Wednesday, February 29, 2012


** Apologies to my dear, dear friend, Robert Haycock. I had posted what I thought was the link to his A Boy and His Camera link and it turns out it was another Boy and Camera. See what I mean about fuzzy on details? Anyhoo, this is where your destination for many delights:

Satellite dishes that, uh, moved… and flew.

I know, action shots like this deserve a second viewing. Once is not enough.

I honestly thought this read "GMan Spots." Oops.

It's a happy day in the neighborhood. Hey, Plastic-Bottle-Breath, don't ask me to be your neighbor.

I did not drink this; I actually see rather see like this, but not as well. Kinda like a really cheap kaleidoscope. We're fading slowly into the sunset, if the sun were behind us and it was sunset. Oh, and if we weren't facing east.

It was about 55 degrees in Tampa. I froze. I'm such a weenis.

The pictures are first today for reasons obvious after the break. Let's roll.


I have been thinking about this whole SIFOTS thing for a while. Fermenting ideas in my head, kicking it around the yard, running it up a flagpole or two, and just generally wasting time. Anyway, without getting into the mechanics regarding my ruminations, which are boresome beyond belief, I'm just gonna jump off the bridge here.

There is a gap between the time of my last post for HOMELESS CHRONICLES and SIFOTS because I have been trying to make the transition, segue, key change, what have you seamless. I may as well save the few remaining functioning brain cells that are still extant in my little skull. I am not a composer. Just ask my Composition Prof from college. I sucked and haven't written a note since. I digress.

I am no longer homeless, and took the brave step of moving right across the street from Happy Acres. I am no longer the intrepid sojourner I was a few years ago. Distances are a challenge, as are other people, cars, buses and my cell phone. Do I have to dial ten digits, or only seven? And how come the damn thing will call someone else and send a ten minute meaningless bunch of background noise to voice mail? I really want to know. If I actually had to pay for the minutes, I'd be mad as hell.

I cannot in good conscience, continue to blog regularly in "Homeless Blah..." because I am no longer "homeless." But, I have shifted my focus and I feel perfectly qualified to blog about Shit Found on Sidewalks, along with many other intensely interesting goings-on here on Nebraska Avenue, Tampa Florida, 33602. Google Earth it; you'll be amazed. Actually, no you won't, but I can pad this out for oh, another 8 or 9 pages.

Since my last "Homeless Drivel..." entry and now, I have been having some pretty interesting times. Isn't there an old Arabic curse along those lines? "May you live in interesting times." That old guy must have been talking about this place and our current times. Interesting doesn't even begin to cover it.

I will also keep up with regular Happy Acres updates. To wit, Mr. C. had his shoes stolen and TPD canvassed the neighborhood, after he badgered them to "for God's sake Man, do Something! There are criminals loose here!" Oh,really? Personally, I would have shot him dead and filed a report, but TPD hasn't had to put up with his shit as long as I and my housies did. For those new to this, Mr. C. called Tampa Police Department on Ms. D. who told him to wash his "fucking" dishes, because Ms. D. said a swear word. They actually came to our house for that. In Ms. D.'s favor, that was on the 187th occasion of telling Mr. C. to do his dishes. TPD told him to do his dishes, and told her to quit swearing. So, Mr. C. has a history with TPD. Since I no longer live there, I can only guess at the activity on the part of TPD. I'm sure an APB was issud. Pairs of officers canvassed door to door. They brought in the dogs and Forensics too, I'm surmising. So Crime and Punishment is still a big part of Happy Acres and Neb Ave. No word on whether the shoes were recovered. They probably ran away.

Pimp My Ride finally got carted off to the Big House after he attacked his 11th trash can. It was about time. I really hate serial trash-can-beater-uppers. He must have spent a whole 15 cents on an attorney, he only got 12 years. Just kidding. He's out on bond, more or less behaving. I haven't seen any bloodstains on Neb Ave.

I heard from one of the housies that a big-butt video was stolen from another housemate (Mr. X.) and he gave it to Mr. Y. Mr. Y. then passed it on to Mr.Z. who then tried to sell Mr. X's video back to Mr. X for 2 dollars, so he could by a fifth of MD 20 20. A fun time was had by all I hear. So, life goes on.

I am posted very few pictures today. I have been struggling with fear and anxiety. I think I’ve wrestled with it enough to figure out some of my feelings, and what I believe to be my truth. At least for now; tomorrow, I may decide that my conclusions are stunning in their amorphousness and make no sense what so ever. In my typical half-assed approach and scatter-shot method, and without further attempt to rationalize or explain, here we go.

