Back in point? Or Backin Point?

So that was a nice little vacation.  Now I get to figure out how to live, again, still.

The politicos on all sides, I have decided, are completely insane.  They are addicted to fighting, addicted to slow, and addicted to their pathetic, narrow, and completely documented false views of reality.  I know those arguments.  I’ve heard them before.  Mine preclude those.  The way you make me stand and listen to you repeat the same meaningless, worthless stuff that I’ve already told you I don’t believe in any more, IS VIOLENCE.  Yes, using gentle words to force someone to continue paying attention to you for extended periods of time to keep them from other activities, is violence.

I’ve been out of Stevens Point for, what, three days now?  When I got to this coffee shop, it was pretty empty.  It’s never empty when I get here a little after noon.  Now, by 12:30, many more patrons.  I guess they figure females calm the savage.  They’re right.

I used this example with my dad.  When I’m feeling lonely and I get a visit from a cat, and that cat, for whatever reason, decides that he or she wants to leave before I want them to, I can keep them there.  Sometimes it was just that the cat was startled by something unrelated, in which case I will gently block them with my hands to prevent their movement.  I’m quick enough to do this without grasping or even gently “striking” the kitty.  Sometimes, the little one will chill back out and continue purring on my chest.  Other times, as soon as I disarm the invisible hand-cage, they go.  I don’t like that I do this, and I’ve only done it when I’m starved for human affection and freezing.  My point is, it’s possible to do the same thing with your words, and it is a form of enslavement, a form of tyranny.  The tyranny of the vocally violent.

I know your pain because it is mine.  The depth of violence doesn’t matter, violence hurts the violent and the violated equally.  We all participate in this charade of “helpfulness,” of teaching.  If you’re not fully committed to helping me meet my newest bedwarmer, or helping me obtain survival, very little that you say will actually be helping.

I have pictures from my work time at my dad’s.  Wanna see ‘em?

You know that you do!

Heh.  Sorry.  Here they be.

door sin progress

Here’s me in my dad’s shop, wearing the new red camo bandana he gave me as a dust mask, varnishing the French doors from his sun room.

this is how i be shoppin'

Here’s me taking my lunch break (bowl of reheated brown rice with butter and tobasco).

immediate brainstorms, immediate implementation

Here’s that rack I tweeted about.

past oak trees, future baseboard

Here’s that rack I tweeted about with the trim I tweeted about drying on it after I stained it.  It’s oak, and I stained it a dark brown.  The staining went quickly.  The varnishing of that stuff took a bit longer.  The varnish (a “water-based” clear stuff they use on bowling alleys) sort of foams up and the bubbles will harden and look terrible.  My dad is as much of a detailed perfectionist with that kind of thing as I am, so I don’t mind most of his assignments.

french doors on the sunroom

Here are the doors, installed.  In the background you can see the shoe molding that I sanded, varnished, and re-installed along the floor.  The house I grew up in, also designed and built by my parents, didn’t get that stuff finished by the time it was sold, either.  Old habits die hard.

I made the shell of that shelf as a kid.

Here’s a close-up of the strip of moulding that I removed and re-installed because I had left a 1/8 inch gap at the corner.  I told my dad, as I was installing it, “this isn’t lining up perfectly.” He said, “I know, I didn’t do it.”  You should see his house.  The parts he added on or fixed are solid, square, and the little detail touches are closer to perfect than most anybody notices these days.  Craftsmanship.

I didn’t take any pictures of our snowshoeing excursion, but it was great.  I used ski poles for balance and to distribute the force required to my arms as well as my legs.  We drove to a wonderfully hilly section of the Ice Age Trail (I referenced it in this old photo essay), and the old man kept pace.  He’d stop every few minutes to adjust or fix the plastic buckles of his bindings on his high-tech snowshoes, or to examine some animal footprints (or poops), or just to talk.  I didn’t mind this.  It was kind of a lot of work climbing up those steep hills, even with poles and the forefoot built-in crampons on those little modern marvels.  The breaks were well appreciated by me.  Some of those hills got my heart racing, and in such good air, I got a lung-full.  I used it, in part, to tell him about this movie I keep trying to convince y’all to watch.  This led to more discussions about religion (he went to catholic high school, and he used to attend church regularly), and I told him about the concept of a doubters’ pew that an old boss, a friend of his, had told me about.

See West Virginia > Forums > Politics + Religion > Just when (and what) is Christmas?

‘What is Christmas?’ is more problematic.

The narratives in Mathew and Luke are well known to most — the stable, the star in the east, the wise men, the virgin birth, and the angels announcing it to shepherds keeping watch over their flock by night.

To the true believers it’s an historical fact.  To those of us who are sometimes to be found in the doubters pew in the back of the church (left hand side, of course) the suspicion persists that it may all be allegorical.  The fact that the oldest NT documents (Mark’s gospel and Paul’s letters) do not mention such a singular event as the virgin birth are troubling.

But in the final analysis, even the skeptics among us find something eternal and enduring in the Christmas story.  And, who knows, maybe it happened just as described.  We should keep our hearts and minds open to that miraculous possibility.  I do.

It’s also mentioned here, but only in passing.  Otherwise, the Google is empty.  Such a thing is left to the hard copies of the world and the memories of those old enough to remember the old teachings that have long since been left by the wayside.

Heh.  We had one of these in the house where I grew up.  I miss that house.  I have odd relationships with architecture.  Oh well.

Know what I love?  The xx I put on Picasa.  Heh.

Just added captions to this photo essay, including:

“Detour to Division Street Hotels and Attractions” is what that sign says.  Then there are a bunch of corporate logos.  That sound you hear, that’s my heart breaking.

temporary office/home

Ladies, you’re all perfect.  No, perfect.  Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is clearly lying to you to sell you something.  I will stand by you as you determine that which is in your best interests, and therefore, in the best interests of everyone.  Love, they’re exactly the same thing if you are honest with yourself.

I’m gonna make me a new avi.

I suppose I’m done writing, since I’m reading tweets now.  I reserve the right to post-script this post, as is traditional.


~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2011-01-20 (Thursday).

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