OK, I needed a chuckle to help me off to bed. So I decided to check out the weather forecast at rssweather.com, which is a nice weather site. Clear, uncluttered, but a little confused.

See anything strange? Might have to click to enlarge. The forecast for 1:00am and 2:00am is “Mostly Sunny.” I e-mailed the Webmaster to let him/her know that we’re actually expecting localized heavy darkness. I dunno, it might be “Mostly Moony.”

Now I can rest, and stir again from my burrow when it’s really mostly sunny.

Stopped by the store this afternoon. Needed, inter alia, some toilet paper. Actually it says Bathroom Tissue on the package. Is that better? A rose by any other name …

They had some big deals going on with this stuff, I’ll tell ya. Big stacks of it at the ends of the aisles — $6.99 for a huge lump; I guess that’s a pretty good price. But I just wanted 4 rolls. I was using one of the little hand-held baskets, not a cart. And I’ll tell you this, it’s practically impossible for a man to carry one of those baskets and look remotely heterosexual. Unless you drop it and kick it, you’re going to look gay.

The product I chose today is called Seventh Generation. The only brand I saw, except generic 1-ply, in a 4 roll option. It’s 100% recycled, hypo-allergenic, whitened without chlorine bleach, unscented, and has no dyes. It claims to save natural resources and reduce pollution, which are not normally things I think about when using such a product in my home; I’m usually pondering the vagaries of global power. But this motto caught my attention:

“In our every deliberation, we must
consider the impact of our decisions
on the next seven generations.”
— from the Great Law of
The Iroquois Confederacy

Whoa. It’s getting mighty deep now. Do you realize what this means? It struck me instantly, and with complete conviction: My toilet paper is more environmentally responsible than the present administration of the American government. Somebody find us a Slop Jockey Man, and see if he’ll run in ’08. Tell him it’s the Green ticket, not the brown.

CCR :

Did you guys know we’re holding children – juviniles under 18 – as war criminals at Guantanamo? I didn’t. That’s … not just unAmerican, it’s freaking uncivilized.

Imprisoned by the United States since the age of 15 Omar Khadr has been held under strict security conditions, often in solitary confinement, and subject to interrogation and torture despite his status as a juvenile.

When the military commission commences on January 11, Omar will become the first individual in the modern history of any international tribunal in the world, to be tried for war crimes for conduct allegedly committed as a juvenile. This ignoble precedent of prosecuting children for war crimes – something that was not done at Nuremburg after World War II, in the former Yugoslavia, Rwanda, or Sierra Leone, Kosovo or East Timor – will be established through American prosecution of a Canadian child. Remarkably, Canada has not uttered a word of public criticism in response.

Are you old enough to remember the song Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd?

Hello.
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?

It came out in 1979 when I was eighteen, and I remember being intrigued by the idea of a question like that. Could a person be alive and not at home in his body? Amusing. Or so far withdrawn into the darkness of his psyche that he couldn’t be reached by a normal knocking on the eyelids, an insistent rap on the skull? Hmm.

Let me put it to you this way: Where are you? I know, your first answer will be something like I’m at home, in the living room, at the computer desk. OK. That’s where your body is. Where are you?

Maybe you like to think of yourself as a spark of consciousness riding around comfortably (numb) in the damp and mushy mass between your ears, looking out through your eyes. That’s sort of what it feels like, huh? Like the driver at the top of a big machine.

Let me share something I read in a book recently. And yes, I really do push away from this computer from time to time and read a bit.

“The generally accepted belief is that we humans live inside our skin bodies; that we live in there with a peculiar assortment of gadgets which enable us to navigate them around in a limited sort of way. Enclosed in these skin casings we are supposed to get information from the “outside world” through the senses of sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste. I was taught this as a youngster and was supposed not to question it as I grew older. And I didn’t for a long time. But the thing puzzled me, bothered me. I could not understand how it was possible for me to live in such a damp, dark, disagreeable, disillusioning, badly arranged, badly ventilated, and uninviting place as the inside of a human body. Nor could I reason how it was I knew so much about the outside of my body while I was supposed to be imprisoned within the thing. It did not seem to make good sense.

Then one day a wise and experience spiritual traveler told me a startling and unforgettable thing. This: that I did not live inside my material body at all. But outside of it. Completely outside of it. Said he: “That skin contraption you call your body is yours, but not you. Keep that distinction sharply in mind if you want to get anywhere in existence. Your body is yours. But not you. It is no more you – that is, the real you – than your overcoat, or your automobile, or your fountain pen. You are consciousness. You are a mental not a physical, being. That which you have been calling your body is a mental concept. It may appear to be physical substance. It may seem to be and feel very real. But sooner or later you will be compelled, in one way or another, to realize that it is a mental concept, a formation of your own thinking, and so subject to your own thinking.”


from Letters to Strongheart
by J. Allen Boone, pp. 13-14.

Now let me pose the question again. Where are you? And just to really piss you off: Where are you going?

[to be continued]

dum de dum dedum …

Oh, hello.  Didn’t see you there.  Get out from behind that ficus, please.

I suppose you’re wondering about the new — tentative — name of the blog.

metaphrast

Bless you.

met·a·phrast   n.     One who renders a text into a different form, as by recasting prose in verse.

