was surprised; I had never been told my biological grampa was even alive.* Nanny kind of robbed us of that, as well. Her several ‘replacements’ (she could never hold onto anyone for long) were never grandfatherly people.

Nor was Nanny a grandmotherly figure. She was neither sentimental nor nurturing, and she saw us grandkids as a resource to be used or exploited for cheap labor. Even when we lived with her during college, we paid her rent with the added drawback of no privacy and always to be on hand to mow the lawn or move furniture between her several beauty shops. The upshot was we overheard her calling us “stupid Germans” to her last boyfriend, who she didn’t mind lavishing funds and support on to keep him tied to her crumbling charms.

And Mom was treated no less as a resource. When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to become a second Shirley Temple she was trained as a beautician, to help Nanny, and when Mom ran off to marry Pop (partly to escape Nanny, she later admitted to us kids) Nanny sold everything she left behind. Still Mom stayed devoted to her (she was her mother after all, and you only get one mother) and would pick herself up (even when she could barely drag herself along with arthritis) and travel 30 miles, often with us kids as additional labor, at Nanny’s whim. Mom took classes with H&R Bloch just so she could do her taxes at her insistence. Nanny still favored her brothers (who were smart enough to live out of easy visiting distance) and held the thought of ‘inheritance’ over all their heads to compel … well, their love would be too warm a word. Perhaps attention. And that in the end proved an empty lure, as her businesses were closed and she was almost broke.

Well, it’s been nearly thirty years since she was found alone and collapsed on her way out to the garbage bins. In the aftermath we found out a lot of things about her: her birthname Arzenath, how she had supported a foreign college student (Arabic?) but never her own grandkids, and her metal box of ‘dirty tricks’ (including saltpeter to cut her last husband’s sex drive). Do I hate her? Perhaps not as much as I did, but I can’t bring myself to feel any affection for her, mainly because of how she treated Mom. I remember how I was moving beds around for her once, and she held a shotgun from under one of them. Wherever I moved, she kept the barrel pointing at me, even when I asked her not too. She seemed amused at my nervousness; I think if she ‘accidentally’ shot me (“I didn’t know it was loaded!”) it would have mattered not one whit to her except as a momentary annoyance.

Still, she was my grandmother (“The same blood flows in my veins. The same weakness.” https://www.youtube.com/shorts/7fB2MiFiXp )

And the past cannot be changed; all that is part of my story. “That’s why I hate it.”

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/PCKkVkXyi6s )

My only comfort is that I’m still here to set the record straight. As I know it. Take that, you old ... witch. I forgive you on my own part, but I cannot forgive you for Mom.

*My brother John explains: "Even worse - the Uncles had awesome relations with Harold the whole time, hunting, fishing, hanging out at his ranch, as did our cousins. We did not even have the knowledge that he was alive. They were also able to inherit from his not insignificant estate."

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Two)

The next day the Market in Morg City was closed and vacated by noon, leaving the vast central area of tables and benches eerily empty. Booths were erected across the four great entryways and registrars took their places next to swing bars, and at the last stroke of the hour, young male Morgs began making their way into the square, some warily, some triumphantly, some merry, some sober. The one thing they all had in common was that besides being clothed in the same simple crude robe of rough material, they carried nothing whatever with them, not the simplest trinket or plainest rag. For the next few months, all they had was to be supplied by the kingdom.

Korm said farewell to Uncle Akko in the street outside, gave his name, address, and parentage at the turnstile, then was handed, much to his consternation, a stick.

“What do I do with this?” he asked, puzzled.

“Keep it and take care of it,” the harried registrar said, head bowed over his parchment. “During your training, that stick will be your sword, your spear, your shield, and your, ah, well, your stick.”

“A sword?” Korm asked incredulously, looking at the well-worn length of wood.

“You didn’t think we’d give you gorbs a sharp piece of metal right away, did you?” the other said acidly. “Next!”

He had barely stumbled blinking into the sun of the market when he was suddenly accosted by a hearty, roaring voice on his left.

