Duty - pt. 1

I read that word again, just recently. DUTY. As in, it is my (not the writers; mine) duty to do this or that. Since I rarely read the words of some would-be ruler's speech, the word is usually directed by somebody who's on - or who wants me to think he's on - my side of the aisle.

It is my duty to defend the constitution, to resist authority, to show up at some rally, to send an email to a politician, to give to the NRA, to...aw, fill in the blank. You know the drill.

Nobody ever explains how any of this became my duty. It just is, that's all, and all right-thinking people know it. I don't want to be perceived as not a right-thinking person, do I? Then I'll accept my duty. Won't I?

It's very curious how duty has become pretty much always, at least outside the military, the province of what other people are supposed to do. People, as I said, are always telling me what my duty is. They rarely seem to talk in terms of their own.

Yet I took no vow, uttered no fell oath to do...well, anything. I have not signed my life to anyone's cause, and so it seems to me that if I owe anything, it is only to myself. We speak of being individuals, but it seems as though not even the most selfishness-worshiping philosopher among us wants to come out and advocate such a thing. Of course there's a duty to things outside myself! Don't I know there's a war on?

Oaths, vows, used to mean something. As little as a hundred years ago no man who wished to regard himself as a gentleman would ever think of breaking a vow he had voluntarily taken; his life was worth less than his honor. As little as a hundred years ago, no man who wished to regard himself as a gentleman would ever take any oath lightly, because he could very well find himself needing to commit horrid acts of self-abnegation to fulfill his oath. At least, so I'm told: The historical novels are full of such men.

Have you noticed how nobody writes novels about such men set in modern times? Outside the military, that is, where at least the tradition is given a bit more than lip service - officers are at least supposed to pretend their vows mean something. But in real life we see grown men put their left hand on a holy book, raise their right hand, and take solemn vows all the time; they televise it. And we all know they're lying. The people who administer the oaths know they're lying, but they cynically administer the damned things anyway. I guess you can say anything you want about preserving and protecting a damned piece of paper, so help you God, and that can mean whatever you want it to mean because it's...well, it's just a damned piece of paper.

I don't really mind when those men do such things. I know they're lying scum; they know it, hell - everybody knows it. So it doesn't matter what they say or how solemnly they're swearing when they say it. But what does kinda get on my nerves is when those same men - women too, of course, but I'm simplifying for space and emphasis - then proceed to stride to a podium and proclaim, in sonorous and meaningful phrases, what my duty is. As if they gave that oath in my name, or something.

To Be Continued...

"And remember...

...We've already got a leg up because when it comes to a difference of opinion, the guy with the gun wins!"

Some poor muzzle control here, but funny shite nevertheless. Never heard of this guy; followed a David Codrea link.

I'm only posting this because...

...Otherwise nobody I know would believe it.

Our Moment of Incoherence...

It's April 2006, and I'm leading an anarcho-capitalist counter-protest in front of the DC Comics office building against a group of left-anarchists who are denouncing the film V for Vendetta for not being anarchist enough. The leader of the left-anarchists is also a "freegan," which means he eats garbage from dumpsters. On principle.

No, I'm not even going to provide a link. You don't want to know.

See, this is why the semi-organized, semi-competent would-be rulers will always rule. The rest of us are a bunch of dysfunctional geeks. Sometimes I think this Internet thing wasn't such a good idea after all, for otherwise I wouldn't have even seen this...

Oops!

While making a stop on a neighbor's property to assess/prevent property damage, somebody (but we won't mention any names, will we, Magnus?) sorta kinda caused some property damage.

Somebody scented something that smelled a lot like rabbit inside a drainage pipe. But the pipe was too small to climb into, and too long to scare the rabbit out. So Somebody (and Magnus, you'll notice I'm still not naming any names here) just decided to pull the whole @$%! thing out of the ground...


And yup, sonuvagun there was a rabbit in there...

Windy as hell today...

...but it's time to start getting used to that. If this year is like most, the wind will continue pretty much daily and start taper off just in time for the monsoon.

It's a feature, not a bug. It keeps the Californians away, and we get all the good stuff.

