A Respite

It is clear to me that this trinket mine has been played out. The veins have been dribble dried and there's nary a costume jewel nor glitter flake to be found. I have strip mined, deep holed and panned for every scrap that could be used and have arrived at the moment when it's time to pack up the mule and head down the mountain. The Monkeymind Mine is now officially shut down, boarded up, abandoned. A ghost or two may appear from time to time - all mines have them - but apart from those apparitions, all will remain quiet; silent as empty space.

Ciao.

Little Ado about Anything

There are thin, nearly see-through clouds loitering about this morning's sky. They are hanging there like petrified puffs of smoke which tells me there is no wind aloft to shove them on their way. Somewhat lower, tree level to be exact, there is an evident breeze as I can see leaves shimmering and shaking like your sister Sue.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Special K has a blog called, "Just Over My Shoulder." The other day I read this advice from a famous writer: Don't write about yourself, you're not that interesting. Putting those two things together, I've decided to write a blog called, "Just Over Myself." Bahdoompahpah.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Where are all the horror movies? It is late October, horror movie season, and our local satellite company, Juan's TV, hasn't aired any new ghastly or ghostly flicks in months. I mean, C'mon! There are zombies rising from their graves, ax murderers aplenty, vampires vamping and horny teenagers losing their virginity AND their heads, all while I'm subjected to either sappy boy meets girl or noisy he-man shoots many flicks. Borrrring!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

And talk about rain!

No, I don't want to.

It rained so hard last night there were ducks at our door looking for shelter.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Well there you have it. When I start talking about the weather, you know my mind has melted to mush and I might as well donate it to the nearest zombie or join the Tea Party. I hear tell they are both in search of brains.

******************************************************

Ciao.

There is no need for this blog

The world will little note, nor long remember what I blog here today, but four score and seven thoughts ago I had a killer idea; something about using parts of famous speeches to kick off the Monkeymind.

Wish I could remember what it was.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A dirty chalkboard of a sky out there this morning. Not the kind you'd really want to start your week or lift your sunken, post game, Sunday hang about spirits, but there it is, grey and greasy as the sausage gravy on your morning biscuits. Truthfully, though, I don't mind. I have my day planned and nothing in it requires blue skies.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

And so it was, yesterday. This morning the sky is, or might be, cerulean blue. I say "might be" because I don't really know what cerulean means. Wait a minute, I'll look it up. Well, there you go. It means sky blue. Okay then, cerulean blue is redundant. Sky blue blue. (If nothing else, that's fun to say: Sky blue blue.)

So anyway, yesterday, my well thought out, well planned day, went like this: I wrote a little, worked out a little, read a little, messed with the dogs some, got thrashed at Scrabble, watched no movies and lost no weight. Yeah, I know, you're thrilled.

Today though, what with that cerulean sky and all, I expect momentous happenings. I have a dog walk planned and those are never without incident. There will be chickens and other dogs to avoid, leashes to untangle, horse manure for the dogs to try to eat or, at least, to roll in - what is it with that? - and, well, who knows what else in the fascinating to retell category? My entire life is, as you can see, a pretty much thrill a minute kind of adventure.

Trust me. I'm not complaining.

If I were to complain, though, it would be about my not knowing the eight letter answer to the clue "Hopper and Turner" in my NY Times Crossword Puzzle. It's got a whole section hinging on it.

So there you have it, a brief history of time and the life of Indiana Jones in retirement.

Our fore fathers set forth on this page a new blog, divisible and unreadable.

The Tour De Doc

I've been afflicted of late with a scarcity of blogging ideas. My mind has been much too engaged with a deeply intellectual, complex, complicated, difficult to fathom issue, to bother with the incredible lightness of blogging. As you know, when a thing like that takes hold, it is tougher to shake than a pit bull's bite. I'm talking, of course, about football.

Not to worry though. I'm not going to write about football. I am, instead, as an olive branch to my middle daughter's new fiance, going to write everything I know about bicycle racing. Okay here I go: They do it once a year in France. All the riders wear silly helmets and tight bathing suits. Sometimes they crash.

I feel better now. It's good to shake off the slings and arrows of football mania. And speaking of arrows, I think the Florida State Seminoles have the coolest logo of all on the sides of their helmets, but I'm not writing about football today, so I won't elaborate. I'm writing about bicycling.