“By Mog’s starry crown!” it boomed. “That’s the most magnificent beard I’ve ever laid eyes on. Surely here’s a fellow destined for greatness!”

Korm turned instinctively to his left at the sound, cringing warily. There, already seated on a table and surrounded by a host of followers was a big barrel-chested Morg with a broad black beard. Although clothed no differently than anyone else, there was an air of habitual command and casual strength about him. He held his stick effortlessly in the crook of his arm, like a scepter.

Korm bobbed his head, only wanting to slink by, but to his dismay the other jumped down from his perch, landing gracefully on his feet and approaching in one confident movement, arm extended. He pinioned Korm’s shoulder with one strong claw, and the skinny young Morg found himself shaking hands before he knew quite what was going on.

“Glad to meet you, fellow Cadet. And what’s your name, friend?”

“Korm, son of Tessa,” he managed to squeeze out breathlessly. The other’s grip tightened.

“Good, good. By the gods, what a beard! Korm,” he repeated with satisfaction, as if to fix it in his head. “Well, sir, I am Nast, of the House of Keth.”

“The House of Keth!” Korm squeaked. He looked at the other in awe. “I’ve heard of the House of Keth!”

There was general laughter from the big Morg’s companions.

“You’d have to be a blind mole-rat not to have heard of the House of Keth!” one barked.

“One of the richest, the oldest, the most famous …,” one started listing.

“Oh, but we’re all the same here at Camp!” Nast bellowed jovially. He shook out the sleeves of his tabard, then held one open with his claw. “You don’t see any jewels tucked up here, do you? What we gain here, we get by merit!”

“I guess that’s true,” Korm started, then squawked when Nast pounded him on the back.

“Of course it’s true! And I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot more about you, Mr. Korm.”

He gave a cheerful parting handshake and a grin and finally let Korm go. The skinny Morg hurried away from the babble of hearty voices as Nast rejoined his group. Although he had been pleasant enough, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nast was somehow mocking him.

Whatever the case, the encounter had been too overwhelming for Korm. He skulked away, head down, to the perimeters of the Market where pillars from the surrounding buildings held up shadowy eaves. He started to duck behind one of the pillars when he was startled to hear a voice pipe up.

“Sorry. Already taken.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Korm began, trying to duck away hurriedly, but one furtive glance at the speaker stopped him cold. His muzzle dropped open. “Oh, my,” he said softly.

“Don’t worry,” the other said, voice full of rue. “It’s not catching.”

Before him, sitting almost defiantly straight on the bench next to the nearly hidden table, was the palest Morg Korm had ever seen. The stranger’s skin was a mottled pink, like boiled ham, and his light buttermilk eyes looked back at Korm unflinchingly, as if daring him to come up with a comment that he had never heard before. But the most unusual thing that struck Korm dumb was his beard.

It was long and thin. It was wispy, the hairs almost silken fine, threads rising like restless spiderweb in the nearly non-existent wind. It was everything a beard shouldn’t be, according to Morg lore. And it was yellow as butter, yellow as straw, yellow as false and fleeting gold in the old songs. Korm stood petrified with curiosity.

The other let him look his fill for a full beat, then looked away casually.

“It’s not catching, but if you stand there like that much longer, you might catch a fly or two in your mouth.”

Korm unfroze.

“Oh, I am sorry. Please forgive me.” To the other’s vast surprise, Korm approached him, hand out in greeting. “Korm, son of Tessa.”

The other shook hands, eyes wide in wonder.

“Prull, son of Prinn,” he said. He looked Korm over appraisingly, as if searching for signs of duplicity. “You really don’t mind … talking to me? Even shaking my hand?”

“No. Why shouldn’t I? You’re the first fellow I’ve ever seen of your … ah … type. I hope you’ll pardon my curiosity. It’s just the way I am.”

“Hurr,” the other laughed bitterly. “Folks do like gawking at a freak.”

“Not at all,” Korm said. “A rarity, perhaps. An anomaly. And it is the anomalies in the world that can teach us most about the truth.” He gestured. “May I sit down?”

