Entry Note To Self...dollar weeds

Journal Entry: 12/06/18

Life At Windrush Lake

You know it seems as I get a little older...let me rephrase that...as I get a little older, I just don’t give a damn about a lot of things. 

Some are important, but I still don’t give a damn. Like this morning...I walk out on my front porch and see my garden needs tending. I stood there for a while trying to not give a damn and then I realized that my neighbors would be walking by and from the sight of my garden would say “the old man who lives there must not give a damn”. 

So...as I sit on my five gallon bucket, the fine art of pulling Burmuda grass comes rushing back in. Nothing to it. Just pull it out, for about four hours, and move on to the Dollar Weed, which is easy to pull but they find themselves everywhere. I mean everywhere. Even under rocks. 

I have an ole Scally Wag for a neighbor and he always makes a point to tell me he has some good spray to iradicate the demons. I prefer just pulling by hand. 

Guess I give a damn...Well about some things...enjoy your day...Doc

Reflections From The World...Christopher Bryson Series

Journal Entry: 11/15/18
Red sky by morning...

I am often asked; “What you been up to?
"Oh not much. Just trying to be present.”

Sometimes, in the sweet spot where day meets night, you catch cloud formations drifting in off the gulf. I have seen thousands of them and they are all intriguing and unique in their own way. They remind me that we are constantly traveling in a much larger space, on this spaceship called Earth.

Sometimes, probably depending on my state of mind, or state of being, I see an unusual formation that makes me stop, contemplate. In my mind, it may be a succubus, a giant squid, a stray nebula, a wraith seeking shelter before the full light arrives. Or, it could be a civet, gently pawing a dangling bergamot as a parade passes on the Champs-Élysées in the 8th arrondissement—with the aroma of baking bread, street crepes, and cigarettes.

Much like any new day, clouds can be anything we want them to be. If we use our imaginations, and ignore the noise, we can begin to shape our own reality. We are free to do this. It is part of what makes us human.

If your day is cloudy, I hope you find a way to enjoy it. Be a trapeze artist, a shoemaker with a puppet, or just sing something, even if only you can hear it...

From Inside The Sane Asylum...standing on one leg

Your guess is good as mine...

They say, or at least some say, that development of neural patters in our outer layer of the brain, has allowed for better processing of vision and auditory patterns. It’s that spacial awareness, for example, we use on our morning walks, remembering the songs of birds, and sensing any pattern of uneasiness that something may be going array. All these patterns reside there, just to increase our chances of survival.

The most basic approach to human pattern recognition. is a theory that assumes that everything we see is stored as a “template” into some long-term crevice in our brain. Then, all this incoming stuff we receive is compared to these templates to find an exact match, and if not, something similar in pattern. It seems to do this little number just to scare the carp out of us at times. Funny as it seems, that’s what the brain does. It regulates our inner stuff to match the incoming stuff.

In other words, all the stuff we see is compared to multiple template cartoons in our brain so we can form one single conceptual picture of what the hell is going on. Our own little movie, in a sense.

Now if this theory is true, it assumes that everything we see, we understand only through past exposure, which then informs our future perception of the external world. Would it not?... Now, how screwed up is that? And we call ourselves Sane...:)

On a more positive note...our wisdom is derived from these patterns of recognition called...knowledge templates. The more you “knowledge” from your experiences, the more at ease you will be with Living life. You have wisdom stored like temples in the form of background information. It answers the question of Happiness from a different perspective. We should explore happiness not as a pleasurable feeling but as a way of being that gives you the resources to deal with the ups and downs of life. And that encompasses many emotional states, including sadness.

So it appears your brain always begins with your previous knowledge, and makes predictions due to this already acquired knowledge. It is estimated however, that about 90% of the information is lost between the time it takes to go from the eye to brain and that is why the brain must guess what the person sees based on past experiences.

I observe these little ones on my morning walk...not sure why, but that behavior of standing on one leg seems to be a pattern, as I see it often...enjoy your day, my virtual friends...Doc

Entry Note To Self...what shall I wear?

Journal Entry: 10/08/18

A few years back I received a very special invite to attend a Bris. The invite was from a good friend of mine. He is a converted Jew from Yazoo City, Mississippi. Though the years we have laughed at that combination, what he was converted from, and about my first Bris... 

