“We are our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.” ~ Tom Robbins, from Still Life with Woodpecker

Saturday snippets  . . .

Saturday afternoon, rainy and cold, 46 degrees.

Well, here is what’s been happening in the ongoing saga of non-functioning laptop. On Sunday last, I decided to bite the bullet and completely reset my laptop in an attempt to fix the script errors and all of the other stuff that’s been making posting well nigh impossible without pulling out my hair. I’ve spent the days since reloading the stuff that was deleted in the reset, finishing updates, etc. At first, it looked promising that things had been fixed, and then not so much.

I’m still trying to work out the bugs, and that New Year’s post that I began over two weeks ago (really? that long?) is still unfinished. I decided to post the following quote by Tom Robbins just to let you know that yes, I’m still here, but no, I haven’t fixed my laptop or my internal dysfunctions to allow for regular posting.

I’m trying. Truly I am.


How can one person be more real than any other? Well, some people do hide and others seek. Maybe those who are in hiding—escaping encounters, avoiding surprises, protecting their property, ignoring their fantasies, restricting their feelings, sitting out the pan pipe hootchy-kootch of experience—maybe those people, people who won’t talk to rednecks, or if they’re rednecks won’t talk to intellectuals, people who’re afraid to get their shoes muddy or their noses wet, afraid to eat what they crave, afraid to drink Mexican water, afraid to bet a long shot to win, afraid to hitchhike, jaywalk, honky-tonk, cogitate, osculate, levitate, rock it, bop it, sock it, or bark at the moon, maybe such people are simply inauthentic, and maybe the jacklet humanist who says differently is due to have his tongue fried on the hot slabs of Liar’s Hell. Some folks hide, and some folk’s seek, and seeking, when it’s mindless, neurotic, desperate, or pusillanimous can be a form of hiding. But there are folks who want to know and aren’t afraid to look and won’t turn tail should they find it—and if they never do, they’ll have a good time anyway because nothing, neither the terrible truth nor the absence of it, is going to cheat them out of one honest breath of Earth’s sweet gas.

~ Tom Robbins, from Still Life with Woodpecker


Music by Flora Cash, “You’re Somebody Else”

A Quick Update . . .

Wednesday afternoon, sunny, 42 degrees.

Oh my. Far too much to include in a quick update, so I’ll just hit the highlights: major ongoing computer problems causing me to reboot several times a day and making it pretty near impossible to write anything more than a few sentences (and I had several posts planned to begin the new year), major vertigo episode causing me to be unable to do much of anything several times a day……..

I’m uncertain if the vertigo was exacerbated by the Aimovig shot that I had last Friday, but the two things seem to be going hand in hand. I’ve never had vertigo that went on for days, and it’s maddening as I can’t do anything, especially anything that requires me to bend over. The medication that I take for vertigo (Meclizine) makes me very sleepy, so I’m unwilling to take it during the day. As a compromise, I’ve been taking half a pill, which really doesn’t do much to alleviate the feelings that I’m going to fall on my face at any second.

Anyway, that’s a very quick synopsis of my life this past week. I’m hoping that something changes soon, anything, actually.

The right loses its collective mind

I’m sorry . . . Trump is like what? Like who? Seriously? Let’s have a moment of silence for sanity because it’s definitely no longer present in partisan politics on the other side of the aisle.

And the winner of the award for Don’t Listen to What I Said before goes to………………….

“All things came close and harmless first thing this morning, a new trick of light. Let’s learn that trick. If we can, it will mean we live in this world” ~ Richard Hugo, from “Distances”

The Bystander, England, August 15, 1928

If it’s Friday, it must mean leftovers . . .

Friday afternoon, sunny, 44 degrees.

Pain management appointment at 8:30 am yesterday. I am not awake at 8:30 am; I am not even human yet at 8:30 am. Got a bunch of trigger point injections and talked about pros and cons of imbedded stimulator to treat pain. Still mulling it over. After finally getting home after some run around, I fell asleep fast and hard, woke up for dinner and a few episodes of Bosh, and then went back to sleep. Never fit in a post.

Oh well . . .

So I opened my laptop this morning only to see a headline about another school shooting, this one in southern California: 2 dead, 3 injured. One of the injured students sought refuge in the music teacher’s classroom, and fortunately, the teacher had a trauma kit handy. Let’s just stop for a second to take that in: her classroom was stocked with a trauma kit.