“Not afraid of a bit of bad luck then, are you?” Prull asked, his tone challenging.

“Oh, I’ve had some training with my uncle as a Witness,” Korm said. “They have to go everywhere, to see without judging. There’s no good luck or bad luck, I think. There’s just the world and what people make of it.” He sat down.

“Well, that certainly doesn’t jibe with the Lore I’ve heard,” said Prull, smoothing his beard under his claws. Even his nails were nearly transparent. “And believe you me, I’ve heard everything bad there is to hear about a yellow beard. If you think differently, I suppose that makes you a bit of an anomaly yourself, Master Korm.”

“I suppose so.” Korm grinned in happy surprise. He looked around the square. More and more young Morgs were flowing in, finding their friends, making groups, and sitting down. The noise level was starting to rise. “I wonder if we should try to mingle more with the others.”

“You might,” the other growled. “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my old dad. ‘All your brothers went,’ says he. ‘You’re not going to flout the traditions; that’s the last thing you need. The most they can do is send you home.’ It was all right for my brothers. None of them were … like this.”

“But maybe if more people got to know you … got used to seeing you … “

“You think that will do any good, when even my own family … Let’s put it this way, any bit of mulishness on my part when a boy was put down to the beard. Any bit of bad fortune that came the family’s way? My curse. It’s made me toe the line more than most even try. But if my own madra can’t hardly stand my presence …” Prull gestured at the growing throng. “What makes you think they will?”

“Well, what makes you think they won’t?” Korm countered. He loved to debate. “You can’t really be sure what people will do, until they actually do it, can you? Even if most have rejected you, even if most will reject you, you could make a friend or two. And for those who don’t – forget them. Don’t make their job easier by doing it for them beforehand.”

Prull snorted.

“You really think I could make a friend here?”

Korm leaned back in his chair with a little smile.

“Well, you and I seem to be getting along pretty well, don’t we?”

That seemed to stump the other for a minute, then he grinned back at Korm.

“You’ll excuse me saying so, Mr. Korm, but you don’t exactly strike me as having the biggest store of common sense in the world, at that.”

“Well, Mr. Prull, that’s another opinion we have in common, then.”

They both laughed at that, a laugh that was suddenly interrupted by the distant solitary stroke of the bell in the White Tower, announcing the first hour after noon. It was immediately followed by clanging bells from the market gates.

“Five minutes!” a voice bawled. “Five minutes before we commence! Five minutes and the gates are closed! Draw near the podium. Five minutes, and we commence!”

Korm jumped to his feet, like a trained dog. He started forward, then looked back questioningly at Prull.

“You go on ahead if you want,” Prull said, settling back. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

Korm held back for a few seconds, then looked helplessly at the blonde Morg.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I have this compulsion about being late. But I’m sure we’ll see each other again. We’re stuck together at Camp anyway, right?”

“I understand,” Prull said. “Go, go. I’ll be somewhere here at the back, but I’ll be here.” He shrugged. “I have to be.”

“Thanks,” Korm said. He turned reluctantly and began to make his way to the milling crowd that was crowding around the raised platform at the south end of the square.

Notes

This little bit gave rise to the Morgish tradition of ‘gorb’ and ‘gorbos’. As The Morgish Lexicon states:

Feckless Gorb

While most scholars agree that Gorb (or Feckless Gorb, as he is popularly known) was a real historical figure, living sometime in the uneventful years between the Settling and Barek and the Ogre Invasion, though it is sometimes jestingly asserted that it must have been his grandfather who kept the pilot logs during the Migration [in which the location of the Morgish Homeland was lost].

He is hard to pin down to a definite date, though, because Gorb has become a byword for a clumsy or thoughtless person. While some of the anecdotes connected to him are possibly actual incidents in his life, it would be hard to say which, as many tales and jokes became attached to him over time.

As a character, Gorb is never described as feeble-minded or crazy, but thoughtless, careless, or foolish in the extreme. He could be wise if he was paying attention or applying himself, but he never does. A gorb is inexperienced or unskilled; the term is applied to beginners or novices.

