Slow down, you move too fast

You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feeling groovy
Ba da-da da-da da-da, feeling groovy

Life’s a garden, dig it. Life goes fast, remember/enjoy it. With all the hustle/bustle of November 2016 elections, ISIS, Immigration, refugees, global warming, healthcare costs, yada – I thought it’d be nice to close ones eyes for a sec and simply ‘remember good’.

So I did so. One recent feel good was simply that, closing my eyes and remembering yesteryear.. painting my youth’s Big Screen on the insides of my eyelids. Performers were parents, sister, grandparents, extended family, friends, coworkers, the gamut of folks who’ve wondered in/out of my life.

Hello lamppost, what'cha knowing
I've come to watch your flowers growin'
Ain't cha got no rhymes for me?
Doo-ait-n-doo-doo, feeling groovy
Ba da-da da-da da-da, feeling groovy

Can I be a witness? Song for another day – but, things I’ve recently witnessed making me feel groovy: a crowd of 70, 80-somethings bouncing to the beat of Big Band era songs. Their yesterday returned as well. A baby’s first steps. A dog at play. 70 degrees in February. Four friends in the pasture of the golf course.

I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you, all is groovy

The autistic student manager of a high school basketball team, inserted in the lineup of a ‘real’ game – he sinking a 3 pointer, mobbed by teammates, classmates. Glee. The chicken runs at midnight (long story, teared me up in a feel good way).. The sights/sounds of baseball – a reminder life is cyclical – and for all the yuck we ‘drive thru’, feeling groovy is sure to happen soon.

Life I love you, all is groovy. Love, Victurd.

Carry on my wayward son,

For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Wayward as in capricious, erratic, or unpredictable. Yesterday… Attended a fascinating “Big Band Era” production – twas really really marvelous. The second act opened with a long, soft, mellow instrumental – and I closed my eyes – envisioned – in what seemed like forever, was but a quick respite… a respite to look at those close, but now gone.. of youth, but no longer.. of good/great times – etched forever – but in the aft of life.

Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond the illusion
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say

I can still ‘hear’ my mother’s voice… my sister’s.. father’s… grandmother’s.. teachers, coaches, youthful friends, classmates, college buds – ago…. Songs of yesterday, sounds of yesterday, Long ago..

Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Carry on, as in, the river will still flow. The pages to the book will still turn. The characters they come, the characters they go – there’ll be peace when we are done.


Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say

Stormy, tossed, masquerading, charades – “wise”.. course for winds of fortune.. Those before us, those after us. Even those after them. Carry on.

Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Weary ultimately happens.. sooner for some, later for others.. Fleeting, time here.
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty

Surely heaven waits for you
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Carry on… and let’s do so righteously… congruently (at least with peace amongst one another).. Harmonious.. in brotherhood.. Our paths always end, but others will carry on. Life is fleeting, let’s not cry no more.

Happy trails to you......

Perhaps the slug does it best.. at least you can see the trail they’ve left behind.. a bit gooey though.. Us humans – we have all this ambition.. we mate.. we populate.. we accumulate.. we assimilate.. we aim to have the best… the most.. the biggest.. the baddest..

Happy trails to you, until we meet again.
Happy trails to you, keep smilin' until then.

Then.. we spend our latter years downsizing.. on our way out.. .

Who cares about the clouds when we're together?
Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather.
Happy trails to you, 'till we meet again.

Packing I was (to move hopefully a FINAL time).. .. going thru old stuff.. parent’s old stuff.. not much left. Of course precious pics (What’s to come of digital pics into the future?.. Saved forever? There’s simply something about holding a 5 by 7 in one’s hand – lifelike).. I think of all they owned (and I don’t mean “ha ha look at me”.. I mean that we were a very average family.. but we, like all, had ‘stuff’, belongings)..

Some trails are happy ones,
Others are blue.
It's the way you ride the trail that counts,
Here’s a happy one for you.

Then we die. Our trail comes to an end. We know our own trail. We vividly remember our parent’s trail. We have our youthful take of our grandparent’s trail.. the vast majority of us have no idea on our “great” grandparent’s trail. Trails evaporate. By the wayside. Poof.

Happy trails to you, until we meet again.
Happy trails to you, keep smilin' until then.
Who cares about the clouds when we're together?
Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather.

