Invisible Men and Thirty Thighs

Be advised: If you drive down IH-10 to Sealy, you will not see the sign for your exit, because it isn’t there. The highway is under construction. Hwy 36 is now a big pile of dirt.

We turned off at a Goodyear place and set the GPS for the hotel. It told us to avoid the mess on the interstate–in almost that phrase–and go east on the street we’d turned off on. David said he was grateful for GPS because he’d have gone west.

Our route took us down little streets and roads lined by trees and old fence posts and sagging barbed wire and all kinds of greenery and rusty barns and silos and even cows. I hadn’t seen a cow in forever. I miss them so much.

Finally we reached downtown Sealy. It’s a pretty little town, what we could see of it, but instead of going down Main Street, we turned off and went back to the interstate and our hotel. I don’t know now many people are staying here, but we’re the only ones I’ve seen. The construction is affecting their business. They’re short staffed, too.

David has gone to pick up our VIP passes. I am lying on the bed writing, eating Lorna Doones and Gatorade, and not listening to Father Brown.

I don’t watch network TV any more so I haven’t seen Father Brown in years. I am sorry the show has gotten preachy and soft instead of following G. K. Chesterton’s lead. His stories–and the TV shows made with Kenneth Moore–were serious. Sin was sin and there was nothing funny about it.

But I do like Sorcha Cusak. I liked Cyril Cusak back when and wondered if Sorcha is his sister. Google informed me she’s his daughter. I’m sure she’s too old to be his daughter. But The Golden Bowl, in which he appeared when he was up in years, was made in 1972 and ran on Masterpiece Theater in Season 2, 1972-73. It doesn’t seem that long ago.

I’m lying on the bed because I had to wake up before noon to pack, always a mammoth task, and I’m tired. I was going to bring some of my new clothes–a dear friend took me shopping and performed my mother’s function, saying, “You look good in that. Buy it.” But most are synthetic, and it will be hot as you-know-where, and I don’t want to be hotter. Furthermore, many people I’ve seen at film festivals look like unmade beds, and I can do better than that in old clothes.

David is going to order fried chicken online when he gets back. He said he wants three thighs. I thought he said thirty thighs. Works for me.

I considered ordering fried catfish, but it always tastes so bland. Not like San Marcos River catfish. San Marcos catfish tastes like the river, algae and all. Put a bite in your mouth and you smell river. People not raised on that fish might object. But farmed fish, which most restaurants probably serve, is, from what I hear, raised in a no more pristine environment. And shrimp are bottom-feeders, too, and nobody complains about them.

David’s film, Invisible Men Invade Earth, will be screened tomorrow in a block of “offensive, scatological” videos. You have to be 18+ to get in. I’ve laughed and laughed since reading. How a film David made managed to be categorized as offensive, I do not know. Unless viewers don’t like cats.

The video was judges’ choice in a Dallas festival several years ago and they screened it the next year, too. They said they often quote a line from it. For ten years, it’s been going to festivals.

Viewers have called it “sweet” and “innocent,” and a video “made just because the film maker wanted to make it.” Which is true. He told one audience he wanted to make a video while he was sitting on the couch and spending no money. That’s true, too.

The only positive about the category is that it might draw a large audience if they think they’re going to see something offensive.

If you haven’t seen the video and would like to, here’s the Youtube version. If it won’t load, go to the bottom of the film screen and click Yourube..

Image by MonikaP from Pixabay

Image by Luiz Fernando Miguel from Pixabay

Sumer is icumen in, almost

Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

~ Oldest written English song, about 1260

 

The air conditioner is broken again.

~ David Davis, April 25, 2022

 

Sumer has not cume in yet, although the thermometer sometimes suggests it has. Today, though, it’s raining, 62 degrees, still spring.

The air conditioner will be fixed well before sumer cumes in.

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“This 800-year-old song comes from a miscellany that was probably written in Oxford around 1260 and it’s the first recorded use of six-part polyphony.