Gorb also gave rise to at least two popular sayings. One goes “Well, Gorb’s madra loved him.” The story goes that he was accidentally responsible for his mother’s death, and that with her last words she forgave him. The colloquial meaning implies that one may be enamored with one’s foolish actions, but they could lead to disaster. The other says that “Gorb is the only one remembered from his time,” meaning both that fame is not necessarily good, but also that it is anyway a form of immortality.

There is also a light form of comic poetry, called ‘gorbos’. The verses are short, seldom more than four lines long, with a loose but definite form. They purport to recount Gorb’s amusing adventures. The following is a typical example:

“Feckless Gorb milked a billy,

Put the squeezings in his tea.

Took a sip, frowned, and grumbled,

“This tastes rather odd to me!”

 

It also reveals a rather odd prejudice or superstition among the Morgs, the same sort of unfortunate beliefs that have followed albinism through the ages, or the left-handed, or the red-headed in our world. I deepened the lore by attaching it to Karn, the contrarian son of Mog Gammoth, who had existed in some form since the early 1980’s. And thus the groove wears deeper. I knew Korm had to have some other ‘outcast’ or marginalized friends at camp, to oppose the socially entrenched privilege of Nast and his party. A ‘Nerds vs. the Snobs’ situation, as it were. I didn’t quite realize how Eighties a trope that I was using until recently.

The rather loose oath 'By the gods!' used by Nast basically means 'by all the supernatural powers', and would include Morlakor Shyreen (the Supreme Being), Orathil (a Mother Nature type), their Manichaen offspring Aman and Belg (Good vs. Evil), and the Yorn (Angels, both helpful and wicked). That Nast would lump them so carelessly together in a casual oath shows he has no real belief in any of them. If he has any 'religion', it's faith in the superiority of his family. As Uncle Akko might say, this does not augur well for him.

Synchronicity?

Last night for maybe the first time in a year I found I could look at my book A Grave on Deacon's Peak again, maybe because it was mentioned so often in the diary entries I've been posting. At the end of Chapter Two, 'Up a Crooked Path,' the Bellamy family and Mr. Culpepper encounter a pod (or rafter) of wild turkeys walking out of the woods next to the Deacon's cabin. Today when I went to take some recycling out to the bin, I saw these four birds strutting across the yard. That white structure is no cabin, of course; it is one of the original ticket booths from Disneyland. My sister bought it. We sometimes, but not often, see wild turkeys in transit, remarkable to me in that we are only a few blocks from the town square. It is an odd coincidence.

 

Thursday Thoughts: Inhuman, All Too Inhuman

I was thinking this morning about The Tales of the Morgs, and I started wondering about why I could write so easily about the Morgs and but only with more difficulty about humans, particularly "modern" humans. The obvious answer that occurs to me right off is that since I made up the Morgs, nobody can say what I say about them is "unMorglike". Only I can tell myself whether they are going off-model, as it were.

Of course, there is something about "inhuman" characters that is particularly appealing, especially to children or uncomplicated persons. Little people like Bilbo, animals (even stuffed animals) like Pooh, creatures like the Scarecrow or Raggedy Ann, are frequent heroes in children's literature. Imaginary races, like Hobbits in general or Harry Potter-type wizards and even Vampires, can be so appealing that there are people who identify with them in real life, even going so far as to dress up and pretend to be these creatures. So-called "furries" can carry their admiration for animals a bit too far.

I think part of these impulses go back to the fact that we associate being human, especially adult humans, with a peculiarly guilty state. Whether tracing it to the Fall of Man, or the destruction of the earth through greed and carelessness, or an imagined paradisal state of innocence when we were children, we feel that humans, when they reach the Age of Reason, are bad news. Some of us would rather not be part of that club, so we eschew membership and try to identify with something else, something less fraught with consequences.

"He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." This, of course, is not to solve the problem, but to erase the equation altogether. And like most erasures, you can still see the outlines underneath. We can't become Hobbits, or Wizards, or Bears, or Living Toys, or even Morgs. But we can see the virtues they can embody, and strive to imitate those. We shouldn't be contented to lavish our love and care only on pets rather than children.

