When they told us about Buddhist monks who never ventured outdoors after dark, for fear of stepping on ants or grasshoppers, I was captivated. It smacked of the kind of fantasy that I had always assigned to those stories that foster doubt. You know the ones- bottomless wells; the hook on the car door after leaving lover's lane; the late show on the last night of the fair at the hoochie-coochie show, where they showed everything.
Well, sir, I ended up one of those folks who will do anything to avoid hurting a living creature. I venture out after dark, but not often. It's not really because of bugs, so much, but that's a different story, for another blog. I'm not really a Buddhist. I suppose I'm more of a mutt, when it comes to denomination.
The day has come to treat my house for termites and my heart breaks. I've managed to relocate the albino frog family from the front porch and I've arranged for some new digs for a few lizards who call the carport home.
Now, I'm not crazy and I don't want my house to fall down. I would be lying, however, if I denied that I have dreaded this event.
This is a long-winded explanation of why there won't be blogs for a few days.
"Would you be willing to consider that you're more sentimental than she is?"
"So, can we agree that she's an extrovert and you're an introvert?"
Let me express my heartfelt gratitude for the women who have dragged me off to therapy.
As a kid, I pored over movie magazines. I had my favorites, of course. I would be lying to you if I said that Alan Ladd or Jeff Chandler meant as much to me as Tuesday Weld or Jayne Mansfield. My life preparation was based, pretty much, on Photoplay and Modern Screen.
It became obvious to me that movie stars all had psychiatrists. In my youthful naivety, I concluded that movie stars were all crazy.
My first experience with a therapist had one purpose. Once I was pronounced "crazy" we could solve all our problems. Of course that pronouncement came quickly in the first session. No surprise. When the other person in the room was tagged a minute or two later, the tears began.
Suddenly I realized that movie stars are all wealthy. They have therapists because they can afford therapists. We all need them!
These days, I'm old and I'm not wealthy. I'm alone and still crazy. Life's pretty good.
Now, I am aware, of course, that every generation leaves something of a mess for the ones coming behind them. Still, I can't help but feel tremendous empathy for Generation X, the Millennials, Generation Z, and the ones not yet burdened with a demeaning tag.
We know better. We were gonna make love, not war.
Oh, we have plenty of the good ones. They just don't make the rules.
We know what the consequence of burning down the Amazon forest will be.
In this country we spend vast fortunes building airplanes longer than football fields that we can strap atomic bombs to. To insure peace, you understand. We laugh at the lady who suggests that we could afford healthcare for all of our citizens. Meanwhile, we have slipped to #33 for infant mortality.
We're 33, we're 33! U.S.A! U.S.A!
For my part and on my own behalf, I am truly sorry.
It seems hypocritical to offer advice. Here goes- Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Try, always, to get back to love. Be kind.
Show me an outfit that opposes war, supports peace and justice, teaches equality, stands up for the disenfranchised and promotes love and I'll give you my credit card information so that you might renew my membership annually.
Oh, I want to rescue strays, disable weapons, feed the hungry, build homes for the homeless and outlaw guns and the internal combustion engine, too, but I figure we gotta' start somewhere.
Take a good look around. Jesus couldn't get the nomination from either of those two parties. Buddha couldn't get booked on Ellen.
This is not my century, boys. Neither was the last.
Now, how I ended up between the two of them, I don't know. There was Bucky Fuller on my left and Dr. Bronner on my right. They were both giggling like schoolgirls, slipping little, folded notes to each other behind my back.
Nobody up here opposes anything, as in "anything goes." Pansexuality isn't racy, it's just a normal state. If you can imagine it, it's normal. Ain't no victims in heaven.
These two are flirting because it's fun.
Dinner this evening is egg nog and eggplant parmesan. The menu is your imagination.
So is the music selection. Little Richard is in heavy rotation tonight. So is Grandpa Jones and Billie Holiday.
Of course what makes it heaven is the presence of everybody I've ever loved.