Potpourri of Inconsequential Hokum

Life and ideas are like an urn of potpourri filled with dried petals of flowers past. Things bloom, then die, leaving their brief trails of essence. My notebooks are urns filled with short-lived ideas that bloomed but had shallow root. The least I can do is give them honorable mention that they once lived.

We’re Nothing Much.

Of course I don’t mean that literally, just relatively. Consider how many hominids have occupied this planet before we showed up. I wondered, so I did a little research.

The tribal numbering system stopped when Moses passed on. So we can only speculate. The age of Earth is reckoned to be about 4.5 billion years old. According to Carl Sagan, it’s just a “mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam,” hanging out in a Universe that’s estimated to be 13.7 billion years old. That’s perspective.

A lot of weirdness happens here. The Hun is gone, Trump will be, too. But humans keep showing up. Archeology digs suggest that hominids have existed here somewhere between 6-7 million years. After this generation, Vegas will offer no odds on another 6 million years.

Put into perspective, the Earth’s total population is estimated to have been about 107 billion people, past and present. So, let’s close this loop. Go look in the mirror and say to yourself, “Self, who am I?” Then go have a drink and celebrate breath.

The Crab Nebula.

The Crab Nebula is way out there in the universe, so far, in fact, that even light years do a poor job of defining the distance. Some people are like The Crab, virtually obsolete by being detached light years from reality. Some are Republicans, many are Democrats.

Mr. Crab is a supernova of the constellation of Taurus. It’s in the Milky Way, a galaxy that contains our Solar System. I used to think the Milky Way was named for my favorite candy bar by the same name, the finest product of another solar company, Mars Candy. But alas, truth spoiled my felicitous relationship with Milky Way.

Anyway, the Crab is in the constant process of exploding, sending out pulses of radiation of ionized but neutral gas, none of which has any effect on earth. Politicians continue to explode neutral gas that has no effect on anything, either on earth or in the solar system. Can you name one?

Taking Things as They Come.

This is pretty good philosophy. I ran across it one day when browsing around the Habitat for Humanity book store where treasures of wisdom lie buried on the dusty shelves of seldom-read words.

Getting lost occasionally is healthy. Many have been lost for years without recognizing it. I’ve never been lost but often confused. Anyway, for $.25 cents you can find books full of words that have never had eyes laid on them. I feel sorry for such words. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get them from their brain to a page. And here they lie, languishing silently in hopes of discovery.

I flip open a crinkled, yellowed-page tome that was so mellow it oozed Zen and lulled me into a swoon. It was a Taoist book of philosophy. Intrigued, I read all about The Dao, in Buddhism known as ‘The Way,’ the essence of which I learned to be the importance of ‘effortless action.’

Now this is a concept I can wholeheartedly support, and have done so for years. I bear no grudge against anyone with a contrary life ethic, but just simply ‘acting naturally’ is real freedom, a blessing to some, a curse to others.

It Could Be Worse.

You bet it could, everything can. Anytime. But keeping the right perspective is essential.

Now we’re all having dinner one night and the subject of ‘naked’ comes up. Such subjects have side effects, depending on the number of empty wine bottles scattered around. Tonight the table laughs.

After a few recollections, someone hooks the word ‘mirror’ to ‘naked’ and says, “First thoughts.” Silence is loud sometimes. Then someone pops off, “Hey, it could be worse.”

Now friends, this is an attitude that can look life in the eye and laugh. After all, if life weren’t so serious, it’d be a joke.

**********

My notebook’s full of potpourri yet to air. Maybe these petals will resurrect as candles on the next go-around.


Bud Hearn
August 31, 2018

Fitting In

We have a new dog. I’m teaching him the finer points of fitting into polite society. It might be easier to teach him to walk on water. I’m over my head either way.

His name is Bogey. He’s a hound, thinks he’s human. He rebelled at some other names. Humphrey didn’t suit him, and he howled at Bildad. Claims that a fellow can’t get on in this world without a catchy name. Smart dog.

He’s not an average dog, but who is? I’m not, are you? He’s a ‘rescue dog’ from the Humane Society. What we salvaged him from he won’t say, just that he’s a liberated dog, a rebel with one cause: chaos.

He came with no papers, no pedigree and apparently no pretense. He just showed up one day, like all of us. Advents are like lotteries…there are winners and losers. You never know which until you scratch the surface.

Being liberated is a pretty good philosophy. Gives a fellow license to roam and dig in whatever dirt he wants. Free-thinkers cut a wide swath. It might be easier to grease a camel through the eye of a needle than to shove a free-spirit dog, or person, into a box.

His first lesson involved the harness. It’s supposed to control him better on walks. I tell him everyone wears some sort of harness. It keeps us in line. He doesn’t buy it. On first try he taught my arm the real meaning clawing and gnashing. How’s your harness working out?

I explain to him that conformity is essential in order to maintain cordial relationships. He debates the issue, but let’s me bribe him with red meat treats. I might have had a better go of conformity in my youth if the diet had been more than parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

After a few weeks he wants to have a consult. Says trying to be human isn’t working and that he’s hearing voices inside. Says they argue. I ask him what they’re saying.

“One voice says, Keep trying, fit in, imitate, under the radar.” He says the other one disputes, “Be yourself, be original, live big.”

He doesn’t know which to believe. Says he feels like a yoyo in the middle of a civil war where nobody ever wins. I tell him this is decidedly a human trait. And that he’s right: nobody ever gets total victory. He rolls over and snores.

