Taking Inventory

It’s 1845 hours on a Sunday evening and the temperature is so pleasant I don’t even care what the number is. It’s just right. Robin and I are going through a mild frenzy this season, each day finding something we don’t need any longer, haven’t needed for years, and reassigning it to another location. There are several such locations here in Paradise, where you will find Goodwill, the Salvation Army, and Habitat competing to receive our donations.

As one gets older there are categories of things you absolutely know you have no need for and never will. Anything that one might use in repairing a roof, for example. The only way I would climb a ladder to work on a roof is at gunpoint, and even then it would be a tossup. If I were to slip and tumble I pity the poor emergency room physician who had the job of deciding which end of this crumpled mess was which and where was my head, for goodness’ sake.

A few years back anything that had to do with hunting went away. Guns were sold, cleaning tools tossed out, racks passed along to new sportsmen. I had been a hunter and one day the whole tawdry process of killing for amusement just seemed too cruel, too soul-deadening. I left that “sport” behind much later than a better man would have.

I retain my cross-country skis, my snowshoes, several pairs of hiking shoes, the kayaks and paddles, and my fishing gear. I own two bicycles, two tents, and a small camper. Shovels and pickaxes are gone … I will hire what I need if it ever becomes necessary. You get the idea? I am content to be who I am and where I am and best friends with a fine woman.

So that’s the old stuff. Anything new? Well, I can now make a clever political pinback button. I have a button press, supplies, and new knowledge. I have also stopped leaving politics to American politicians since they have turned into such a toxic pot of malodorous gruel. I am resolved not to even consider giving up the ghost until I have had the chance to pee on Cluck’s grave.

I am also becoming a grower of things that can make a person’s brain do magic tricks if they are used injudiciously. To this end I have growing lights, a specialized growing box, several how-to videos, and new knowledge. It’s that new knowledge part that I like the best in taking on these activities that are novel to me.

Sooo, need a button, a neuroplastic reassimilation, someone to hear you out? … I’m your man. Stop by and we’ll talk. Coffee might be possible if you call ahead.

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I have come to the realization that one of the problems with American politics, at least with regard to the Republican Party, is that there is only one pair of big-boy pants for the entire group, and they must take turns wearing it. Some days it’s pretty obvious that they have even forgotten where they put it.

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It’s poetry corner once again, and today I offer something that Robert Reich posted the other day. It’s a new poem to me, but is spot on for our time, though it comes from the days when World War II was on the horizon. The last line should be a mantra for us all – our dream of safety has to disappear.

Look Before You Leap

by W.H. Auden

The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.

Tough-minded men get mushy in their sleep
And break the by-laws any fool can keep;
It is not the convention but the fear
That has a tendency to disappear.

The worried efforts of the busy heap,
The dirt, the imprecision, and the beer
Produce a few smart wisecracks every year;
Laugh if you can, but you will have to leap.

The clothes that are considered right to wear
Will not be either sensible or cheap,
So long as we consent to live like sheep
And never mention those who disappear.

Much can be said for social savior-faire,
Bu to rejoice when no one else is there
Is even harder than it is to weep;
No one is watching, but you have to leap.

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.

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Here’s a bit of grunge from a performance in 2011 of a song first released in 1991. Temple of the Dog made only the one album, but this tune caught and held my attention in ’91 and still does.

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Robin and I took a picnic lunch out there on Monday morning. Couldn’t have been a better day for it. And we were not alone. The park has come alive again with visitors.

Here’s a quick look at what the burned areas looked like on the way out to Warner Point.

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As we reduce our clutter here at Basecamp, I recall the story told by raconteur Alexander King on the Jack Paar late night show in the early sixties. The story was about a Buddhist monk who lived a life so free of earthly possessions that he owned only one thing other than the simple robe he wore. That one thing was a water jug that he would carry each morning to the village well to get what he needed for the day.

One morning he had filled the jug and when he turned to make the journey back to his room he tripped and fell, and the earthen jar dropped to the cobblestones and shattered. The villagers all knew and loved this man and were horrified to see that everything he owned was now broken beyond repair, but when they looked into his face they saw that he wore the most beatific smile. He raised his eyes to those of those gathered round and exclaimed: “At last, I’m free.”

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