Spanish Verbs

I railed when I was overwhelmed by conjugating "To Be" in Spanish. 

 So much so, I embraced quitting under the banner of feeling I didn't belong, I was too stupid, et al.  Then I examined that technique and pondered if it really delivered anything even remotely near satisfying?

Nope.

And then follow that thought like a rabbit trail through the briars to recognize we're all about that, (or me at any rate); trying tools over and again to discover which ones really provide the desired results.  Let's face it, most of the hammering in the dark is a combination of the pitch blackness of the unfamiliar situation, and, when light arrives, seeing we've been clobbering away with a screw driver.  "Oh my"

yes, tons of laughter.

I thought I'd share that.  Finding demons is the quest of sinners, so it is best not get that on your lily whites.  No siree.

I found this in one of those countless pages saved for 'some' reason; a cyber junk drawer of sorts. 

   When we fall flat on our faces for the crazed sculptor who drinks himself into a stupor whenever possible, or the lecherous tramp who wants to put a bag over our heads, what it really means is that we want to be that fellow.  Difficult men are considered cool, romantic, interesting.  Difficult women are considered deranged, sicko, neurotic nymphos.  So we see a fellow who is trouble and we identify.  All those secret subterranean urges that we deny in ourselves are manifested in this man, and we fall madly in love with him, often not even vaguely aware that we’re falling in love with an aspect of ourselves that we’ve denied, hidden, blocked, felt terribly ashamed of, ignored. 

   As I continue on this interesting exploration into the "ways of minds" studied by those who are curious as to 'why is that?'  I am amused to see a reoccurring theme of seeking some authority to point at and use as a navigational reference. Ever on the prowl of distraction in order to avoid the horror of any truth that would suggest perhaps that our nightmare concerning our worthiness might be true.  How sick is anyone who can laugh in the face of adversity? 

   Hey, I'm only passing through is far more wholesome to my way of reasoning then to abandon all hope and resign from the very excellent conditions that whispers the key to success is to choose correctly.  Heredity offers its superstition about powers beyond our comprehension dabbling in the insignificant pursuits of creatures like us.  If I could manifest concrete out of thin air I'd not be messing with insects, so where does torment make sense but to those poor souls who need blame as a blanket to keep their fears and insecurities warm?  I'll decline the offer, thank you very much.

I'd rather conjure scenes in my skull that only I can witness; allowing as I will, lust to flex its muscles.

Beer Day

I was writing to my sister congratulating her on taking a mental health day with her family to relax on the coast just North of San Francisco.  I got the bright idea to check what special events they might be having in the Bay area during their visit and discovered on Google that August 5^th was lauded as International Beer Day; and that there were festivities all over the place.  In fact I discovered there was even a museum of beer in, of all places, Portugal.  That is when the facts collided with my experience.  “Wait a second, what about Oktoberfest?”  Having been stationed with the Army in Germany I was well familiar with the event that had been occurring in Munich since October 18^th 1810? 

   So I retraced my steps to find out just how this day became THE International Beer Day? As it turns out there are a host of categories to holiday’s out there to search.  First there’s the familiar National and Federal holidays, also called public holidays.  They come into being through the process where a congressional committee fashions a request after being recommended by (no kidding there is actually a position with a title), the Deputy Undersecretary of National Holidays in Washington, DC.  The recommendation goes to both houses of congress who vote and agree to make it a proclamation, and the President signs it into law; then Presto  Father’s day! 

Which, by the way, wasn’t an official holiday until President Richard Nixon signed the proclamation in 1972; so he did have a few good days after all. 

  Then there are a host of Celebrations and Observations that encompass regional, ethnic and religious interest, but the brass tacks of those are, the mail still gets delivered.

   Finally, the creation of an International day goes through the laborious efforts of the General Assembly of the UN. The suggested day of observation written up and then entered on to the General Assemby’s meeting agenda for discussion, then vote by the usual methods; which is to suggest there is no clear process.

  By-passing all of that nonsense, comes the more expeditious method used in 2007 by Jessee Avshalomov, Evan Hamilton, Aaron Araki and Richard Hernandez.  They created a webpage, convinced their local bar to celebrate August 5^th and had a good old time.  Since then they’ve hit over 300 celebrations for IBD.

Today, the brewing industry is a global business, consisting of several dominate multinational companies and many thousands of smaller producers ranging from brewpubs to regional breweries.  More than 133 billion liters (35 million gallons) are sold per year- producing total global revenues of $614 billion dollars (Beverage Information Group and Brewers Association of Japan) Now that’s something that merits celebration.

Here and Now

I am one of the many whose mother resides in an ‘adult community’. Those come in a variety of service-oriented options, as well as being skillfully named in order to distance everyone involved from the guilt-laden “Old-folks home.”

   The facility she is at has three distinct quality of life categories, as the residents are shuffled from one to the next intensive handling by the progressive deterioration of their ability to tend for themselves. The independent living folks, like my mom, are pretty much left to their own whims and devices; within reason. The independents live on the third floor of the complex. Those requiring assistance, and are less physically able, but still lucid and able to communicate, stay on the second floor. Those requiring 24/7 care reside on the first floor which includes those afflicted with Alzheimer’s or experiencing garden variety dementia.

   They all commingle in the large dining room during meal times as well as out on the idyllic and well cultivated grounds; replete with ponds, gazebo’s and park benches. My mother sat down next to a solitary woman on such a bench. The woman turned to her and asked

“have you been here long?”

My mother replied, “Not long, just two months”

“I've been here for over two years.”

(prolonged silence)

“Are you alone?”

   My mother glanced around at all the elderly shuffling the paths under the awnings and pebbled walks nearby, and knew she must be referring to being there with a spouse, since it was quite plain they were anything but alone. So she replied,

“it’s just me, my husband passed two years ago”

(Another protracted pause.)

“I'm here with my husband. He doesn't come out much; until it’s meal time”

   The conversation lulls to silence, as is the growing pattern of the conversation; the birds chirp in the willows and the birch, the creek bubbles gaily on its meandering journey across the grounds.  The old woman turns to my mom.

“have you been here long?”

   It was in that instance, the blinding flash of the obvious, where she remembered being told a key to remaining sane in that place was to always begin a conversation with,

“And which floor do you live on dear?”

Otherwise it can be quite the surprise when you discover you're not in a conversation with anyone in the here-and-now.