"Aw, Jesus, Edith!" 

Why does my inner-Archie Bunker come out with so many of these questions?  I love Siona; I almost said, "That girl who asks the questions" here: That's how blocked I am sometimes over these questions though.  I know that I have a large curmudgeon-factor, but I feel like I am stifling my-Self so many times.

Another Archie-ism: "Aw, stifle, Edith!"  He really was rude to her.  Fair exchange is no rip-off though.  I wander.  I digress.  How is speech not digression?  That pretence of order in my mind is certainly not forward progress. 

Is anybody "getting" this, or am I howling at the moon.  Not that I mind howling at the moon, or think that there is anything wrong with howling at any-Thing.  Got to watch where and when WE howl though.  It's a First Amendment thing.

Anyway, back to growing up and Archie Bunker . . .

The very idea and implication of growing up implies that there is something wrong, or at least different about one age, or another.  Since age happens, like all life-events, one moment at a time, growing up cannot happen to this momentary event.

Sages say that one moment is very much like the next, but I think that view is impaired by not being strongly prodded with a hot poker.  Some moments are iintensely different, for good, or ill, than others.  Exactly how I feel at any given moment is what I think of the questions: Like ALL views and opinions, my answers say more about me than they do about the questions.  And that's final.

And none of this has anything to do with the beautiful and very personable, Siona.

Just grousing . . .  Peace and love to you ALL, RicH

What's "growing up?"

"Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now."
                                           -- Bob Dylan

"We, all of us, men and women alike, have more to unlearn than to learn."
                                                                                                  -- Gloria Steinem

Finally, one of my own: "It is harder to live by our beliefs than it is to die for them."

What has gone before, surely must be experience, hope and strength, when WE consider what Nietzche says, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

The title line of this entry comes from the song, "Don't Pay the Ferryman," which has been rattling around in my head for several days.  I've been thinking about combining "Don't Pay the Ferryman" and "I Don't Know Why I Love You" into some sort of semi-permanent mantra to use for the next few weeks, or perhaps longer, to get MY-self into the groove where I would like to be right now. 

I don't know whether, or not, walking around cultivating earworms would work, but currently, I got no other ideas and I am feeling really alone, despite so many of MY friends working so hard to reassure me that I am loved. 

I believe THEM.  I do.  I want to believe THEM and I know that THEY are honest, loving people, one and ALL, but I ain't feeling it: Currently..  This is not a matter of protesting too much, but I don't really FEEL loved.  The opposite is usually true for me, whenever I feel needy: I feel loved, but I don't believe that people love me.

Humyn beings, and I especially include myself here, are fucked-up.  Ain't that grand?

Today's earworm?  You guessed it!  "I don't know why I love you, but I do."  Not the Joey McIntyre BS, or even Frogman.  One of the crooners, I think.  I'll get back.

Later the same day: Turns out my copy of this song is Clarence (Frogman) Henry -- straight off the Forrest Gump album.

Having been discharged from the Marines Corps in 1972, as a 1-O Conscientious Objector, I would have been one of those Roman soldiers who were crucified and who we now call "early Christian martyrs."  Everybody has to wake up sometime.  I guess.

But IF free will really does exist, I would have been a caravan merchant; it is possible that I could have been both: But ALL things are possible.

Ya'll have a good day, RicHIe

This morning I woke up with Chris De Burgh.  "Don't Pay the Ferryman" has been banging around in my noggin the whole day long.

"Too many men have failed before . . ."

What does keeping a food journal have to do with failure?

Inspired by Synonym for Light's 2009 pledge to resculpt her body as a Valentine's Day present to her very lucky husband, I began to think about being a FAT, couch-potato and seeing my grandchildren's grandchildren graduate from college.

The above sentence is generally called a thesis statement by troubled academics like myself, but this one is called "plausible blame-ability" because IF everything goes south here, I am just gonna blame Dawn -- and ALL the rest of you who have been so supportive and encouraging: Meddlesome busybodies -- One and ALL.

Anyway, back in February, inspired by Dawn, I decided to get up off my lazy ass and start walking and swimming every day.  Like always, I did pretty good with this plan for about five months and then I stopped -- again.  Yes, I know how redundant that comment seems.  Usually, it takes about a year, or two for me to get started again and whatever went before is then wasted.  This interlude of laziness has been a little more than three and a half months and I am starting to feel the backslide.

I am sitting at this keyboard this morning to take the first steps toward changing my lifelong habit of intermittent activity and this post is the record of that action . . .


Lifeguard terrorist: Have you seen this man?
I am losing one hundred pounds.  I am going to use this blog to drive, encourage, explore, expose, support and otherwise use my madness to dwindle.  Yes, swindle IF I have to, but I am losing this weight and sculpting this body.  Thank you, Dawn.

I don't think that I would risk putting these pictures and these comments anywhere, except here at Gaia, and for that I truly MUST thank ALL of YOU.  I send you my love. 

Please comment!!  And do not be restrained by New Age courtesy.  Be real!!  I can hold MY own and I know that I look like a frightened whale in flowered shorts.  Not to worry, with your love and sullort, I am changing that look forever.  Peace to you . . .

. . . and thankx, RicHIe

PS: Contrary to all evidence, I am not lazy.  And that's a fact. 

Generally-speaking, the poor and working-classes on this planet are the hardest-working, most-generous, most-forgiving, most-tolerant people that you will ever meet.

"MY-Self included," he said immodestly.

Last night, with MY Missus: Our sixteen year-old son still lives at home in the bedroom next door and my wife is shy -- sometimes.

In Barcelona; in una barcaza, como este.

MY love for YOU.