Seems here we should mebbe change songs to “What’s it all about, Alfie?”.. Or mebbe "All we are is dust in the wind".. so… reckon we have to make our trail the best, for ourselves.. One day no one will remember us anyways.. WE need to make that trail nice – nifty. We need to make that trail happy. We need to remember it ain’t about stuff.. we ultimately get ridda all that.. – it’s about stuffing fun, family, love, comeraderie, niceness, smiles – all that, into our trail. Roy and Dale seemed to ‘get it’. Hope we do too.

Happy trails to you, ‘till we meet again… Let’s make a pact not to be a gooey slug. Love, Victurd

Got any spare change?

Personalities.. Looks. Mates. Opinions. Financial status. Stock market. Weather. Undies. Spare. Roller coasters. Tides. Solar/Lunar. Style. Jobs. Choices. Path. Priorities. Self-talk. Motivation. Friends. Waistlines. Commitments. Inputs. Methods. Intensity. Spending.

Uh huh, things that change (or can).. 180’s. Some do 180’s. Some, 360’s. Some change there is no control over. Some changes are ones we very badly want to do – but ain’t got the chutzpah to do so.
We close our eyes and see our perfect person in the mirror, yet, we devour that twinkie anyways.. we puff away “just this one”.. we have another.. we repeat the same behaviors in spite of inching along on the balance beam of intention. We swim toward the wall, but the current keeps us from gaining any ground.

Some change is really really good. A new dog. A new mate. A new job. A new lease on life. A 180. I had cataracts 9 years ago. Doc literally ‘busted’ my lenses, replaced with lens implants. I walked into the Piggly Wiggly shortly after and the change was unreal. Bright, flamboyant, beautiful – I’d trudged in greyness seemingly forever and forever without knowing so. “Po’ but didn’t know it” I believe my mother would have likened it to. My eyes were depressed, so to speak.

For many, change is accompanied by proudness. Cool. Hard work rewards. Change can lift from depression. Sometimes change happens due to luck.

I ain’t no shrink, but I think depression is 360. It’s same ole same ole. Stuck. Treading water –arms that grow tired doing so. Drink, smoke, Candy Crush, online slots, worse, mire. Sleep 12 hours. Sleep zero hours. This usedta be fun. Ashamed. Agitated. Headache. Eat. Don’t eat. Tired.

Miracles, good friends, new mates, better outlooks, self help, 180’s – do/can happen.

Never give up. Each day is a gift, each sunrise a blessing.. Every breathe we take. Life is good, somewhere in there – wait for it. Visualize it. Trust it’ll happen. Up follows down. Teeters totter. Frowns change. Osmosis is real.

Change is a miracle. Striving for even perhaps a greater thing. Love, Victurd

Your Phil……..

Way more than you ever ever wanted to know about Punxsutawney Phil.

Tradition started in 1887. “They” say “there is only one Phil, and all the other groundhogs are imposters".. This is interesting since the life expectancy of a groundhog is 6 years.

Phil’s wife is Phyllis (of course) and their daughter is Phelicia (uh huh). Their home is actually a couple miles East of Punxsutawney.

Groundhog Day was actually filmed in Woodstock, Illinois.

In 1995, Phil flew to Chicago for a guest spot on Oprah.

In March of 2013 an Ohio County prosecutor sent an email calling for Phil to get the death penalty for “misrepresentation of an early Spring, an Unclassified Felony, and against the peace and dignity of the State of Ohio.” (Temps that day reached a record low, snow fell.. and temps remained below seasonal average for some time.)

In February of 2015, the Merrimack Police Department in New Hampshire issued an arrest warrant for Punx for having failed to disclose the extreme amounts of snow that would ensue after Groundhog Day.

Phil has now made predictions for 120 years. He’s predicted an early spring (no shadow) only 18 times (including this year, an early Spring, 2016). Those keeping tabs say his predictions have proved correct 39% of the time. This is significantly worse than chance – and the traditional interpretation of Punxsutawney Phil’s predictions should be reversed.

Crap. 6 more weeks of winter. At least, he’s as accurate as Busby, Lezak, Thompson.

Your Phil for today. Quick, close your eyes. Can you spell Punxsutawney?

Victurd