He wants to know about burying bones. I tell him nobody likes dogs that dig up someone else’s dirty bones. I tell him to remember, “What’s buried stay’s buried.” Most bones have enough dirt on them to ruin any appetite.

He needs to know that in our neighborhood it’s best if we ‘know our place.’ That’s not a dog concept he tells me. I explain to him the theory of someone being ‘too big for their breeches.’ He’s young but will soon learn labels are easy to get, hard to get rid of.

Looks matter, I say, and dogs are often recognized by their hair coloring as they are their collars. I ask him his preference. He says he’s good with the groomer’s bandanas, although they’re a small consolation for the suffering inflicted by nail trimming.

I tell him that some highbrow dogs, like people, are more discerning about their collars and prefer the latest fashions designed by Gucci or Barkbox. But I remind him that collars don’t define a dog any more than clothes define people. Some folks haven’t learned that yet. He ‘amen’s’ this and lets go an aloof howl.

Bogey has a short attention span, so he has a bag of toys. Costs a fortune to keep him focused. He’s not too hung up on size, type or cost. A wad of newspapers works just fine. Otherwise monotony will feed on itself and my arm along with it.

Toys are good, I tell him. Humans have lots of them. They tend to keep boredom at bay. He slings me a zinger, asking what’s in my bag of toys. I ask, “What’s in yours?” Cost is a relative term.

And on it goes. I guess it’s a little too much to expect a dog’s total compliance in this ‘look-alike, fit-in’ world. Humans have the same problem. We should remember, ‘Oh, the prison of perfection, the freedom of just good enough.’

**********

Bogey is a dog and he’s gonna fit in. Says to tell you, “Here’s looking at you kid.”


Bud Hearn
August 22, 2018

The End Slices

It’s another Dog Days Saturday in Dixie. Anybody living in the humidity-soaked South knows what this means. Sweat.

I’ve been validating this thesis on the back porch, assigned to an ‘attitude evaluation project.’ Women validate their own thesis: men need remedial adjustments early and often. Today is mine.

The project is assembling new porch furniture. It’s shows up disguised in a Gordian array of disassembled parts, each numbered for reference and arriving in boxes large enough to bury a Sumo wrestler. I consider hiding in one to see if anyone notices.

I never ask, “Why not buy this already assembled?” Her answer is obvious: “It’s cheaper and besides, they deliver it to your door.”

There’s a downside to home delivery of disassembled products. You must take valuable time away from pleasurable pursuits. Today I’m testing the validity of the “it’s cheaper” concept, aided by Allen wrenches and screws large enough to rivet together Boeing 727 fuselages.

I writhe on the floor beneath a chair making quarter-inch twists with the sharp, diabolical little wrenches. Not only does my attitude suffer, but so do my knuckles. Neither finds joy in this process.

After long, sweaty hours of ‘evaluation adjustments,’ my ego has made noticeable progress, humbled by the minutia of assembly. I notice the chairs are manufactured in Viet Nam. Revenge comes in many forms.

The labor has aroused a powerful hunger, an urge that needs no adjustment. A mild sense of joy pats my back as I admire the handiwork. Happiness is short-lived, for ‘projects’ never end. Which accounts for the proliferation of golf. Hiding out on the greens has benefits.

My hunger and I have been fantasizing about the thinly-sliced, rare roast beef waiting in the refrigerator. We take out the last of the Durkee’s, the mayo, the mustard, the end slices of kosher dills, lettuce, tomato and cheese. We’re ready. Now the bread.

We open the bread basket. Arnold’s whole wheat loaf waits. I open it. Instantly I know my attitude is going to need more ‘evaluation’ after this. Waiting inside were two solitary slices of bread…the end slices. You know what my first response was. Verbal, out loud. Same as yours. Not necessarily one describing a condiment suitable to savor fine roast beef.

“Who would do such a stupid thing?” I say out loud to no one listening.

Sanity quickly returns. A blameless saint I am not, and only reluctantly repentant of my own habits of hypocrisy. Every man finds ways to justify his own particular follies.

Hunger and I assess the situation. We slather up the rejects, toast them and make-do. My mind pictures the head of the perpetrator sandwiched between these cast-off scrap slices, marinating with the mayo, the roast beef and kosher dills. I soon dismiss the thought, knowing it would be a profligate waste of good beef and cucumbers.

I consider the plight of these pitiful, reviled end slices. It’s kind of like life. Nobody, not even dough, wants to be an end slice of anything, despised and heartlessly discarded as revolting. Life in the middle of the loaf is soft and dainty, sliced especially for the banquet table. Not so the end slices. If they were human, they’d be wearing overalls; the rest would be clothed in fine linen and tuxedos.

But alas, we’re not all going to be part of that good life. Fate has its own bag of tricks, and somebody always has to take the heat for the team. The furnace fires of affliction are no respecter of persons or bread.

If these end scraps could speak, would they thank us for giving them the last measure of respect before the green mold gobbles their crusty remnants?

I doubt if vengeance is in their mixture, but maybe they would appreciate some small measure of recompense to the heartless culprits who cast them to the compost pile.

Fairness in life and in loaves often requires requiting tit for tat, measure for measure, a slice for a slice, so to speak. So I take the end-slice’s protest and shove an empty bread wrapper back in the basket. Its message will soon be heard.

In preparation for it I dust off the proper response when someone shrieks, “Who is stupid enough to…”

The end slices and I will gloat with pleasure when answering, “Does ‘Not Me’ still live here?” Things will get sliced up soon.

Good luck with your slices, whichever they are.


Bud Hearn
August 10, 2018