The realization that I will some day, not soon, but some day, will not shuffle about on this mortal coil has engulfed me with so deep and profound feelings, that I have been paralyzed with the most abject terror. The kind of terror that keeps one bed-ridden, listless and in a blobby jellyfish state. Nameless dread that stalks in the night. Chthulhu, or whatever his name is in this world now, resides under my kitchen sink. He's been keeping company with me, blurring the line between seen and unseen, doling out apocrypha, and things unfathomable to me and it has made me tremble. He has made me doubt myself and my life, integrity, my spirit. But he has not made me cry out. Yet.

There is something compelling and repugnant to me about the  fear I possess, a terror so great that I yearn for things unknown. I want the wonder of the unseen, and I want to behold something great and terrible. I want something bigger than myself, for I am just a small vessel.

For me to do this, I have found great comfort in embracing that idea. This is so temporal here on this place, in this consciousness. Perversely, at least to me, the only way to live is to go full bore and experience all fully for it to mean anything. So, I am driven with a new intensity to live my life completely and savor every last bit of joy, love, silliness, wonder and sadness.

To do so, I must try to live in a way that is so honest and authentic, that life has the meaning that will ultimately, at my end, will have been enough. This leads me to what has become my cue to get out of the starter’s block.

Synchronicity does exist. Robert Haycock, at   referred to the “authentic life” today in a FB post. The thrill and the eerie sense that there is so much that is great, possible, serendipitous and unfathomable reading those two words helped shake the last of my timidity and paralysis. Until yesterday, I hadn’t thought about the true meaning and importance or heard that phrase in a long time. My mother talked to me about it many, many times. I had forgotten the profundity of those two simple words. She died almost ten years ago, and I miss her every damn day. Parents aren’t supposed to die. Our children, most certainly not. Friends are supposed to be with us forever. Our pets should live on and on.

I do not believe in coincidence; it is too easy a crutch and in my view, leads to sloppy reasoning and erroneous conclusions. I do believe in something so powerful and fine in our existence, that I will never get it, never understand it, and can only wonder at it. That is the beauty and the terrible curse at times. It’s okay. Acceptance is good.

So, enough about my little journey into UFO land, or Arkham Asylum, or Baba Yaga’s hut. I may still visit those places from time to time, but I will be back. My mother scared me not a little, when once she told me I need to keep at least one foot in this world. I think it’s okay to have no feet here once in a while now, but, this realm is my home. I’m back and ready to put the “fun” back in “profundity.” Pun-haters, please don’t respond; I know that just really, really sucked. Heh.

Next post; lots and lots of SIFOTS, some pictures of my viola and some other stuff I haven’t thought of yet. Planning is not one of my strengths.

Actually, I am going to inaugurate a “Reminiscent Snapshot,” a sort of verbal picture of crap that happened to me, my friends, and colleagues over the years. First up: Humanities class, Senior year in high school. I was supposed to read “Tales From the Earth” by Mark Twain. I put that off until two AM the day before I was supposed to regurgitate what I had read to my Humanities teacher. Of course, I read for about an hour, got hopelessly sleepy and not a damn thing was making sense.
I got as far as Mark Twain bitching about James Fennimore Cooper’s “the patient Indian bore the deer carcass… blah blah.” Mark Twain’s riposte was “I don’t care if the Indian was patient or struck for higher wages.” I didn’t recover from that until next day; that seemed like a good time to hit the sack Next day, in a panic, I went to my dear, dear friend Bob Haycock.

He gave me a thumbnail sketch of the plot and I went and regurgitated that to my Humanities teacher. I said, “How does that sound?” My Humanities teacher said, “it sounds like you’ve been talking to Bob Haycock.”

I’m laughing like a hyena now just retelling this, but it is a very real snapshot and a true story. So, now some 38 years later, I've horked this up in my blog. I can’t even remember if I’ve ever told anyone this before, but seeing as my storage and retrieval systems are vast and getting a tad overcrowded and creaky, I’m lucky I remember how to walk and breathe. Thus are the musings of a Cat Lady. Aren’t you all lucky?

Please, please feel free to join and participate, make suggestions, comments, do a little dance, spray a little seltzer down your pants, and sing a little song. just know that I love you all, deeply and forever. That will never die.