What Shall I wear?

I opened my closet doors, thumbed through some shirts and wondered, “what do you wear to a circumcision?”Having never been to a Bris, I hadn’t ever considered this particular wardrobe dilemma.

I tossed a stack of sweaters on the bed. Gazed for a moment. Then put them back on the shelf, deciding that turtlenecks were definitely out. After a few more minutes of debate, I decided to play it safe with funeral type attire.

This, as it turns out, was the wrong attire for a bris. Apparently circumcisions are strictly business casual.

A Bris, for all you goyim out there, is a ceremony where newborn Jewish boys are circumcised in public. This is followed by cringing, vomiting, crying and bagels.

The circumcision is performed by a Mohel (pronounced Moy-ul). A Mohel is a professional baby circumciser. Let me repeat that. He is a professional at circumcising babies. That’s his job.

Also keep in mind that, somewhere out there, there’s a graphic designer who was asked to create a business card for the Mohel. With a logo. A professional circumcision logo. I’m just saying.

After a few minutes of milling around and making the most awkward small talk you can possibly imagine, it was time for the bris ceremony to begin.

I will only say that the bris itself was uncomfortable for me. And I shall never directly speak of it again.

After the Bris, we filed into the adjoining room to find a lush post-circumcision spread of bagels, cream cheese, lox and, of course, thinly sliced cucumber.

There was also smoked whitefish. Which, ironically, still had their heads fully intact.

I filled my plate with a bagel and thinly sliced cucumber and tried to muster an appetite.

As I took a bite of bagel, the Mohel poured himself a diet coke. I watched in horror as people approached him to shake his hand. Weren’t you paying attention?!?!!?!?

Swallowing my bagel, I wished for something much stronger than Diet Coke.

To those unaccustomed with the origins of the brit milah, this may seem like a strange tradition. And indeed it is but it’s dictated in the book of Genesis, that every Jewish boy shall undergo this ceremony as a mark of the covenant between God and man.

According to the verse (17:1-14) “When Abraham was 99 years old, God appeared before him and offered a covenant… _"I will make you the father to many nations. And I will give unto you and your descendents the land of Canaan._" In return, God wanted just one small thing:

"This is my covenant between me, and between you and your offspring: 

You must circumcise every male. They shall be circumcised through the flesh of their foreskin. For it is only by stripping the bark from the love log, that this covenant will be fulfilled. You shall wait until they have reached eight days of age and then you shall whittle their wankers. Not seven or nine days. For these are the incorrect number of days to peel the mini carrot. Nor shall you abridge the volume on day ten. Eight is the correct number of days. And the eighth shall be the day that you dock the dude piston.

This shall be the mark of our covenant between me and between you and your descendants throughout their generations, an eternal covenant: you shall tidy the ankle spanker.

And I shall bestow unto you land and I shall increase your property values very, very much.

To fulfill this, our covenant, you shall follow these rules that I bestow upon you, as this is why you shall smite the salami. 

You will gather your friends and your family to bear witness to this trimming and they shall be reminded of their own sacrifices. By which, I refer to their wobblies. Which they hath curtailed in the name of the lord.

Thou shalt not try this at home. Instead, it is by my word that you shall bring forth a professional circumcisor to tailor the hoodie. He shall have many references. And this man shall be called a “Mohel.”

Thou shalt not pronounce the letter H. The letter H shall instead be pronounced as the letter Y. This is the covenant between me and you and your offspring that you must keep.

You shall give your son ceremoniously, on the eighth day, unto the Mohel so that he may unwrap the baloney pony. He shall recite the blessing over the beef bayonet and then he shall go south and rezone the panhandle. And your son shall cry. And the men shall cringe. And they shall look away. And they shall try to find a happy place.

This will be the ceremony in which you will peel the zipper shrimp.

Then, after you hath taken the lettuce off the Whopper, you shall go forth and eat bagels and discuss the Mets.

This is the covenant between me and between you that you must keep.”

Abraham agreed to this because, at 99 years old, his hearing was poor.

So, just as on the eight day a Jewish boy learns that all begins and ends with the Mohel. And so it is that on this eight day of October, my day begins and ends in a smile.

Amem

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.