In short, it's hard to be a human, especially an adult human. But it should not be abandoned, it is folly, to simply count yourself out of the group. Doing so does not make one inhuman; it simply makes one a once-human, human remains, a creature aping another state that you cannot, by nature, belong to. I like the Morgs. I like writing about them; it is a way to write about the human condition at arm's-length, as it were, in 'laboratory conditions'. It is when I am writing about humans, especially adult humans, that I am balked and wary.

Wideo Wednesday: Spring Fever?

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, "Bother!" and "O blow!" and also "Hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "Up we go! Up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.

"This is fine!" he said to himself. "This is better than whitewashing!" The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.

…

It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting—everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering "whitewash!" he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working. 

-The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-RuBfKfPOk To Spring

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FElfbVO3NeE Spring is Here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjuF_wiOds0 Spring Cleaning

 

Tolkien Tuesday: We Interrupt Our Regular Program ...

“All about the hills the hosts of Mordor raged. The Captains of the West were foundering in a gathering sea. The sun gleamed red, and under the wings of the Nazgul the shadows of death fell dark upon the earth. Aragorn stood beneath his banner, silent and stern, as one lost in thought of things long past or far away; but his eyes gleamed like stars that shine the brighter as the night deepens. Upon the hill-top stood Gandalf, and he was white and cold and no shadow fell on him. The onslaught of Mordor broke like a wave on the beleaguered hills, voices roaring like a tide amid the wreck and crash of arms.

As if to his eyes some sudden vision had been given, Gandalf stirred; and he turned, looking back north where the skies were pale and clear. Then he lifted up his hands and cried in a loud voice ringing above the din: The Eagles are coming! And many voices answered crying: The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming! The hosts of Mordor looked up and wondered what this sign might mean.

There came Gwaihir the Windlord, and Landroval his brother, greatest of all the Eagles of the North, mightiest of the descendants of old Thorondor, who built his eyries in the inaccessible peaks of the Encircling Mountains when Middle-earth was young. Behind them in long swift lines came all their vassals from the northern mountains, speeding on a gathering wind. Straight down upon the Nazgul they bore, stooping suddenly out of the high airs, and the rush of their wide wings as they passed over was like a gale.

But the Nazgul turned and fled, and vanished into Mordor's shadows, hearing a sudden terrible call out of the Dark Tower; and even at that moment all the hosts of Mordor trembled, doubt clutched their hearts, their laughter failed, their hands shook and their limbs were loosed. The Power that drove them on and filled them with hate and fury was wavering, its will was removed from them; and now looking in the eyes of their enemies they saw a deadly light and were afraid.

Then all the Captains of the West cried aloud, for their hearts were filled with a new hope in the midst of darkness. Out from the beleaguered hills knights of Gondor, Riders of Rohan, Dunedain of the North, close-serried companies, drove against their wavering foes, piercing the press with the thrust of bitter spears. But Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more in a clear voice:

'Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.'

And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness sprang into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, a long echoing roll of ruinous noise.

'The realm of Sauron is ended!' said Gandalf. 'The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.' And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightning-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell.
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

Well, today is March 25, the day of the destruction of the Ring and the Downfall of Sauron. Long before 'Tolkien Reading Day' was organized by the Tolkien Society in 2003 (to encourage, promote, and celebrate the life and works of J. R. R. Tolkien) I and certain members of my family were using the Tolkien Calendar to celebrate with a reading from the books, the 'destruction' of a mock-ring, and such feasting as I could arrange. I'm giving my summation and notes a pass today; it is my rather forlorn hope to work on it the rest of the week and finish the chapter next Tuesday. It is a hope that I have. 

