Friday, July 22, 2016

Oh give me a home

It is not every day that lightening knocks out the power. We were ready however, and in five minutes we had it accomplished. Helmet light strapped on and exacto knife in hand we wiped off the already loosened conduit cover and scraped the insulation from the now dead wires. Twisted three inches of bared #10 wire around two conductors and electrical taped them up real quick and threaded the wires through a hole methodically filed just below ground level into a trench we had at ready. Just in time as the street lights flickered back on.

Living under a bridge needs patience and a shade of ingenuity. We now have an electrical box fastened to a short pole behind the pile of rocks which we call home. No one's the wiser, except for our cow Bessy and our two cats. We can now have fresh dripped coffee and charge our phone and laptop without trucking across the avenues to the parking lot with plugs. We'll be searching the dumpsters for more modern electrical type inconveniences shortly.

We do need a good little heater for next winter. We're digging a cave, so to speak. Had to shore it up with posts and boards from an unneeded fence up the riverbank. Two sheets of plywood on the floor. Eight by eight is really cozy, we hope. Styrofoam boulder made from twenty sheets glued together and fancied up with a grey spray bomb and lots of sand and dirt covers the entrance. Planted some local shrubs beside it too, just for laughs. Bessy says she'll live outside, she's made friends with the deer in the bush downstream. The cats think it's neat, attracts a few varmints for them to toy with although they're friends with the local skunk.

      Oh, give me a home where the Buffalo roam
      Where the Deer and the Antelope play;
      Where seldom is heard a discouraging word,
      And the sky is not cloudy all day.

A vaguely religious affirmation of fortitude in the face of peril, it would seem, this life bestowed upon ourselves. The wild west still within our grasp, with some modern amenities. Canned beans are real good. So is the hydro. Just preparing for the new world order, you know, with the bankers hell bent on swindling the western world out of it's superiority complex. Got the ceiling lined with fourteen layers of tin foil under five feet of clay under the concrete span of our bridge, unlikely those infrared heat sensor drones will spot us before they drop from the sky in Armageddon. Just got to make like a fisherman with our pole when we come and go. Trying to figure out how to hide a horse, they're a bit more high strung than an old Hereford.

Making coffee in the morning, seemed to take a long time to get a cup. Plugged the radio into the outlet and it would come on for a minute and then off for a minute and then on for a minute, got us scratching our head. Went for a little stroll down Bessy's path to ponder on it and then we saw it, the lights at the intersection at the bottom of the bridge. If we hadn't hooked into the green light circuit. If we don't get another wicked lightening strike this summer we'll be saving the city a bit of power we suppose.

Friday, July 8, 2016

George's anchor

It was good, as George put it seated on his throne, that the moon rises in the east and sets in the west. In fact, he was happy to surmise, it so happens that the sun follows this pattern also. And when he was out and about, away from the lights of his town which allowed the conspirators to follow him on his nightly missions, he felt the whole cosmos wheeling around him, those stars far beyond who never lost their places year after year, on this great nightly rotation always from east to west. Once when he had climbed down a well to hide from his neighbour's dog, he had watched with wonder for hours as stars moved from east to west across the tiny opening far above, in the middle of the afternoon. Somehow this land, this earth was anchored in the sea of space and all remained constant. In a land of conspirators and prejudiced dogs, it was something to hold onto.

George's mind had an anchor too, somewhere behind his eyes. It made little matter how the conspirators tormented him or how the dogs would sneak up and bark the bee jeebies out of him, his immutable anxiety always remained rooted there, anchored in the back of his skull. Even in the times of calm when he could scorn the invasive forces with succulent tribulations from the safety of his throne, he would watch the visions circle around inside his head, always from east to west.

There had been a time long ago when as a young lad George had felt a kinship with his mates, as if they were all on the lake each sailing their little craft, watching out for one another in the stormy world of adult rationality. They would throw their anchors out together in the shelter of a little bay, away from the winds of discipline and float freely together entertaining the warming sun. But life turned from east to west also, and as the sun got higher on his days his mates had become conspirators, many had dogs, and they had turned their quest to power and prestige, their dogs remorseless in these undertakings. And so George had departed the world of commerce to establish his own private castle, nondescript as it was, with his throne facing west so he could see what lay in store. Not that it worked.

There was a time when he had wandered off and lost himself for several years, ending up with a hornswoggle carved from a stump. He had even found a mate and made an attempt at commerce, carving little hornswoggles for sale on that avenue which cut north and south, a latitude in the longitude of life. He still had his hornswoggle, seated in the midst of his castle, his cat was old and rather hairless, and his mate had abdicated her throne for some fool with a dog, a dog who had lifted his leg on his hornswoggle. He had retreated from the thrills of commerce back to vantages of misanthropy, them and their dogs.

George had thought long and hard on egalitarianism which evolution had endowed upon humans. It was doubtfully doubt which gave us the capacity to respect the views of others, a doubt in our own beliefs, so he remained a little apprehensive of the moon rising in the east and setting in the west just so he would not be too prejudiced. That way he could smile and say hello to everyone he met when he was out and about, even their dogs, though the response was seldom reciprocated. This even-handed approach to life was far from the dominant quality in most humans and their institutions he found. Dominance and conspiracy seemed to play a crucial role in humanity's day to day functioning, policing and punishment typically administered by the most dominant individuals. Somehow the humour of most situations was lost upon these stewards of the establishment and their dogs. It was good to have an anchor to hold onto, even though he must view it with a degree of incertitude.

So George continued with his life, attempting to thwart the conspirators with dispassion on his nightly missions, and took to carrying a bag of dog biscuits to tempt impartiality in their dogs. Sometimes it worked, and he could peacefully watch the cosmos circle above him, from east to west.