“The beautifully preserved manuscript contains poems, fables and medical texts – and is the only written record of ‘Sumer is icumen in’. The song is a ‘rota’ or round, a canon for several voices (in this case six). It describes the coming spring, a singing cuckoo and various excited farm animals. Click the image below for a closer look at the full manuscript in all its glory.” (Listen to one of the oldest songs ever written, ‘Sumer is icumen in’)

English translation

Summer has come in,
Loudly sing, cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, cuckoo!
The ewe bleats after the lamb
The cow lows after the calf.
The bullock stirs, the goat farts,
Merrily sing, Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, well you sing, cuckoo;
Don’t ever you stop now,
Ground (sung by two lowest voices)
Sing cuckoo now. Sing, Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo. Sing cuckoo now!

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Image by Wynn Pointaux from Pixabay

The Case of the Missing Roomba

 I ordered from a business I won’t name but you know what it is–a roomba costing over $300. It was supposed to be delivered by ten o’clock last night.
They have posted a picture of our door–definitely ours–with package on mat. THE DELIVERY MAN DID NOT KNOCK, so I didn’t spend the evening opening the door.
Today, no package on mat. I will chat–or maybe request a phone call–and tell them what happened. I think they bear some responsibility, since THE DELIVERY MAN DID NOT KNOCK. I know he didn’t, because we were home all night and the cats didn’t go flying under the bed.
David said don’t order another one. He said he’d vacuum.
I like to vacuum but am not sure I can handle a vacuum cleaner now, or in the future.
My friend said when her package was stolen around Christmas, the company sent her another one. I hope they send me another.
If they do, I will be happy. If they do, David will be VERY happy,
I really want a roomba so I can see if the cats will ride on it.
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There are more cat + roombas on Yotube.
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Does anyone know why my post will not double-space, even though it triple-spaces on the edit screen?
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I’ve Been Waterin’ the Yahd

Sometime back in the 1930s, my grandmother picked up the telephone receiver just in time to hear the Methodist minister’s wife, on the party line, drawl, “I am just wo-ahn out. I’ve been waterin’ the yahd.”

To the layman, the statement might not seem funny, but my family has its own criteria for funny.  And so those two sentences entered the vernacular.

They were used under a variety of circumstances: after stretching barbed wire, frying chicken, mowing the lawn, doing nothing in particular.

My father would fold the newspaper, set it on the table, and announce, “I am just wo-ahn out. I’ve been waterin’ the yahd.”

I am wo-ahn out now but not from waterin’ the yahd.

Last night David, the family’s official printer, printed the manuscript of what I’ve been calling my putative book. It runs to over two hundred pages, 51,000 words. It isn’t finished–far from it. There’s more to write, scenes to put in order, clues and red herrings to insert, darlings to kill. All that stuff. And more.

However, for the first time it feels like I can stop calling it putative. No longer supposed, alleged, or hypothetical. It’s looking more like a potential novel. Possible, Even probable,

Now, about being wo-ahn out.

Last night I started putting the manuscript, scene by scene, into a three-ring binder. That required using a three-hole punch.

I hate using three-hole punches. I hate fitting the holes in the paper onto the binder rings. They never fit properly. Getting them on the rings requires effort. It’s tiring.

When I went to bed, I was all the way up to page 37.

Then I woke at 5:30 this morning. Instead of turning over and going back to sleep, I got up. I just couldn’t wait to get back to organizing my manuscript.

But I didn’t organize. I managed to drop the whole thing and then couldn’t pick it up. I had to wait for David.

By the time the notebook and manuscript were back in my possession, I was sick and tired of the whole thing. I played Candy Crush.

If I’d had any sense at all, I’d have gone back to bed. I was sleepy. I felt awful. I needed to sleep.

But did I go back to bed? Noooooooooooooooooooooo. That would have been the act of a rational person.

I stayed up added to my sleep deprivation.

I could go to bed right now. I could conk out and tomorrow feel ever so much better.

But will I? No. Because I’m too tired to stand up, too tired to put on my pajamas, too tired to pull down the sheets.

I am just wo-ahn out. I’ve been waterin’ the yahd.

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Look above the notebook in the picture and you will see the tail of William the Cat. I lay on the bed all afternoon doing trivial, unnecessary tasks. William lay on the bed all afternoon and slept. He should be writing the book.