I'm not sure when the bicycle season begins. As far as I know, there is only that one race and it occurs in, I think, the Spring. The race lasts a couple of weeks, so that may be the full extent of the season. I could be wrong, but I don't think they have playoffs.

Speaking of playoffs, I'm in favor of a playoff format to determine the college football champion. I would explain why I have this opinion, but I'm not writing about football today.

The bicycle race they have in France every year is, they think, cleverly called "The Tour of France" although the French spell that differently. I don't want to be controversial here, but it's not much of a tour if you ask me. I mean the riders are all humped over and pedaling too frantically to really enjoy the scenery. Plus you don't get to see All of France, just some of it. When the cyclists go through a town they, in fact, don't get to see any of it! Flocks of French gather to line the roads and block their view. The crowds are so thick they make American sport promoters green with envy.

And speaking of green, I like any football team that wears green and white uniforms. Even green, white and black. Michigan State wears those colors and they are undefeated so far this year. I don't like green and yellow or gold as a rule, but I do like the Oregon Ducks who wear those colors. I like them simply because they are the Ducks. Who wouldn't want Ducks as their nickname. But I won't linger here, because I'm not writing about football today.

Unlike other kinds of races, the guy and his bike who cross the finish line first on the last day of the Tour of France is not necessarily the winner. This is not surprising when you consider, as I've said, the race is in France. What happens, as far as I can tell, is that a bunch of Frenchmen get together, drink some wine, nibble some cheese and then vote on the winner. The fact that there are a lot of people in the race and thus a lot of names to remember, may account for why, once the judges have settled on a name, that guy usually gets declared the winner several years in a row.

And speaking of winners, this is a tough year to predict the outcome of NFL games. There are a lot of surprising teams doing well and vaunted teams doing poorly. My team, The Denver Broncos, are not doing well at all and I would talk about why except I'm not writing about football today.

Another confusing thing about the Tour of Some of France is the issuance each day to one of the participants of a yellow jersey. This has nothing to do, I understand, with any act of cowardice, but is more like the game of "You're It" that children play. Apparently, the other racers have to catch this yellow wearing guy and if they do, then they get to be "It." I know this sounds confusing, but...again, this is a French thing we're talking about.

And speaking of French things, what's the deal with this guy Favre? (That's a French name isn't it?) The guy is always in the news and on my nerves. I'd like to discuss this, but it's football related, so I'll not mention it today.

In conclusion I want to mention PEDAL. As today's blog is all about bicycle racing, I thought I would enlighten the unenlightened (Because to enlighten the enlightened would be a waste of time) about what the acronym PEDAL means, so here it is: Performance Enhancing Drugs. Armstrong, Lance.

"What's Up?" You ask.

Well look at that, would ya. It's been over a week since I last blogged. What in the world was I doing all that time if I wasn't tripping the light fantastic on my keyboard? Beats me. Something productive, I'm sure, like helping achieve world peace or curing cancer. Not ACTUALLY those things, but LIKE them. I manged to get out of the house to buy Woowoo Charly some birthday presents which is an activity whose outcome is VERY similar to scoring world peace. Okay, so it's only the peace in our house, but I'm thinking that's a step in the right direction. AND, I did Effudix some spots on my face which does IN FACT cure cancer. Some kinds, anyway.

(I LIKE putting words in caps. It gives them EMPHASIS.)

(Emphasis? Sounds like a disease. "Her emphasis was improving, but she was still quite SWOLLEN.")

(Swollen? that's a funny word too.)

Alrighty then, where was I? I know, recounting the busy-ness of a week that kept me from blogging. Well, okay, I will confess. I did write another blog. It was about ligion, which is what you have before you have religion. I didn't like it, though, so I deleted it. Not every word I write is precious. Only this one: precious.

Here's an oddity: (Colons are cool. Semi colons are semi cool.) There is a device attached to most blogs called "Followers" that enables readers who sign up for it to be alerted, I think by email, whenever the blogger has posted a new one. I clicked on my followers this morning and discovered that three, out of a whopping five, were people who fell into the "I have no freaking idea who they are" category. If you are one of the three, please comment and be a pal.

