This year has been the busiest I’ve had since back in my 20s when, for a brief, delusional few years I worked like a Silicon Valley maniac.<\/p>\n
I don’t approve of work. I discourage all my friends from doing too much of it (and “too much” can have a pretty liberal definition). So how did I get into this state?<\/p>\n
I ask myself that all the time as I bang nails and computer keys (mercifully not at the same time, but as tired as I’ve gotten a few days this week there’s some chance I might mix up the two, nailing my keyboard to the wall — hey, now there’s an idea — or trying to coax sensible prose from a cedar shingle).<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
Some delightful people (thank you B&F!) sent a big box of homemade fudge this week. Well, not exactly homemade. The wife of this charming couple owns a sweet shop where she hand<\/i>makes fudge in an old-fashioned kettle, and that’s where these tasty treats are from. Chocolate, vanilla, fruit flavored, with nut toppings (my favorite), and without. And OMG, are they sublime.<\/p>\n
I don’t eat a lot of sweets. But those times when I neeeeeeeed them, creamy and chocolatey is what I have to have. Now I have pounds<\/i> of sweet consolation.<\/p>\n
And this is the week for it. Cats and dogs and neighbors and deadlines and the demands of old houses — oh my!<\/p>\n
B&F — you are the absolute masters of Perfect Timing.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
As I work, thoughts churn through my head, from complete drivel to … well, things that are probably still complete drivel, but on a much higher plane.<\/p>\n
Ever since Jim Bovard reminded me of the anniversary of Ruby Ridge (curse you, Jim) (and BTW, here’s Kevin Wilmeth’s very worthwhile (and very angry) take<\/a> on that), I’ve been thinking about the strange ways lives intersect — or don’t.<\/p>\n Spiritual people and assorted left-wingy sorts are always talking about everything and everyone being interconnected. That has always sounded like nothin’ but woo to me. And repulsive woo, besides. Hey, there are millions, maybe billions, of people out there I really, truly wouldn’t want to be “interconnected” with. How about you? Would you like to be “interconnected” with Charles Schumer? Or my freeloadng neighbor? How about with Charles Manson? <\/p>\n No, let’s just let that whole “interconnected” thing stay in the realm of woo. Yet of course there is truth about that butterfly that flaps its wings in China and …<\/p>\n But that hurts the brain, too.<\/p>\n What strikes me harder and more often is how non-connected we are. And yes, that is connected to the anniversary of the monstrous assault on the Weaver family. They went up their mountain to be left alone — and the whole might of the federal government descended murderously upon them.<\/p>\n Yeah. Well, that’s “interconnectedness” in a not-so-good way.<\/p>\n But where were we when Sam, Vicki, and Striker were being cut down by federal vengeance? Maybe we were having a party or flying home from a European vacation or making love or not even born yet. Some of us were hunkering down, having no idea we were going to be hit by a monster of our own — Hurricane Andrew<\/a>. Very strange that momentous things, horrible things, go on without our notice.<\/p>\n (Odd, random thought: I recall that during the siege, some news commentator blamed Randy Weaver for the fact that some of the fed agents from Florida couldn’t be home with their families as Andrew crashed down on them. Hurricane Andrew was Randy’s fault? The murderous siege was Randy’s fault? People can be sooooo strange.)<\/p>\n —–<\/p>\n This is, of course, the first half of a Margarita talking. Margarita and chocolates. Whoa. Sin and degradation. And if you don’t like it, baby, too darned bad.<\/p>\n —–<\/p>\n While writing this, I’m also emailing with C, the chief cat trapper in our little local rescue group. She’s a very cool person. Younger than most people who get involved in this work (you usually have to reach a Certain Age before you qualify as a Crazy Cat Lady). Very pretty, too.<\/p>\n