Entry Note To Self...Preacher Man

Journal Entry: 09/16/18
Preacher Man

He would be 95 if he were still living. My dad, the holy man. A preacher, a servant, and a Shepard of souls.

This picture is what he saw each Sunday morning from the lectern, or pulpit, as they called it. I was just trying to image what was going through his mind as he sat waiting to deliver his message, or sermon as it was referred to. I remember he begin preparing his sermons on Wednesday mornings. He would rise before dawn, sit at his desk and pray, read and write out a message he felt needed to be heard.

To save a soul? Perhaps. Maybe just to mend one that needed mending. It was his calling, his duty to tend to the needs of his flock. Add one more soul to heavens roll call I’m sure gave him ease. That was the objective measure of his labor. This could be seen. This lost soul would walk before the congregation and profess their new belief, and my dad would announce their salvation.

But what about all the other measures? The weddings he officiated, the births he blessed, the souls he lay to rest with the final word. Trips to hospitals each week to offer a prayer of health and a kneeling word of encouragement to the broken in spirit. Shepard one more that lost their way.

What could he have been thinking...as they closed The Baptist Hymnal and turned their attention to what he was about to say?

Still miss you preacher man...
As I still hear your words...
“Let us bow our heads and pray”.

Entry Notes To Self...for my daughter

To my daughter
Journal Entry: 1/20/18

Dad,

Roses are red, violets are blue, this letter is especially for you!!
Love ya
Always and forever

That’s the way your note of colored letters began
Scripted in your sweet mind
Then scribbled by hand
I keep it in my desk drawer
Next to my favorite pen
Always on top for me to adore
The little things that keep you close
I must say, you never were a bore

The little things we shared
Naps on my chest
A robins nest
Geese flying high
In the November sky
Your hand in mine
A sunset to remember

The time you gave your brother
Your last dime.
Captain for the day
As I watched you play
Cabbage patch dolls
And swings on the porch
Even a ride in the yellow Porsche

School was never your favorite
The science project we left unattended
We declared it Outstanding
As we left out of the building
and it was still standing
The struggles we shared in learning those things
Knowing well it was only the heart that needed attending

How about the times on the road
Sharing Road signs like the broken fool
Gum Springs, slow children at play
Don’t drive on shoulders, or
Honky Dory married Peachy Keen
Had twins named Fine and Dandy
Our own language we did construct
Just a glance and I knew what you meant
The time we laughed for seven miles
Even got lost between here and there
As your mom gave us that stare.

A broken heart never to mend
Crying yourself to sleep
And offering of your hand
A wedding dance never to forget
Sailing to Key West
Your dog Sailor was the best
Watching the love you share with the rest
Always giving more
So others feel their best

These little things and many more
Always a smile and never a boast
To the little one I will always adore...

Roses are red, violets are blue, may all your dreams come true.

Love you,
Always and forever
Dad

Entry Note To Self: Love Bugs

Love Bugs

I see these post all the time with couples adoring each other. Every time I see one the words “love bugs”, races across my thinking....love bugs;

It’s almost May, which means one of the most annoying creatures in Florida is about to plague the state.
No, not legislators. They swarm in March and are largely confined to their natural habitat — the bars, private clubs and dark alleys of Tallahassee where lobbyists cut them checks.

I’m talking about love bugs.
Twice a year, the coupled flies invade Florida. Now is one of those times. So after another week of divisive political news, I thought we could unite around critters I love to loathe.

I wanted to understand why they are here, why they swarm, how they can mess up my car and why they fly around attached to each other.

So I devoted a little time finding out. The first thing I learned is that love bugs aren’t supposed to be here at all. Much like Burmese pythons, lion fish and residents of New Jersey, love bugs invaded Florida. They came from their native lands of Central and South America, presumably in search of theme parks and retirement communities.

Except that love bugs don’t really get to enjoy retirement. They die a few days after they are born. They hatch, mate and then perish — which ain’t a bad, if short, life.


The males hatch first and then swarm feverishly, waiting for the females to arrive … much like guys at a fraternity before the sorority bus shows up.

When the females finally come out, it’s a fight to impress. And when a female finally selects a mate, they’re usually hitched for life.

The randy little rascals immediately start mating, leaving absolutely no time for safe-sex lessons.