March 2020 Diary: Slow the Spread

3/22/2020: Up very early (4:30 AM?) to write down dream. Then started a new document to mark down new terms for the Morgish Lexicon. Then prayers, Bible, and partook in a Mass on EWTN. The sound was off, but subtitles on, which I read aloud, and I had a very moving experience at the elevation of the Host. Then worked more on Lexicon, trying to mark the Seven Beards and reconcile what I’ve said about them already, then went in and baked cake [For Andy’s birthday]. Had Kam’s leftover tacos for breakfast. Went in at 1 PM to ice cake, and a little later we had a piece and sang Happy Birthday. Finished Lexicon, mailed John a copy, and had some ramen with leftover mushrooms for lunch. Saw some old Electric Company animations – “Happy Birthday Miss Jones”. Not rainy today, but very muddy, and cloudy and cool. Ready for a nap, I think.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIK11lzM35Y Miss Jones

Had a nap. Rosary. For supper we had leftover Chicken Express, and I had to eat up the chicken salad from Tuesday. About 8:30 PM Yen started reading AGODP [A Grave on Deacon’s Peak] and got through three chapters. He’s using a Kindle version, which I am not sure got all the corrections and updates it should have, and it followed his reading of “Treasure Island’, which is a hard act to follow. In the wake I went back and read the whole book again, which I haven’t even looked at in months. It is now exactly midnight, and I think I shall hit the hay.

 

3/23/2020: Up at 6 AM, prayers, Bible. Straighten up the house. Another day of quarantine, or, as I should day, another day quite as usual for me, as the only place I ever went in a week was usually church. And I do miss that. Susan and Andy provide for me my daily wants; they bear the brunt of the burdens of these times, and I pray daily for them, and thank God for their charity. Now that KK is ‘finished’, I must consider my next move: to work on rewrites or finish the next chapter of BB2. I could do both, a little at a time I suppose. Get the machine cranked up and going. Hopefully things will dry up today. We sit in the shadow of doom, and there is some good in it: whether we believe, as the Chinese claim, that COVID-19 is somehow an American plant or plot, or whether it started naturally in China with some people eating bats, the universal encounter with suffering gives us a common cause and experience, and, paradoxically enough, while it physically separates us it can actually remind us of our shared humanity, our connectedness, and make us thirst for human contact. In the shadow of death, we show whether we are a light or simply another part of the darkness. ‘All that can be shaken will be shaken, and what cannot be shaken will remain.’ And that’s my thoughts on that.

Watched a lot of Electric Company animations and skits today, recalling old catchphrases that entered our Babellian speech.

Ramen (with eggs and bread) for breakfast, a turkey and cheese sandwich for lunch, and then broccoli salad and ramen with couscous for supper. Laid down and napped, then up and washed up, and then Kenny was already reading AGODP. He read FIVE chapters, and I can’t believe how quickly they went by, when they took so long to write. There was one listener that seemed very enthusiastic about it. [Ann Bellinger]. Afterwards Yen said Isabel had read KK and loves the Morg civilization, and Morgs in general, and that fills me up with happiness. Now almost 11 PM, and I must to my Rosary.

To John: Not a whole lot going on; that is to say, no writing, yet, as such. Just my normal Monday tasks of doing the wash, making a broccoli salad - it takes over an hour! - for the week, and today I forced Kameron to get out of his pajamas and dress in REAL CLOTHES, so at the end of this quarantine he won't have devolved into wearing a diaper. I can't believe I actually welcomed the sun after the moosh of the last few days. I feel myself wondering is it hot or do I have a fever, the sneaking fears that plague you during a plague. I'm doing a little devolving myself, watching old "Electric Company" episodes - not completely, but zipping forward to animations and familiar skits. Of course, the ubiquitous Bill Cosby is all over it, as he was on Captain Kangaroo and other kids shows, which makes it a little odd. It's weird to see little bits and pieces that recall old phrases. "My Brother's Mother is My Mother Too (or Nosferatu)" or "Happy Birthday Miss Jones, You Sure have Nice Bones" (or Steve Jones).  Also started again on Marcus Aurelius "Meditations"; his style is mellifluous, but almost too fast, you have to really slow down to analyze what he's saying - but that could be the translation. More of Kenny's performance of AGODP tonight. I told him R.L. Stevenson was a hard act to follow. He told me a friend of his had ordered a copy last night. 

