CONVERSATIONS

RHYTHM OF THE DAY

 

[Readers familiar with the stadium controversy in Santa Clara will note similarities here regarding noise and traffic. Since the Cabana Club is much smaller and financed without the need for taxpayer funds, it does not rise to the level of TV news.]    

 

I WROTE TO MY SISTER [Bracketed material added later.]:

 

The subject line above is from a tune I heard at the Jubilee by the Sea in Los Osos.  It sort of fits the mood.  The state of the world defies summation.  A catfish BBQ will not suffice.

 

No doubt you can recall when the weather was "normal."  [Term used to describe intervals between extremes, by forecasters whose sponsors would like the climate meltdown to go away.]   But we've had several tornadoes here in the Golden State, which is going bankrupt.  Our sister sent a clipping that discussed Global Weirding, a bizarre combination of global warming and  La Nina that's making July cold, twenty degrees colder than we usually expect, with drizzle in some places.  This is not the  July of our forefathers or mothers, or even of one year old infants.

 

The Rhythm of The Day is much more complex.  The Weirdness is like a bird without a roost that flies an invisible path through swamps we ignore, bubble gum on a car door handle which might melt if it's approached with evil intents, thoughts twisted out of context, troubling clatter of black pebbles forgotten in crestfallen snow, beyond our consent.  You see the point, doubtless.

 

Our sister's time at the instant machine is in a library, so she got the message expressed in Papyrus, an offbeat font that lives somewhere in the depths of Word. It was carried by snail to her very door.  The facet that glinted out of its Papyrus setting was the ubiquitous normalcy of slavery, taken for granted, unrecognized by many who have been bred on corporate and national PR. (Is there a difference?)  It's largely unseen because we are, we are told, free. 

 

But try getting along without money.  And who controls the money?  And why?  (Power, Smith, power!)  Chant power to the people, kumbaya, burn the flag,  have a cell phone rally, a flash mob willing to face machine guns and tanks, but the bankers have it in a money economy.  All of this because it is granted and agreed that ownership is something real, and slavery must persist because that's how the owners got their power. 

 

Clearly, the human use of human beings is no longer necessary.  Civilization, however, hasn't evolved to accommodate the new reality.  Black pebbles in the snow, when the sun finally shines, ought to free water from captivity. But hey!  There's money to be made. Start the snow machines!

 

There are too many people.  They trample the earth, and each other, and the forests, to make way for settlements.  The chain saw has a sputtering rhythm when it idles.

 

But I digress. Tomatoes planted this year, as usual in the front yard where we took out part of the lawn, are stunted and measly, bearing three runty fruits.   Three doors down Wood Duck Avenue is the Cabana Club, recently renovated with a larger pool and a new redwood fence and some landscaping and new paint. And on weekends many cars clog our neighborhood. People with big plastic ducks stroll by, gabbling anticipation. Later in the morning the Events will begin, with a starting gun to startle 12 year old girls into swimming like dolphins. And around noon the Really Big Event will end with a resounding roar as the winners conclude.  And then Wood Duck Avenue will flood with the excited horde scrambling to beat each other to their cars.  Our struggling tomatoes will again be ignored.  One or two very young kids will, however, force their parents to pause as they giggle and point to the ceramic frogs and goblins Susan put out there.

 

Yes, I dabble.  And last night the catfish BBQ went Almost well.  There was a brisk, cold wind that lowered the cooking temperature, even though the black briquettes started, as usual, and glowed brightly, as usual.

 

Our neighbor across the street recently had a change of heart about his front yard.  Large juniper shrubs there, and red and  white gravel, an area of lawn, a row of agapanthus next to the front porch -- all were removed and replaced by a new, vaster  lawn.  In years past he used to have a black Model T ford which he worked on, and was sort of restoring.  He got rid of that, too.  

 

     MY SISTER REPLIED:

 

 

A couple of quotes from Mark Twain for you which apply as much now as they did when he spoke them:

 

"It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress".

 

"Suppose you are an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress, but I repeat myself".

 

We live in bizarre times!

 

 

P.S. This Cabana Club....is it just a high falutin' neighbor or an actual organization.  Sounds AWFUL, whichever it is!!