They stay coupled for days. Why? “They’re mating,” explained Dr. Philip Koehler, an entomology professor at the University of Florida.

I’m familiar with mating, Doc. It doesn’t usually last 72 hours.

“They’re very good at it,” he responded.

You go, bugs.

Actually, these little guys don’t have nonstop rumpy pumpy. The males stay attached to prevent another male from coming in and fertilizing the female as well.

See, research shows that the last male love bug to, um, fertilize is the one whose babies get born.
“The male is preventing another male from mating,” explained Dr. Norman C. Leppla, another love-bug expert at UF.

That’s right, UF has two love bug experts. But the two profs don’t spend their lives attached. In fact, both study lots of other things and often fight to let the other serve as the state’s chief love-bug luminary.

“If you’re out of the room, you get elected,” Leppla explained.

Why the disdain for these little guys? Mainly because they make a mess when they and their acidic-larvae hit your car and splatter all over your windshield.

Humans are funny this way. We murder these bugs and then claim we’re the victims. (Hey bug, I knew I just ended your life — as well as the future lives of all your babies — but now I have to go through the trauma of finding a wet paper towel.)

You do want to get them off your car as soon as possible, though. (Damp dry-cleaner sheets work well.) If left to decompose, their larvae and guts turn more acidic and can eat through your clear coat or paint. Think of it as revenge from the grave.

An interesting thing about love bugs — also known as plecia nearctica, which is Latin for “Splat!” — is that there are a lot fewer of them in Florida than there used to be.
Decades ago, motorists could barely drive down the Turnpike without stopping every few miles to wipe all the bug guts off their windshields.


But their population has diminished — quite significantly, Leppla said. The scientists aren’t completely sure why, but it may be partly because love bugs don’t have any really impressive survival defenses. In fact, Koehler said, they have only one.

“Have you ever tasted one?” he asked.

Now, Doc, wouldn’t it be weird if I said yes?

“Their main defense is not to taste good or smell good,” he said. “So some birds don’t eat them.”

Apparently we don’t want birds to eat them all anyway. Their larvae feed on decaying vegetation, making them one of the world’s tiniest clean-up crews.

So the bottom line appears to be they’re not all that harmful. There are fewer of them than before. And they actually do some good.

“Believe it or not,” Leppla said, “some of us love love bugs.”

Maybe more than legislators anyway.

“Actually,” Leppla noted, “most of the funding we have to study this came from the Legislature.”

I still like love bugs better.



Image: Christopher Bryson
Love Bugs
Ladyhawk and Patuzzi
Mississippi River, 6:00 a.m.

From Inside The Sane Asylum...

Journal Entry: 09/10/18
Jeffery’s Asylum

I think most people like the idea of The Sane Asylum. I’ve never really asked that question out right, but when I tell people my hobby is my Blog, writing about life Inside The Sane Asylum, they nod and smile. When I tell them that the author of the blog is Dr. Ego Prozac, they nod and smile.

So I can tell, from their demeanor, they like the idea, they just don’t know what to say...so they just nod and smile. And all of that is fine with me, I just nod and smile back and say, “look me up sometimes”. They nod and smile. It came to me the other day that I am doing nothing more than entertaining myself with some nods and smiles. And that’s also ok with me.

There is this theory going around, that one day Sane behaviors will be considered Insane behaviors...as in... no one does that anymore. So the thought came to me that one day we may be locked away for our Sane behaviors. Locked away in a Sane Asylum.

Nothing like being proactive, so I just went ahead and established my Sane Asylum. The Asylum itself has no form but it has no boundaries either. No description really, other than what I might give it. “Then what is it” you say?

It is nothing more than the preservation of distinctions I make about living. Perhaps it extends into my beliefs. I’m quiet sure it does, for through the past three score and twelve years, many of my beliefs have changed and they continue changing as I make more distinctions about living, about relationships, peace, war, gods, demons and the like.

So I guess you could say that my Sane Asylum is nothing more than my consciousness, just as it is yours. That place where one can go to observe themselves in this world and give behaviors meaning...The Observer of behavior in this world...called, consciously living.

Christopher Bryson, tells me a story this morning of one man’s Asylum. His name was Jeffery, as I recall.

