I haven't even had a chance to listen to this one, so I'll be coming back in the morning to hear it for myself. Let me know what you think.

Below you will find this week's story, "Mr. & Mrs. Martins" by Edla Van Steen.

Where am I going with this?

 

Can you tell? You who have been reading? Some of you can. As this blog has continued I have gone through a few changes. We are all changing. We are all moving in whatever direction, either one way or another.

 

At the very beginning of this I had told you about extremes – how there is no such thing as a “little” extreme, and I explained why. In the middle – in the wilderness between one extreme and the other – is where most of us think we reside, but in reality we are no more a “little” extreme than we may be a “little” pregnant, and in the middle between extremes there is nothingness, a void, the gate to Hell itself. We have already arrived at our extreme destinations. Our minds take a little while to catch up with us.

 

This is why in politics there is really no such thing as a “moderate,” just people who are fearful of catching up with themselves. They don’t think; they merely feel, and then they react to feelings.

 

The Squabbler introduced me to the whole idea of unplugging from the world, and in some circles they have a saying: “If you can’t change it, and you can’t accept it, the only thing left to do is haul ass.” That’s quite correct.

 

I’ve written about freeing the mind from the false information provided on a daily basis by the anti-culture, but of course the willingness to do so must be based in the conviction that the information is false. Black has been turned into white? Up has been turned into down? No – of course not. But people have turned themselves upside-down.

 

Someone who is completely in it is in it for life, and is lost. The willingness to unplug must be based at least in an inkling or suspicion that something is wrong. It bugs the hell out of you. Your whole life long you find that you don’t fit in with other people; you don’t belong. When even the most intelligent and informed people speak you think that they must be stupid because they are missing something obvious that you so clearly see.

 

As life continues you find that you are vindicated in every particular.

 

Now, before some of you begin to vomit your Serenity Prayers you should know that there are things we cannot change that are unacceptable no matter how one prays. This is because God doesn’t really give a damn about acceptance, and so He is not going to grant it to you. One can only accept what is true and reject what is false; one cannot accept what is false no matter how hard he prays for it.

 

We lie to ourselves about a great many things. A world which is growing “smaller” because of communication media and transportation technologies can hide no one who can truly claim invincible ignorance.

 

I’ve written about the conscience becoming informed – the information received by the conscience. It is a process we would rather be deaf, blind, and dumb than to be forced to endure, but here it is. We can’t look away; we can only pretend that we haven’t heard. Or we can choose to pretend to believe something else, but it’s only a pretense. It’s a lie worth killing to maintain.

 

Most of what we think and do is based on lies. The result is self-loathing. The result is that we seek comfort to the exclusion of anything else – a balm to salve a soul at war with its own self: Materialism, the worship of the five senses.

 

Some of us – instead of being at war with ourselves – are at war with the world. And we lose every time. I can’t be at war with the world; I’ll lose. One fights wars to win, and with no other purpose in mind.

 

This blog is – among other things – revealing a process which will ultimately bring me to a point where I can no longer continue to write it. This computer may be the last thing I unplug, but nevertheless I can see that there will come that necessity. I’m heading in a particular direction from which there is no turning back, towards an extreme. One by one, all things in between fall into the bottomless pit. Each step is like a flagstone suspended over the nothingness, and as I take the next one the last one has already fallen away.

 

We are all changing. Some may say they are growing. It’s a lovely word. I know what they mean by it. I don’t make that claim because I have found that when another person says I am growing what he really means is I am becoming more like him – and what if he is wrong? Well then, growing in such a way would be a tragedy.

 

“Suspense!” tonight, thank God. And I’ll find a story to read for tomorrow.

 

At Chateau Creekside last night my son and I watched some television. My caterer friend, (whose house it is), owns a rather nice one with a flat screen. It is quite large. Everybody looks fat.

 

I had brought a volume of stories by Somerset Maugham to read, and found that I had already read them all. My friend’s library is comprised chiefly of Non-Fiction, books by Michael Savage next to the ubiquitous Animal Speak, volumes about reincarnation, holistic medicine, blah-dee-dee-blah-blah. Blah. According to one of her Astrology books, it is in my stars that I shall always be alone.

 

I’m not kidding.

 

Sometimes I can stand the television for brief intervals. We had sat down there to view Star Trek Enterprise a few days ago. It was OK; silly on a friendly level. He and I were able to discuss what we were watching. I told him about an old 60’s episode where Spock goes girl crazy because Vulcans do at regular intervals, (whereas it is our misfortune to be thus afflicted at all times.)

 

Last night, however – last night was different. I could not stand to watch for longer than 30 minutes or so. The program we were viewing – and, I cannot actually remember what it was – was not particularly engaging. A cartoon in the manner of The Simpsons, set in “the future.” Perhaps it was the commercial for K-Y personal lubricant that sent me over the edge. I began to experience anger.

 

So, I moseyed on into the other room to sit by the fire and not read. Whatever shall I do if not to read? Pray?

 

This is interesting: our requirement for entertainment is completely fulfilled by the mind itself. Stimulation (or, what we bring into the mind through our senses) is abundant in every environment. To choose one environment over another is a matter of preference, or of mere habit. Having acquired a particular taste or habit, sometimes we must learn to appreciate environments outside of this custom.

 

But I took the easy way out: I decided to listen to some music.

 

My MP-3 player has added to the long(ish) list of inferior gadgets which help me to appreciate my home stereo system all the more. Alas, my caterer friend has no actual stereo system – just a “boom box” here and there – but I have improvised with a pair of Altec computer speakers. After listening to a few selections through these I became discontented, so then I tried positioning them on the floor, one on either side of my chair.