 

3/24/2020: Up about 7 AM. Dressed, prayers. To spare our bottled water supply (which is suddenly at a premium) I am switching my Lenten fast object from tea to candy. Let me explain. I make my tea from hot tap water, which does not tax our bottled water (out of the tap it tastes foul, but with tea and sweetener it’s – tolerable). Given my physical disabilities and the present situation, I understand it is allowable – but it still makes me uncomfortable. Now 9 AM.

To John: I should tell you that Kenny read 3 chapters Sunday night, 5 chapters Monday night, and I reckon he'll finish the last 3 chapters tonight. It's a bit humbling to hear what took me so long to compose finished in three nights. But it ain't LOTR - and that took years to write. 

Breakfast: Leftover boiled eggs. Lunch: ramen with an egg and bread. Supper: corn on the cob (but not for me – no teethshes), turkey chili, and rotini noodles.

Cooking supper was a hot business, especially since I started a little late (I had just turned a page of ‘script’ into ‘prose’ for KK), and Kam wanted ‘grill cheeses’, and I couldn’t figure out the key to the outside freezer (but now I know). Rosary. The evening was spent listening to Yen read Treasure Island, and then the last 3 chapters of AGODP, which he ended by praising the rest of my BoS tales. So I end the evening on a high note here a little after 10 PM.

 

3/25/2020: Up about 6 AM. Showered. Prayers, Bible.  At 9 AM made my ramen, and chicken salad (a mistake on my part, but forgiven); had a sammich for lunch and made cornbread, then at 2 PM started the stew. Pork stew, with onions, celery, carrots, and potatoes. Lovely. Rosary. Went in at 8 PM and made Kam Tx toast and taquitos and cleaned up. Opened the outside freezer for the first time. Came back in, then started watching Yen read Treasure Island.

Today I wrote about Mora Madra, Mog’s wife, then a small history of Gorb, a Morg mentioned as an epithet in KK. Happy with these compositions but haven’t heard any feedback yet (9 PM). The night is basically done.

An old memory: us brothers taking a bath together, ‘drinking’ bathwater out of a blue plastic whale and calling for Darby M’graw.

 

3/26/2020: Up, and prayers, Bible, dressed. At 9 AM made Kam bacon and eggs and had my ramen. A little after noon, more ramen, and a chicken salad sandwich. Rearranged my room for the Rotts, as the exterminators are coming. Grassed the Chis at 3 PM, penned the Rotts up in the Guest house by 4 PM, Andy and the exterminators came, then I let the Rotts (after combing huge hanks of fur from their coats) out about 5:20 PM. Susan was home. I heated up the leftover pork stew. I wrote one little poem (They Say Swans) and translated about half a page of KK. With the couch moved I fixed up the shelf behind it, moving books and cleaning up. Kenny started Jungle Book tonight and continued Carmilla. Rosary. Shower. Now 10 PM and ready to sleep. But shall I? The room is in a new configuration.

[SWANS, THEY SAY

Swans, they say, before they die,

Intone one last melodious cry.

Even so, when Death comes winging,

I hope that it shall find me singing. 

3/26/2020] 

3/27/2020: Woke up about 2:30 AM, and when it became clear I wasn’t getting back to sleep, got up, did some more straightening and rearranging, and said my prayers, read my Bible, and said my Rosary for Friday. The Rotts seem to be barking outside – or is it the neighbor’s dog? Why am I so restless? Now the big couch is in a very good spot to watch TV, and the loveseat is facing it – which covers up a few books, but not entirely. Maybe I should translate the other half of that page. The germ of a story idea: Korm and Roth somehow get through the Domain of Doors and visit Earth. Muzzles disguised by safety masks? Ancient Bob (expy of me) encounters them and gets them home? Did some calculations: if I live to June 7, I will be exactly Mom’s age when she passed away.

