April 14, 2016
Gotta get connected. Yes. Fingers on home keys. Indices on keys with bumps. Now my winged thoughts can flow. Oops. My goddamn muse is not helping here. No matter. Dog asleep by my legs. I touched him with my foot and he made a sort of high-pitch vocal “hmmm.” I just realized that the reason I seldom mention the smells of something in my writing is that smells go away when we get used to them. Like the dog smell of this happy creature. By my foot. Two distinctive smells, both good.
The big deal is my sister and I have an appointment with an hematologist today to discuss how to diagnose her trouble: night sweats, fatigue, sore throat, persistently elevated white blood cell concentrations in her blood. I’m hoping to ask questions that she won’t have thought of. Not that she lacks brains, she doesn’t. She is highly intelligent. I know because she told me. Sometimes two thinkers are better than one.
I guess I’m interested in the practical aspects: what is the usual timeline for worst-case? I mean, the span between tests and results, treatments and more treatments, like that.
Other questions: I always like to find out the percentages that are available for a variety of troubles vis-a-vis treatments vs no treatment vs comparator treatments. I’ll take paper and pen.
I like symptom relievers, considering that sore throat is her principal complaint. I know a remedy, but do you think my older sister will listen and obey me?
It’s one a.m. and I’m awake. I probably should have had desert after supper. I often take an over-the-counter pain reliever, but I forgot to bring any. I could go interrupt my sister’s night sweats and ask her for one. Nah.
In two weeks and one day our oldest son has his 45th birthday. I’m going to send him a copy of the Ashley Book of Knots. And a new edition of On Rope. Both excellent. I hope when we get our co-op bookstore up and running here in Billings that we will stock both titles.
Remember the Whole Earth Catalog and Stuart Brand? He didn’t list every book on a subject, just the excellent ones. That’s how I hope our bookstore co-op does.
I like dogs
April 13, 2016
Gering Nebraska at my sister’s apartment.
Long way from Billings. I don’t know, 500 miles? I carried Gunther in his crate, large enough for him to turn around. He didn’t seem to mind, although he didn’t eat at any of the stops, and he drank only a small amount. I walked him around on his leash and also let him run. I hoped that would loosen his bowels, but no.
He likes my sister’s place. We let him run out on this huge lawn outside her sliding door, left open enough so that he could come and go. Meanwhile, my sister Carol, who is ailing, talked with me about lots of different things from our loves won and lost to our sexuality to food, but mostly to books. She is just nuts about P.G. Wodehouse, whom I must say, wins my vote. He uses few adverbs, but sprinkles adverbial phrases about liberally. He is clearly one of the best writers in the world. I mean, so is Mark Twain.
Carol read a few sentences from Wodehouse and I wept. With gladness. She read them again. Again. A fourth time. More weeping. Joy.
At this moment Carol is thinking about playing bridge. She plays with old ladies. I offered my services as a fourth, but Carol suggested I’d be better off taking a night class. To learn bridge, that is.
One of her old lady friends is a Master of Duplicate Bridge. I may meet her. According to Carol she is not just intelligent, but kindly as well. Like Father Harr, a retired Catholic priest across the hall and down four or five doors. A damned nice man who today went off to play golf. I met him this morning because his dog, a schnauzer, barked while Gunther was outdoors. I thought Gunther had gotten in somehow, so I went out in the hall and asked a cleaning person if my dog was out there. No.
When my relative said she no longer followed my old blog because…. I quit paying attention. Something about something about some crap or other.
Anyhow, I’ve got nearly 400 posts on my old one. Enough. Let’s have something totally new, important, bright. Some stories.
I’ll continue posting on my old blog insearchofbud if the stories are about my uncle Carl, or some other “bud.” Like, Budweiser, marijuana, flower buds or gay buddies.
I didn’t want to start a new blog, only my nephew’s wife said she didn’t follow my old one any longer because she was tired about hearing about my uncle Carl. I’m, well, okay with that. I guess.
This new blog is a journal about the following:
- Time travel. In order to regain lost lovers.
- Modern love.
- Dogs. Especially small dogs. Little brown dogs.
- Dog lovers at all.
- Hippies. The ones who preached peace. Especially the ones afraid to go to war. Like me. Although I joined the Marines during Vietnam. Because I was nuts.
- The Old North Trail. The real one. Still visible.
- The 00s and 90s.
- The 80s, 70s, 60s, and 50s.
- Music. Folk music.
- Musical instruments. Voice.
- Photography. Black and white film photography.
- Childhood. Puberty. Messy young adulthood. The rest of life.
- Family history.
- Yearnings of the heart. For lost lovers.
- Lost lovers. Found lovers.
- Magic. Especially traditional, folk magic.
- Magic tricks. Other sidewalk enterprises.
- The North.
- Lovers’ language.