This was done by a friend of mine a few years ago. Her Wal-Mart chalkboard period. No really, it's acryllic on a small child's chalkboard. She wasn't Catholic, either. A natural talent I would call her. She made these vivid primitives, most with the feel of the icon about them. I encouraged her to take commissions on painting furniture - a very Arts n' Craftsy kinda thing to do. I can easily see a lovely bench in an entry way covered with her work, or even better, panels in a traditional panelled wall each with a different scene. Oh to have a house to play with! Some day. Down south, I think, where a body can live comfortably.

I don't know why that is the case, but it's true.

My dog lives in another town. Did you know I have a dog? Well, you do now. My sons take care of him. Ooh - the unfolding of secrets. How dreadfully exciting...

Well, I had to go take care of my dog today. The boys are camping. I took the scenic route. I drove through the crazy quilt. That's what it looks like from a satellite view - a crazy quilt of forest, field, farm, and hill. It's the roads and creeks that make it crazy, like a spider web someone had smacked with a stick. Many of the roads are inaccurately depicted on maps. There are many that inexplicably change location, arriving who knows where? It is best to follow such roads when you have a little time on your hands. Just in case.

I'm venturing into the territory of the White Lodge which lies beyond the below-pictured gate. It's very pretty but a little dangerous. The myphets don't go in there.



Well, there oughta be a law against saying, "There oughta be a law!" But if there was I'd have been a criminal this morning.

Perhaps we need one law. Screw all the others.

As I was driving along I saw a lot of new houses being built, or relatively new houses that had recently been built.

Many are the scenic vistas here in my neck of the woods. We who live here often take them for granted. I think I have mentioned visiting a neighboring state where much ado was made over a particular vista which was accessible via dirt road in a State Park. When I arrived at last at the vista along with my father and one of my sons, this was our conversation, (while Dad went off on his own):

Me: "What do you see out there?"

My Son: "Trees."

Me: "Would you say that we are looking at a plethora of trees?"

My Son: "It is a relative plethora of trees. Can we leave now?"

Me: "Are we finished gazing at the scenic vista already?"

My Son: "We've seen trees before."

The view was billed as inspirational. I suppose it did inspire me to write about it. But the point is, we who live in this particular part of the world take such things for granted. No signs point the way to the overlooks here. The overlooks are - everywhere.

I'm going to walk through that gate one day and never return. This isn't my world. This isn't the one I was told I would inherit.

The law requiring us to wear seatbelts? - Screw that law.

The law requiring us to wear safety helmets? - Screw that law too.

Age of Consent? Screw the age of consent. Let men grow their balls back and become fathers again.

Drugs? - Legalize them.

If I'm going to stay in this world much longer - if I'm not going to just walk through that gate - we've got to do some serious screwing.

Screw the laws. Screw the legislators who name new laws after dead children, who pass new laws about what we can or cannot eat, can or cannot say, or think. Or how much money we can or cannot make.

Screw the laws in their multitude that dehumanize people, turn people into sheople - afraid of living, afraid of cancer, afraid of the sun, afraid of killers, afraid of thieves, afraid of death, of injury, of lawsuits, of bunnies, of sex - afraid of Public Service Announcements:

"The National Department of Mass Castration reminds you to not lock your infant baby in the trunk of your vehicle in really hot weather!"

You can't listen to radio, you can't watch the TV, unless you are OK with the fact that you will never stop throwing up.

But you can't make a law against fear. I'm getting off track. That happens in the crazy quilt, in the country, beyond the gate. Where I want to live. More importantly, where I want to die. You can't do the one without also doing the other. And a life that ignores its own death is wasted.

Let me turn left here at the top of this hill. Below is the view of Rhubarb Valley. It's not the best picture, but I took it from memory.



Let me scroll back a bit here - Where was I?

Houses! Yes - new houses being built in the hills. The oughta be one new law. Screw all the others. There oughta be a law that somehow enforces the appreciation of beauty.

These houses are built in order to take advantage of that view we so take for granted around here. That's fine. But I have a question:

Of what value is a view of Heaven from a house made out of Kleenex and spit?

I mean, who looks at these - things - these structures of soul-less junk, of prefabricated debris, and says, "Oh yes, that looks nice!" Who, in his right mind, says that? Who, in his right mind, can look and not be sick?

Maybe someone who needs to be reminded not to lock his baby in the trunk of the bloody car... I tell you there will come a reckoning. People there are alive right now who will destroy us. They will need only to blow in our direction and we will crumble into dust for there is nothing left of most of us than that.

Anyhoooo, I enjoy taking drives in the country. It's a really beautiful day here. The sun is shining. The temperature is finally becoming a little summer-like.

No, I did not take these pictures. I think I will get a camera soon, though. I may just.

Don Giovanni checks out Donna Elvira in the photo in the last post. It's not an exact parallel. And later on, when Leperello sings his song, no one laughs even though it's bloody funny. They could do it in English, no less. That's NPR for you - the sense of humor of the typical opera fan has been removed. Ugh - they do play some of the most exciting music in the world and those on-air vacuums of personality public radio keeps on life support to host the programs are so unbearably dull, unimaginative, and just plain cow-brain stupid they cannot manage to get excited about playing it.