”A man that has been everywhere, as he starts his story...a man that knows everything about music and about food. He’ll ask you what you like as you pass him by, then he’ll ask you why? He’s not always good with eye contact, but he’s friendly, humorous, and engaging. He sings to himself. Sometimes, he talks to himself. Sometimes he is loud. He minds his own business. He hurts nobody...

I see Jeffery almost every morning. He hangs at the corner bodega, or paces the block to the bar. It's a short stretch, but you'll usually find him on it, or sitting a stoop, or the bench at Buffa's. I hadn't seen him in a few days and found out this morning that he had been beaten by three men-unrecognizable. It was bad.

Sometimes, Jeffery scolds himself. Loudly. My hunch is that the men thought he was talking to them, and didn't take the time to get any answers before they engaged him, before they beat him.”

He's been everywhere, man. He's been everywhere. That's how it is this morning in The Sane Asylum...Doc

Footnote: Maybe The Sane Asylum is nothing more than a preservation site for those of Sound Mind. It's not so much that this Blog Spot creates the preservation site, but it is you making the distinction, that there are a lot of characters out there like you and I, just trying to make peace with ourselves and get along with it all. It is important that we keep making that distinction!


Image and thoughts on Jeffery by: Christopher Bryson

Inside The Sane Asylum

Journal Entry...09/07/18

Questions I Ask Myself

My heart hurts 

from pouring it out so much

It is full and overflowing 

so I drip it into an empty vessel 

a silent ghostship 

and hold my breath 

for the echo 

that does not return

My soul plays to an empty room 

and I think that's the tune 

of the human condition... 

I have always considered my time on scribblingon my blog as my hobby, and also a way I can collect my thoughts in a format that is reproducible. Reproducible? 

I share most of my thoughts that I collect in my journal on my blog Dr. Ego Prozac-Underground. I put it together a few years ago to share my thoughts, and connect with my reality family and friends. Connecting with reality family and friends in a digital form...for what ever reason.

I guess I have this need to share some of my thoughts with others. I call those,  personality orders...not personality dis-orders. We all have them. Some more intense than others, but they are with us every step of the way. It’s my way of looking at the world and how I fit in it to survive. Maybe even Thrive, if I practice it a bit more. Consciousness or conscious living, I believe it is called.

What I have found to be true, is...others need to share their thoughts with others. Connections, I think they call them.  My, how people tend to need each other. 

That places us in a unique spot, you and I...seems we share the same hobby of making connections with others. Each message sent, maybe a way of just saying “I’m alive”...I have these feelings, these obsessions, these things we label ourselves that has created a hobby of making connections. 

You have told me many times, “I’m not here to be seen, this hobby is just for me and I don’t care who sees it.” Have you been told that also? I wonder if they turn their notifications off? 

I try to imagine why I do this? 

I could go fishing...but I do on occasions. Or at least I try. I spend time for my health, both mental and physical, time to take care of others, time to tend to what needs mending. Endless chores that keep me grumbling for no reason at all. Neighbors and neighborhood, friends and family. 

I spend time making sure I have enough assets to swap for the things I might need in the future, and for the times I barter assets for no damn reason at all...My, how we learn, as we go. Sometimes, even bartering when without resources, just by promising. Now the man at the store owns me. But not any more...my world, our world, this world of consciousness that we have created. This space where we figure things out. Our space, our little consciousness space where we make all our decisions to connect and share.

I have made 72 trips around the sun, and here I sit...making a connection with YOU...Pleasant evening to YOU...Doc

Entry Note To Self:...Confidence

Journal Entry 1/7/18
I wrote this a while back about a good friend and a good man...think of you often TK. Especially when I see an old barn...
__________________________________________________________________
The Old Barn
_________________________________

”If you are coming from the south, turn right at the only red light in Hornbeck. Go over the railroad tracks and take the fork to the left. Drive until the black top turns to gravel and dirt. Oh, in about two miles you will come to some dogs laying in the road. Make your way through the dogs and take the first dirt lane on the left. As you round the curve you will see my house down in the pasture. You will find me in the old barn” ...

TK, they call him. He lives to the north side of Hornbeck. When I went to visit TK on my last trip into that part of the world, he gave me those directions to find his house;

Sure enough, he was in the barn grooming a skinny ole paint horse he had just rescued from the grips of Horse Heaven.