E-mail to John, which pretty much sums up the day to 2 PM:  Yesterday we had a visit from the exterminators, which necessitated me having to host the Rottweilers for a while, which meant I had to move some furniture to corral them off from more sensitive areas. This led to them shedding copious amounts of fur with all the scratchings I had to apply to calm them down, which led to a great sweep-down when they left. This led to a re-arrangement of furniture, which put my couches both in a better line of fire for the window fan and a better distance to watch the TV from, and more access to some shelves. THAT led to a better propping and clean-up of those shelves, and THAT led to a sudden ambition to straighten up the Archives, which had gotten shuffled around a bit through the months. Also striking me in the middle of the night was an idea for a bit of fun; a new short story which I wrote on most of the morning, which I think YOU might be the only proper audience for, so Babellian it be. I can't say the Archives are in perfect shape yet, but - and I can't stress this enough - they are better than they were. This sort of thing usually takes a pass or two before I'm completely satisfied. This going through the Archives reminds me of my nagging ambition to get a printer and make clean physical copies of all my work, both new and old.

For supper made Gorton’s fish in butter, fried potatoes (a tedious process, since I made them here in the guest house on the hotplate), and broccoli salad. We all ate together for a change; it was nice. Worked on the Archives and got things closer to some kind of order. Especially on my “real life business” file and a file bringing the BoS materials together. Found a few stray fortune cookie fortunes. Dead Ready!

 

3/28/2020: Woke up about 2:30 AM. Caught up on Diary. Perhaps this will be a new schedule: up at night to work, then about 11 AM nap, then afternoon family concerns until after supper, then entertainment until about 11 PM, then another nap (for I cannot call it sleep). Dreaming about the clean, orderly, physical heft of my writing, printed out in neat binders. New ambition: get the files on the computer into a neat, print-ready form. Laid down again about 5 AM.
Up at about 8 AM. Looked in my shoebox pictures and found cache of “Last Picture of the Year” drawings and put them with the others. I think I need to borrow one of those garage sale tables for a while to make a really thorough sorting. Wrote more on “A Stranger You Haven’t Met”, incorporating much Seguinite lore. After a brief ransack of the kitchen closet (which ended up in better order) I found I had put the fortunes up in a tin in the cabinet over the sink, so I was able to add those 3 I found. Try to remember this! No omelet this morning so I made myself some ramen (with a bun – those buns Susan gave me Thursday). Looking in the shoebox of drawings in the Archive I found more Last Drawings and put them together with the others. When I ran a couple of bags of trash out, I found it was dripping with rain, but not too bad, and cooler. Now it’s almost 11 AM, and what shall I do? I feel like organizing; maybe I don’t need the table. And there’s always computer files.

So I went to the clothes closet, took out the bin, and found enough space for the shirts from Pop’s little dresser, which freed up 3 drawers – put cards from the Archives into the Christmas Card Box – and put tote bags into the little fridge drawer. Makes everything look neater if nothing else. Just rescued a toad out of the kiddie pool at 11:30 AM and got him out of the Rotts’ reach.

Rosary by 12 noon.

About 3 PM called in to make tacos, and we ate at 4 PM. Andy’s been mowing most of the afternoon (the rain having cleared up). Now 8 PM and I wonder if they’ll want anything for supper or just eat leftovers. Making tiny obsessive straightenings all day.

So, no cooking supper. Dithered a bit, and then went to bed.

Notes

I've been rather jealous of the 'moosh' of five years ago: this has been an uncomfortably dry year so far. We just had another German chocolate cake for Andy's birthday; some traditions persist. 'Dead Ready' was an old goal: to have everything in place and organized in case I dropped dead.

I was really on fire with new ideas at the time and the will to implement them; no doubt on a high from getting AGODP published and anxiety over the Covid situation. 'When a man is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.' - Samuel Johnson.

There are two seasons that always move me to cleaning and 'straightening'; Fall and Spring. That's when I'm prone to an overhaul of things that have grown rather slipshod over time.

Just found out that my grand-niece Julia has been born, at 12:50 AM, weighing 7 pounds 9 ounces and 20 and 1/4 inches long. Huzzah!