And there you have it. 

I like apples. I really do. This past summer and fall, I started eating a lot more of them, as part of an effort to have a more healthy diet. I feel better. I especially like Fuji apples, from Washington State. Apples are high in fiber, which is nice. But I’ll bet you didn’t know this:

Finish up those autumn apples. They’re good for your brain. Apples are high in quercetin, a compound with antioxidant properties that may decrease the risk of neurodegenerative conditions such as Alzheimer’s by protecting brain cell membranes. Quercetin has an even higher antioxidant capacity than vitamin C, studies suggest. Other ways to get your fill: tea, onions, and cranberries. [Link]

Can we agree it’s a great idea to try to avoid that disease? Oh yeah.

Dear Mr. Kimberlin:

Thank you for contacting me to share your support for the
AClean Water Authority Restoration Act of 2005″ (S.912).  I
always appreciate hearing from constituents on issues pertaining to
California’s water supply.

As a strong supporter of the Clean Water Act, I share your
concerns that the Bush Administration is seeking to weaken
wetlands protections based on a Supreme Court ruling (Solid
Waste Agencies of Northern Cook County v. Army Corps of
Engineers).  The Supreme Court determined that wetlands are not
subject to federal jurisdiction under the Clean Water Act based
solely on the habitat they provide for migratory birds. 

At this time, S. 912 has been referred to the Senate
Committee on Environment and Public Works.  Please know that
although I am not a member of this committee, I will keep your
comments in mind should this bill come before the full Senate.  

Again, thank you for writing to me about the Clean Water
Act.  I hope you will continue to write me about issues that are
important to you.  If you have any additional comments or
questions, please feel free to contact my Washington, D.C. staff at
(202) 224-3841.

Sincerely yours,

Dianne Feinstein
United States Senator

http://feinstein.senate.gov 
 
 

When I was in high school, about three quarters of the way through the last century, I had a girlfriend. Her name was Carol, and we went out for a couple of years. She grew up quickly and disappeared. I grew up – if at all – a lot more gradually, but now I own a condo. It happens to be very close to the condo where Carol lived with her family.

I guess I saw her at a class reunion in the early 1980s. Yes, we went together. And there was a wedding shortly after that — hers. The event horizon beyond which I have no idea, but I sure hope things went well for her. A good person, she, and life can be very beautiful and joyful. Or not.

The other day I was out for a walk and decided to try to figure out which unit was hers. I knew it was one of a few in a particular building, but I wasn’t exactly sure. Now I am.

Boy does this bring back memories. See the black door? Got some good kisses there. And that was her bedroom, above and to the right, behind the tree.

Things were fresh then, sweeter, more exciting. But sitting here now, at age 44, knowing what I do … if I could go back and have it to do over … we’d spend less time up there behind that tree, and more time at my folks’ place, playing with the dog.

A bland light is best to see it in.
Middle age brings it to flower.
And there, just when you’re feeling your weakest,
it floods you completely,
leaving you weeping as you drive your car.

— Joe Salerno

[For about 20 mintues on Friday 1.13.06, the name of the blog was changed from metaphor to what happened. Nothing did. –Ed.]

So, you think that’s going to help?

Help what?

Jump start the blog – you know – kick up metabolism by changing the name.

I doubt it.

I just don’t know about you sometimes.

Why?

Well I know what happened, and so do you. And being even more obscure will just make them all go read something better, or watch Larry King.

Good for you, smartass. What don’t you post what you know on the blog, then we’ll all know.

Forget it. It’s too ethereal.

Well I’m posting the best stuff I’ve got. And it’s getting about as many comments as the wallpaper in a whorehouse.

Maybe your writing just sucks.

Maybe you suck. And who’s Ed?

Beats me.

We get coffee, then.

Yeah.

I’ve been thinking about something.

Oh no.

Yeah, I’m afraid so.

Oh good grief, what?

I’ve been thinking of changing the name of the blog from metaphor to

What?

Grilled Cheese.

You’re insane.

Probably.

Oh good Buddha. Why?

I’m bored. My readers are bored. The little kid in the picture at the top of the sidebar is so bored, he’s leaving through that tiny doorway.

OK. You’re bored. That explains ditching metaphor. But why Grilled Cheese?

It’s my favorite food, and I’m on a diet and I can’t have any.

Then why not Sloppyass Cheesy Pizza? I thought that was your favorite food. Or Cherry Garcia? Or Tollhouse? That at least sounds like something.

OK, maybe Grilled Cheese isn’t my absolute, final favorite, but it’s up there on the comfort food scale, up there with meatloaf.

Now there’s a name for a blog …metaloaf.

Not metaloaf, bonehead. Meatloaf.

That’s what I said. So you’d have to tell everybody to change their blogrolls to make your url grilledcheese.blogspot.com?

Nope, that’s taken. No posts on it since August, 2002, but there’s a blog there.

I got it. Get metaloaf.blogspot.com, but call the blog Grilled Cheese.

Meatloaf is taken too. Metaloaf I could get, but it doesn’t make any sense. Asshat.

What about calling your blog Asshat?

Now there’s an idea!

Nobody’s gonna comment on this, Doofus. You’re just spinning your wheels.

Quit giving me ideas!

Ooh, I really got it: metafork.