Or how about this: One student interviewed said that his parents had been practicing with him what to do in the event of a school shooting, things like holding a text book in front of his chest to help slow down bullets.

This is who we’ve become. This is how our youth goes to school now, armed not only with tablets and books, but also armed with the knowledge on how they might be able to survive a school shooting. Does no one else find this appalling?

Leftovers seem to contradict the solemnity of our current national state of affairs. Then again, perhaps leftovers are one of the only ways of getting through the day amidst all of the assaults on our senses, our beliefs, our psyches.

Enjoy . . . hope you can . . .


An unfortunate truth:

Good advice:

Circular logic, republican style:

I never knew this—our goats and horses seem to get along well:

Way to make a statement, Berlin:

Just consider: It had to be the overweight, bloated Elvis who did this, and still he managed to get them to stop just with his presence:

And finally, food for thought:


Music by Deftones, “Be Quiet and Drive” (acoustic version)

Quick Update . . .

Tuesday morning, cloudy with approaching storms, 82 degrees.

I have an appointment in Abingdon today with the Neurologist. It couldn’t have come at a better time considering I had one of the worse episodes I’ve had in a very long time and am still feeling the effects. Here’s hoping that it goes better than the last one in which she spent most of the time telling me what she could not  do for me.

Here. Have some Tennessee Whiskey. I wouldn’t mind having some myself.


Music by Keke Wyatt, “Tennessee Whiskey” cover

Update: A brief explanation of how I’ve spent the last few days . . .

Sunday afternoon, sunny, 87 degrees.

I have had to spend way too much time trying to fix my main drafts post in which I collect quotes and poems until I have an appropriate post in which to place them. For some reason, my WordPress switched to Block Editor, which I have no fricking idea how to use easily or effectively.

So once again I tried a forum fix to revert to old fashioned Classic Editor, but of course, it did not work, at least not exactly as explained. When I opened this main draft, all of the formatting between quotes and line breaks was gone, and if you know anything about poetry, including the proper line breaks is kind of important. I don’t even want to talk about how long fixing all of this actually took.

Yesterday, I gave up in the middle because with the script problem, moving things around was taking way too long I decided that today I would fix the damned thing no matter how much pain and anguish it caused me………..

So here I am. Finally.

I really, really hate how thing have been going in just about every compartment of my life.  And my horse still isn’t home. Sucks to be me.


Music by Arctic Monkeys, “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards” (Tame Impala cover)—I know that it’s a rare repeat. Don’t care. Sue me.

“Everything we care about lies somewhere in the middle, where pattern and randomness interlace.” ~ James Gleick, from The Information: A History, a Theory, a Flood


“Anxious, we keep longing for a foothold-
we, at times too young for what is old
and too old for what has never been;
doing justice only where we praise,
because we are the branch, the iron blade,
and sweet danger, ripening from within.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Sonnets to Orpheus: XXIII” (Trans. Stephen Mitchell)

Monday afternoon, storms and dropping temps, 84 degrees.

About half an hour ago, a line of thunderstorms whipped through here, and it was pretty wild. The girl goats and Sassy (the horse) were all clustered on the porch for shelter from the fierce wind, and Tillie was hiding in the bathroom. Fortunately, it was a quick storm, but more are looming on the horizon.

Speaking of the bathroom, last night I had a major scare: I was switching out laundry when I heard a rattle. A large (in my mind) black snake was hanging out on the corner of the work table on which I stack the folded laundry. I made some kind of weird noise and hightailed it out of there. Corey was standing in the hall when this happened, and as he’s asking me, “What? What?” I’m trying to say the word snake, but honestly, I’m not sure if any real words came out of my mouth.

My deep, abiding phobia about snakes has not lessened with time. If anything I think that it might be worse.

So Corey goes on snake patrol only to tell me that everything is fine because the snake had gone back under the house. I did not find this statement nearly as comforting as he would have thought because my first thought was how in the hell did it go back under the house from the bathroom?

Apparently, there is a hole beneath the pipes. Great. Just g-r-e-a-t……..

“Today my grief abated like water soaking
underground, its scar a little path
of twigs and needles winding ahead of me
downhill to the next bend. Today I let
the rain soak through my shirt and was unharmed.” ~ David Mason, from “In the Mushroom Summer”

When I told Corey that I was afraid to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night because of what might be lurking (I don’t usually turn on the light), he laughed, but I reminded him that I knew of a real incident in which a snake was in the toilet: one of my parents’ neighbors across the back fence once found out the hard way that a snake was in his toilet.