Another thing I've done in the past week is read two thirds of Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom", all of "Huck" a dog story that is too long, some of "Zen Golf" which might be helpful, and I've made headway (Headway? How much does a head weigh?) on Paulo Coelho's "El Vencedor Esta Solo", a book I'm reading in Spanish. Factor in football watching on the weekend - an activity coded into my DNA at birth - and you will note that I have not been without productivity despite not blogging.

Also, I've been writing other things.

Other things. There, I've done it again.

Digging the Day

There is little in Boquete retirement to get your heart pounding, your pulse racing, and your undivided attention apart from the odd coral snake, baseball size tarantulas, scorpions, floods, earthquakes, strange noises in the night, (What-the-hell-was-that?) and the fear that Tea Party members might at this very moment be en-route to our happy home. It is little wonder then, that I find Football Season so much fun. Big Fun, in fact, which as you know is my highest rating.

My team, the Denver Broncos get short shrift from the national sports media so I...(Wait a minute. Short shrift? I don't think I've ever used that before. I better look it up. It means a quick confession to, and then absolution by, a priest. Who would a thunk it?) Anyway, the Broncos get a short one of those and I get little news of them during the week. Sundays, though, when they play, I am tuned in adrenaline at the ready, nerves all a-jitter, apprehension and excitement battling for space in my consciousness. I am, quite literally, a nervous wreck. And that, Sportfans, is what I call Big Fun! I mean, who wouldn't like that? Oh sure, there's always those people in their right minds, but be serious, nobody pays any attention to them. When the Broncos win, as they did yesterday - this winning thing an occurrence that for several years now only happens about half the time - I have noticed that the sun shines brighter, food and drink taste better, there are fewer alien abductions, and the face in my mirror looks goofily happy a degree more than is usual. The entire week following the game will be more pleasantly spent.

That said, I will now begin doing it, that pleasantly spending it part, because next week...well, it's not looking so good.

A Wise Decision

The sky was blacker than a villain's soul as I sat on the patio to listen to the heartbeat of the night; insects mostly, and a light breeze brushing across the surface of broad leafed plants. The loudest sound, the one most urgent, was the big dog to my front panting an eager huh huh huh huh as he waited for me to throw the knotted bit of rope that is his favorite retrieval object. The two small dogs, curled on padded, wicker chairs beside me were soundless, content, happy to just be out at this later than usual hour.

I was content too; flipping the dog's toy out into the yard and then patting his head gently each time he returned it to my lap. There was a half full glass of wine on the table to my right and a half smoked, small cigar beside it in an ash tray. The sweet, fragrant aroma of Reina De La Noches captured my attention each time the wind shifted to push it in my direction. I took off my glasses and placed them on the table as well. I wanted to see the world I was accustomed to, rather than the newer, sharper focused place the recently purchased "lentes" provided.

And then, in the midst of this amiable reverie, this calm, almost meditative state, The Monkeymind chimed in with a thought: What's all this nonsense about Universal Themes writers are always going on about? We don't know a damn thing about themes on other planets, let alone what they might be on other galaxies. I mean the Universe is a damned big place. The Milky Way Galaxy may have some overriding unifying thread that we might one day capture, but what about The Snickers Galaxy and The Three Musketeers Galaxy? Yeah, I say, what about them?

And following that, because I was now onto clearly large, important issues worthy of scientific inquiry, I began to wonder why I was still controlled by, and concerned about, Time, while Woowoo Charly gave less than a hoot. She took off her watch the day we retired and has never put it back on. Big fat I, on the other hand, resent having to take off my keeping-track-of-time-piece to hop in the shower. Where does Time go when it is not on my wrist?

I contemplated that for awhile, along with themes on The Baby Ruth and Clark Bar Galaxies. As I did so, I realized I was alternately opening and closing my eyes to see which was darker, the night sky or the inside of my eyelids. The sky won hands down. As it turned out, this was the only puzzle posed by the Monkeymind last night that got a definite answer.

When the Monkeymind turned from all these questions of great import to whether Tim Tebow should be used by the Broncos in goal line situations, a wise decision was made. I decided I needed neither that last half glass of wine or the remaining unsmoked part of my cigar. I locked up, went to bed and took the dogs with me.

(The time was a little after nine. I just couldn't help checking.)