I've known TK all my living days. We played in the woods, made pine top forts, explored small ponds and even double dated sisters on one occasion when we were still wet behind the ears and did not know what a date was...

TK could write a dissertation on the Game Of Dominoes, simply because he claims to be the world's foremost expert on the fine art of the game. Said the only time he loses a game is when he has to donate a game for the aid of personal pity or use it as a long range strategy.

Tall and spry, dressed in faded Big Mac overalls with a loud welcome of, ”​look what the cats dragged in; see you found the dogs in the road!" ​

He is always quick with a joke and a philosophy on just about any subject you can conjure up. I don't even know how we got off on the subject of Dominoes. Never my intention. I only wanted a pint of his famous corn whiskey. It may have been the sampling from the pint mason jar that lead us in that direction? Not sure, but he tasted it first, said he wanted to make sure it was still good. Guess it was still good, as he passed it over to me for my liking. Yep, it was that sampling that begged my first question:

”​Is it true TK, that you are the best Domino player in the world?"

”Y no," he said. ”But I beat the hell out of the best that said they was."_​

Domino is a good game. A game of skill. I would say it is about 10 percent luck. It requires a lot of concentration, thought, and just plan smart ass grit. Not like golf or chess where silence is required of spectators and competitors alike. A good player must shake off any heckling remarks. A Domino player has much more on his mind. He is working on his style of play.

TK for example said he played with an Amateur Style. As he describes it; _”A​ mateurs play not knowing their next play. Just random, not following any expected strategy. It makes my competitors try and figure out what I'm going to do next. I know, if I don't know, then they couldn't know either.​“ See how the moonshine brings out the best in logic?


TK plays most mornings at Hoot's Barber Shop. I spotted it as I crossed over the railroad tracks back in city limits of Hornbeck. A gathering spot of the towns finest men, doing their part to keep the moral and social fabric of Hornbeck alive. A lot of social bonding of sorts, and way to many lies being exchanged. They call it therapy and gossip . I call it a reason to get out of the house.

I always thought it would be great to host a live daily radio broadcast from Hoots Barber Shop at the time of these gatherings. Maybe sell cassette recordings of the Therapy sessions...

There was an old straight back chair leaning against the barn wall. TK introduced the chair as, ”the retired in honor chair, of old man Pete Alford.”

As the story goes, Pete sat on that chair every Friday morning for twelve years, in this barn to best TK's Amateur Style.

”Alford was a nice feller, a fine upstanding citizen and looked reasonably good in his clothes for a man of his age. He just didn't understand the game of Dominoes very well." TK continues to spout, ”I feel it is my duty to report that I beat him sober, not so sober, whittling whist I whistled, and even left handed. Beat him four out of five times when we played...well maybe three out of four." As he looked up and grinned. ”A​lford retired from Dominos in 1997 the same year the chair retired. The shame of it all.”

TK is known for his, Wisecracking Psychology game strategy, when he wants to humiliate his opponents and destroy their confidence. Here are a few techniques he shared with me:

Laugh-as if you didn't intend to, while your opponent is studying the board. Play fast for those that ponder and hesitate. Ponder and hesitate for those who play fast. After you choose your rock to be played, pause with your arm in midair, purse your lips as in thought then lay it ever so softly on the table. Each time after you win, idly say to your opponent, "one day I sure would like to know why you played that way." This implies stupidity and gives them something to think about. Before you begin each game, let your opponents know that 50% of your foes seek mental health counseling after playing you. Never appear to doubt the tale of your opponents, no matter how improbable. Except for Champions, and they have no need to gild the lily. They all are liars and braggarts. Smile, nod, and politely mumur as your opponent tells of humiliating ole Joe or Bob. Just say in admiration. "Gee Pete, you must have been really good...back then...gimme twenty-five."


We even played a game or two. After getting soundly whooped, I commented to him that I wished I were a good Domino player. He quipped, ”Y​ep, I wish you was too."

You see, the Game of Dominoes is just like life. Confidence is no problem...keeping it is...

Be well, play your doubles when you can and always take the dirt Lane past the dogs in the road. It leads you to the ole barn. You just might enjoy an afternoon therapy session with an old friend...a pint of good moonshine and much more...Doc