I will never forget that story. Is it any wonder that I am terrified of snakes?

I realized that moving to the country meant that I would encounter more wildlife, and I’m okay with that—mostly—but that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with snakes in the house. I remember when Brett’s partner lived in our house, and she had a pet snake; I could only go in their room if I kept my eyes averted. Granted it was a small snake, but it was still a snake, in the house, in my house.

Full body shudders.

(Note: I had to leave this post on Monday so that we could go see Dallas. Ended up being caught in a downpour. More on this later)

“A burning sense of injustice, sobs, sorrow: desire to fight back, and no time or energy to do so,” ~ Sylvia Plath, from a journal entry, April 22, 1958

Wednesday afternoon, more storms, warm and humid, 84 degrees.

Corey and I made the trip to see Dallas because we had a proposition: We would trade him Beric the goat to get Napoleon back; however, when we got to his house, he was nowhere to be found. He’s taken to hiding in his house because animal control has been called on him. So we searched everywhere, and then a big storm hit. As we were waiting for the storm to pass, Dallas’s nephew drove up with Dallas in the truck.

The attempts at conversation were futile as Dallas was drunk, and there’s just no talking to him when he’s like that. I don’t particularly want Dallas to have Beric, but I’m desperate to get Napoleon back over here. The long and short of it, though, is that I don’t think that he’s ever going to bring Napoleon back, and truly, that breaks my heart. Dallas is known for giving and then taking back when he gets mad. We’ve heard stories of such from several people and from Dallas himself. I really wish that I had known this before he ever brought the horses over here, before I became too attached.

You just shouldn’t tell a person that you’re giving them something, when in fact you don’t mean give at all. Quite frankly, I’m sick to death of the man and his constant stream of lies and tall tales. So I just need to resign myself to this reality. If only I had the money to offer to buy Napoleon and bring him home.

“We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.” ~ Tony Hoagland, from “Jet”

So more snake news: last night I started to go into the bathroom only to find Ash staring intently at something near the toilet. I backed out, and Corey went in and wrangled the snake again. He’s fairly certain that it’s the same snake. I did not look closely enough to notice. Thank god Ash was on high alert as I probably wouldn’t have noticed or been able to see the damned thing as my eyesight is getting worse.

Funnily enough, earlier in the day Corey had pointed out that a snake was wrapped around one of the fence posts, and he thought that it was probably the same snake. He asked me if he should kill it, and even though I hate, hate, hate it, there’s no good reason for killing a black snake as they are harmless. Well, almost harmless. A couple of weeks ago Corey found a black snake in the chicken coop, and it was trying to eat one of the chickens. So there’s that . . .

Enough on my ophidiaphobia; I wouldn’t say herpetophobia as I’m not afraid of all reptiles, only snakes.

“I know I am restless and make others so,
I know my words are weapons full of danger, full of death ~ Walt Whitman, from “As I Lay with My Head in Your Lap Camerado”

I had originally planned to post pictures of all the goats for Wordless Wednesday, but I really wanted to finish this post as the longer that it remains unfinished, the more I stress over it, and one of the main reasons I keep this blog is to write away my stress, not compound it.

Anyway, here’s the current goat status: four females, three males. The Nubians are Sylvia,  Bobby, Roland, and the new baby Zeke. Ruby is a Miniature Nubian. Daisy is a pygmy, and Beric is a Nigerian Dwarf. Corey’s plan is to breed and sell registered Nubians and Miniature Nubians. Bobby gave birth to Zeke a week ago, but she had no interest in nursing him, so both he and Roland are currently in the house being bottle fed, but Roland is almost ready to be weaned (even though he probably doesn’t think so).

I find it more than a little amusing that Corey has managed to spoil the two goat babies in the same way that I spoil dogs and cats. It’s so bad that Roland cries at night if Corey leaves the kitchen, which is where we have the crates for both of them. Corey puts Roland in his crate for the night, and then he has to wait for Roland to fall asleep; otherwise, his cries get progressively louder and more anxious, and I swear that it’s as unnerving as listening to a baby cry.

Well, that’s all for now, folks. More later. Peace.


Music by Wafia (featuring Finneas), “The Ending”


[from the sustaining air]
from the sustaining air
fresh air
There is the clarity of a shore
And shadow,   mostly,   brilliance
summer
                the billows of August
When, wandering, I look from my page
I say nothing
      when asked
I am, finally, an incompetent, after all
~ Larry Eigner (found on Poetry Foundation)