Ah well.

I was in my favorite place today - Rhubarb Valley. Working for one of my favorite Rhu-villians, a great lady, concert grand harpist, children's book author, likes her Cheerios. Rhubarb Valley, where the women are green and the grass is a fleshy kind color. Rhubarb Valley, where there really is something in the water.

Well now. On the one side is East Hill; on the other side is West Hill - no surprises there. But in the shadow of East Hill is a place they call the Darkly Ravine, and there are things that go on in there, Leonard Nimoy In Search Of... kinds of things.

No Bigfoot, no. Sorry. They've got werewolves, though. Snarl is the name of their king, the king of the wild dogs.

But the rest of the valley is an impossibly happy place. The patchouli girls are right along side the local militia - heck, they're married to them. It seems like everybody's been married to everybody else at one time or another there. Rhu-villians are friendly people, and they're very hospitable. You might want to be sure you're taken care of after dark, though. They have fires. Everybody sings. Someone decides to bring out a guitar - some guy with wire-rimmed glasses and curly hair. Some guy who talks like NPR. Some guy who sees Don Giovanni and has no idea what he sees. The Squabbler must step on his head and smash his guitar. Dang - I hate that.

I like it when they do the drum thing, though. Banging on drums around the fire... There is nothing more vitally masculine than beating a dead thing between your legs, you know?

You would think that Rhu-villians have different kinds of lives than other people, and different kinds of problems. You'd be right. But there are a few things they struggle with. Like wind turbines. That's the big thing there right now. They've got little green signs that read "Go Wind Turbines" and little yellow signs that read "No Wind Turbines." It's funny, but most of the population of Rhubarb Valley - I think - is likely to lean towards the anything-for-alternative-energy school of thought on the matter. But no.

Here they are - see? These are wind turbines. They have a kind of Fritz Lang appeal to them. A kind of future-mondo-world where people have six belly buttons attractiveness.

So, opponents to having these - ah - things installed on top of the hills surrounding Rhubarb Valley say that they are not very efficient at generating electricity. First of all, there was no plan that they should generate any electricity for Rhubarb Valley. Secondly, the grid is apparently able to accept whatever power they do generate about 30% of the time, so the rest of the time they're just flapping around, killing birds - or whatever - without doing anybody much good. I don't know if that's true. I do know that many of the same people would like to see these ugly monsters built someplace - anyplace - else.

You know I knew a fellow who got fed up with civilization some time in the hippy days, and he went West and North to get away from it all. He moved to Alaska. Now, Alaska still had a Homesteading Act of some variety at that time, and this fellow chose the most desolate road he could find, and he drove as far on it as he could drive, and there he built his house. He figured some hikers would notice the smell and recover his remains in about 30 years, and that's how he wanted to spend his remaining days; that's how he wanted to die. Well, about four years later his little road turned into the main highway for traffic going back and forth in the building of the Alaskan Pipeline. And oh it was strip malls, Burger King - the works.

A while ago I suggested to one of those Rhu-villian anti-wind-turbine activists that it was really a simple matter of not wanting the ugly things in your backyard. Whoa, did he get wet! No no - it's not that! It's the 10 and 30 percent of this and that, and anyway Bush sucks. I said, Take it easy, I'm on your side, sunshine. I like nuclear energy. I think nuclear energy is cleaner, safer, more effective, and ultimately less expensive that any other kind of energy. But, if I just spent half a million dollars on a crumbling Victorian in the prettiest little village in the world - a little land maybe - a place with a casket door in the front parlor which I fully intended one day to use - after spending my life doing the right thing and making my money, and creating wealth for myself and others, and raising my children - you can bet your bleeding bippie I would fight against the construction of a nuclear power facility until I was black, blue, and mauve - IF they wanted to build it in my backyard.

It's really just that simple.

But anyhoooooo, Donna Elvira is actually looking for Don Giovanni - not trying to get away from him. That's the big difference right there. She's a spooky chick, too - a genuine spookshow baby. She wants him back. She wants the monster back. Or, she wants to send him to Hell. One of those. If Plan A doesn't work she'll switch to Plan B. She's flexible. She's psychotic. I love opera.

I think somebody should write a Rhubarb Valley opera. Come to think of it, I'm sure somebody already has. I mean, I think somebody should write a Rhubarb Valley opera that somebody else would actually listen to. There's a fine distinction there. I guess it's a question of...

Well, it's a question - an open question. We'll leave it at that.

I think I'm done now. Can I have my chocolate? 

Well, I was heading down the street yesterday morning towards my favorite coffee shop when my eyes happened to light upon the figure of a very attractive young woman across the way a bit who appeared to be walking smartly and with purpose in the direction of the lake. (My eyes do that sometimes, by the way - light upon, as it were). And well, one out of several on the street yesterday morning attracted my attention for reasons unknown. It seemed that she and I had a connection of some kind, though I could not put my finger on why exactly, and I was frustrated by the fact that I could only see her from the back and would have to have broken into a run in order to catch up and come 'round her front. A mystery woman, surely.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was looking at my ex-wife. It's funny - I didn't recognize her without her customary battle axe and machine gun.

I will post something more interesting later, I promise.