Day 436: Naked Hubble and the French Woodsman
First of all, I should mention a couple of things. One, my eyes. They're not good., and perhaps, maybe, likely, quite possibly, almost certainly.. not getting any better -why am I telling you this sad and presently irreversible fact?? Well, because I wanted to mention that in order to conserve the abilities of the machines -vis a vie: my eyeballs- I am now writing the blog with my eyes closed. This may seem impressive to those of you who aren't familiar with the concept of the "home row", as I am; quite comfortably versed I will say, in the art of the keyboard, since the age of 16 when I took a typing class.
So it's not the keyboard work, that makes this worthy of note, only that it's an experiment and as you all know, I'm always very upfront about my experiments with you.
Why not do it Ray Charles style? -and I love and respect Ray of course, and only mean to say that when playing his music, I'm sure he would see it as I do: why the hell would blindness be a disability at all? He's playing the piano and singing.. not dodge ball. In what that man does, and does as well or better than any who has ever done it before, there are no barriers. Play Ray play.
So I will take a piece from Ray's playbook and just let this music come out of me.
Look mom no hands.
It's funny, I wrote a bit about this once; or rather, something similar enough to remind me of it now. A tangent that will no doubt take away from tales of my ruined dog, but it might be worth it. The joke started by relaying some information about Stephen Hawking to the audience. I would tell them that Stephen's disability, rather than stopping or hindering him from succeeding only forced him to re-think his approach to the problems, which he did, by visualizing them inside his head, in a deep three dimensional way... which then led to an expansion of his mind, and yada, yada, yada, was quite likely part of the adaptation he developed that led him to such brilliance.
A quite inspiring outlook on life, I would say to the audience. And a real message for all of us, that seems very clear, about how we should deal with problems ourselves, after we reflect on what happened to Stephen. And when you do that, you realize what it is we should all do next.
"We should cripple all the scientists! There's no time for racquetball Dr. Nerdman, we have a massive hole in the ozone that needs fixing. Here's a couple of Tylenol for the broken legs and a wheel chair, now roll yourself over there between the other two wizards and think hard about smart stuff until we come around to feed you,. And don't you dare press the red button until you absolutely HAVE to use the bathroom."
..or something to that affect. How does that relate to this entry? you ask... well, it took me so long to remember and piece together even a fragment of that very old bit (notice the ozone reference... with the entire climate going to shit, you haven't heard much about the ozone anymore have you?? Malinomas going down?) that I can't remember and at this point in the entry, who really cares?
So I'm writing blind and sitting the kitchen on the laptop... which brings me to my second point -before I get to Hubble- which is the fact that my wrists are shit too. This is a grim situation over here on the North Mountain, at 38 years old. A baby to a lot of people on this planet, certainly, but a baby inside an aging body ravaged by a lot of years playing hockey all the same.
The wrists!! Arrrghhhh.
I'll need to get an ergonomic keyboard again soon -the last one I bought konked out long ago, if I didn't already mention it- unless I can finally get the memory work done and just write them in my head during the day and then get my mother to type them out later.. hint, hint, nudge, nudge.. I don't know why I'm saying that I'm the one that has to do all the word for that to occur.. She already said she's willing, I think. It'll happen likely, when they move in here, quite naturally by itself. Might be a fun tradition.
I picture her rolling her eyes while she reads that, in bed, watching some horrific murder show. That's what she does, not to call her out again or anything.. falls to sleep to... well, I won't go there again. I believe I caught an early morning slap from Jeannette the last time.
So finally, to the theme of the entry, the breaking of Hubble on this fine, sunny, day on the North Mountain, when we took him to get shaved. And shaved he most certainly got. She was surprised at my directness when I dropped him off. She knows we like him with a lot of shaggy hair, in a much more roguish fashion than his current predicament, so when I told her to just shave him down I think she grimaced. And she shaved him all right. The problem is she left his shaggy tail. So now he's running around the house like a naked, old, sleep-walking man with a feather taped to his ass, getting tickled every time he moves -and it all gets worse the harder he tries to chase it.
Well you can imagine how difficult it is to not laugh at this, trying as we are to not hurt his ego too much by laughing openly at how utterly absurd he looks, in addition to what looks like the worst case of paranoid you've ever seen, with something seemingly CONSTANTLY tapping him on the should. Don't worry, I won't be reading this one aloud to Jeannette. I'm not without some measure of sensitivity to poor Hubble's predicament. I only hope he adapts quickly to the persistent caress of his own tail, on the cool, exposed, tick-bite riddled skin of his body. The pour bastard.
Oh, and my wood guy came today. He speaks french, I do not, yet, so while his wife and Jeannette translated and got us going, and then sat and talked up a storm while he and I went out stumbling through the woods, pointing and grunting at each other like apes, at times playing charades -me with a chainsaw, him... shrugging- to make ourselves understood. He's going to come up on Monday and start, from what I currently understand about what happened. But I have to try and find him a muffler for his chainsaw. He doesn't have a phone or internet and the only way I can contact him is by getting my cousin to tell his neighbour -they're friends- to give him a message.
If I had more woods I'd just train carrier pigeons and he and I could start a whole other business on the side, especially handy in a near apocalyptic world (at least historical culture art wise) I'm sure you could imagine. But alas, I have just the small acreage, and at present it's all I need. If I prove to myself at some future date that I know what I'm doing with it and make something worthy of the land it's sitting on, perhaps I'll look to expand. Something on the water front would be...
well there goes Jeannette rolling her eyes at me as well.