 

All that seemed to do was to direct the sound of those allegedly multi-directional speakers into the rug. It did, however, make a closer approximation of stereo. At last, I discovered that by turning them upside-down and at an angle so that they faced the ceiling cornices on either side of the room away from me, only then was I satisfied that I had reached the pinnacle of their performance.

Unfortunately, at the pinnacle of their performance they are inadequate.

 

Eventually my son wandered into the room, and he began to dance to Parliament. (He really is quite a good dancer, by the way. I told him that one particular move of his was “cool.” He said, “Anybody can do that.” I said, “I can’t.” He said, “Sure you can.” I said, “I can approximate the motion, yes – but I cannot do it without it appearing that I have been shocked by something which is dead on the floor before me.”) Well, that cheered me up. And he would talk and talk, like a kid does when his guard is down. I know to enjoy it as I can.

 

“Nothing on TV,” he complained. (This was after I had regaled him with a synopsis of the Akira Kurasawa film Kagemusha.)

 

“There never is,” says I.

 

He is reading Romeo and Juliet for school. They both die – it’s too bloody funny.    

I put the new Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds video in comments. It grooves. The lyrics are so-so.

 

As you know, I belong to an on-line discussion/fan group related to NC. Without my membership in that group I would never have heard about the new release. The active members send links and what-not. They also bicker with each other endlessly about nothing. The dude’s a pop singer. I like his music. But that’s all it is. Big whoopty-doo.

 

I delete all the comments, save the links.

 

I used to have a beer stein with a pewter lid in which I steeped my tea. It held about 24 ounces of fluid and so I would nurse it all night. When the tea got to be about room temperature I liked it best. It was some Chinese stuff that looked thin but felt thick. It opened the back of my throat with a storm of flowers.

 

Don’t know why I mentioned that. I had a dream of stacking wood.

 

Well, the WT just called to ask if we could begin our day half an hour early. That’s interesting. But it cuts into my writing time. Oh well.

 

Happy Day.

I heard two versions of the story. Yesterday my older son ran into the White Tornado at the grocery store. He was plugged into his personal stereo so she threw some Rolaids at him to get his attention. She calls him The Little Dude.

 

This morning she (the WT) called to tell me she ran into my son (the LD) at the grocery store yesterday, but she went into a little more detail. The Rolaids part is the same in both versions. Apparently, she instructed him to attend her outside, and when she came out they had a lengthy conversation.

 

I was wondering what act of divine intervention had prompted him to do his homework without complaint or delay last night. Turns out it was a human intervention, but that’s not to suggest it contained nothing of the transcendent. Beyond whatever parentis-in-loco authority she managed to work on the boy, I learned that together they agreed that I really need to go shopping for new clothes.

 

The car I gave her is already on the road. She’s only had it a day. There it was – sitting in my driveway for a year, useless to me as I am useless (or nearly so) when it comes to repairing cars. Well, you know she just put one of the men in that bunch on the task, up on their hill top – her hill top. I am beginning to realize she is becoming the family matriarch, though not that her mother has abdicated; let us say she is retired. The road they live on is named after them, you see. They live in the hills. The family can trace its history in the region back a very long time. They are the people I call pioneers. They call themselves hillbillies, and well that’s their right, but I call them pioneers.

 

You know, it’s only since the 1970’s that this area I’m living in has been much ruined – er, I mean developed. During the 19^th Century it was an extremely prosperous area. There was not a tree to be found around here. Every square yard that was tillable was tilled. Around the turn-of-the-century things started going downhill fast. Populations were cut in half, less than half, within just a few years. People moved to where the money is, just as we do today, just as we have done since Adam left the Garden.

 

It’s beautiful finding cemeteries out in the woods, out in the middle of Nowhere. And you know it had to be Somewhere not that long ago, somewhere people lived, worked, went to church, had babies, died…

 

I’d like to look into buying a few of those old cemeteries, or at least coming to some understanding with the landowners which would allow them to be maintained. I do know there are several organizations which specialize in just that sort of thing. Heck, I could start one.

 

You take care of the hill and the hill will take care of you her late father had said. Having a hundred-odd acres of good timber in these parts will pay for a lot of things.

 

New clothes? Nothing is less valuable to me. I don’t look that bad, do I? Didn’t we have Fibber McGee buying a new suit last week – or the week before? When was that? I find that all my objections are pretty much the same as his were. And we laughed at him. You already know I don’t run around naked. I would, but it’s too damn cold.

 

Well, my son would have me dressing in silly-looking stuff from Hot Topic. It looks fine on him, but I’m over 14. I don’t know what to buy. I know suits. Suits are easy. I go to the men’s store, tell the fellow to measure me, and I’m all set in a few days. But with the kind of casual day-to-day clothes people wear I’m totally lost. I’m like Hugh Hefner in one way, and one way only – I wear pajamas (or the like) every day of the week.

 

New clothes make me itch.

 

But I like that he did his homework. A father can rant and rave, cajole, threaten till he’s blue and it may fall on deaf ears. Just look at us when it comes to keeping the Commandments. But that five-foot-nothing White Tornado somehow managed to motivate him. He was impressed enough by their meeting to tell me about it, anyway.

 

So now I know what I must do to communicate with my older son. From now on, whenever I have something important to say to him I’ll wing him with a pack of Rolaids. Then I’ll work some wonders – just you wait and see.