Still fairly warm, but...

The weather forecasts for this area have been almost eerily accurate lately. Yesterday was pleasant all day, though clouds rolled in late right on schedule. Forecast said today would be cool, cloudy and really windy, and it really is. That's unfortunate, because the forecast calls for continuing deterioration and maybe some rain on Saturday. But still nothing like the nastiness of December.

We went on out morning walk today and I had to call it short because I got to feeling really punky. Felt like it was just blood sugar, and I did feel some better after I ate a little something but the walk was only an hour and a half or so after a perfectly good breakfast. I haven't been sick for over a year, but if I'm going to get the flu this is the time of year I do it. I don't want the flu. Noooo, flu. Begone.

I think the main reason I found this funny...

... is that we actually have evenings like this. Mostly without the property damage, but...

See, this is why hiring contractors is good.

I may have given you the impression that, when it comes to building projects, I'm not exactly Bob Villa. This impression is true. I frequently find myself doing things when, truth be told, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. People with actual self-respect call these "learning experiences." I just call it screwing up.

So...when I decided to mount the new auxiliary generator outdoors, having already damaged two by letting them run indoors, I built an awning to keep off the rain and snow:



This awning almost instantly (like the very next morning) proved itself far too small: I had assumed that the generator's position on an inside corner of the sheltered side of a building would let me get away with a small awning, so that I could get in and do things like add fuel without being too inconvenienced by the cover. Not so much. Next morning, new generator covered with snow.

Hm.

Okay, so build a bigger awning:



This time I had the shingles I'd brought back from the city, and I thought: Since you don't know how to use shingles either, I'll bet it would be easier to shingle the awning while it's on sawhorses, rather than have to do it on a ladder.

Right? Right? Bueller?

Jesus H. Christ Stuck in Traffic - do you know how much those things weigh? Oh, sure, I do now.

I only dropped it once. And I was right about the old awning making a very fine pedestal for the generator, so there.

Dog Boy to the Rescue!

An insanely beautiful day. I've got work half-done all over the place and really should be at it while the sun shines, but this morning's walky got a little crazy. Down to the wash, turned right instead of left and through the scrub inside the Big Loop. Then up toward the Branch and south to the neighbor's parcel, looking for petrified wood. Remembered I'd promised to get S the Road Guy to look at the parcel and give me a price for installing some culvert, so we walked overland to the road and up to the farthest crossover. Altogether we probably walked six or seven miles this morning, which is farther than I can walk without pain. Ended up sharing my canteen with the big guys; Ghost either can't get the hang of drinking from a trickle or just distains to do so.



Saw a bunch of camera-worthy things this morning, but the thing I should have seen was a fresh set of batteries. This was the camera's last gasp, rather early in the morning. By the end, not even Ghost was running anywhere.

I'm going to join the boys in a nap now.

Our Moment of Hubris...

Okay, see, so the previous post got me to thinking about poetry. And from there, I got to thinking about my poetry. I don't write much poetry but every now and then the muse taps me on the shoulder, normally just so she can run away giggling while I write some page full of POS drivel. But there are a few I'm not totally unhappy with, and my own favorite is something I wrote all in a rush one time, called My Name Is Craven.

Then I got to thinking about posting it here.

Then I said to myself, "Yo. Joel. You just posted a Kipling poem. Ain't no way you're putting one of your own right above it, like there's some favorable comparison."

Then I answered myself and said, "Hey. It's my blog. Shaddap."

And then I did the deed. Forgive me.

My Name Is Craven
Last night I saw my exile
In a dream, perhaps a vision
Of the mighty weight of hubris
Chained around the necks of children
through the arrogance of masters who
Have welded bonds of words to men from long ago.

In my dream I saw you clearly
I dreamed that you sat crying
In a corner of a dimly lit
And sour smelling garret
You were lost and unprepared to face
The world that you were doomed to from so long ago.

For the absence of your mother
The indifference of your father
Left you weak and undefended
Left you longing and bewildered
You were helpless in your bondage
In a prison built with lies and greed from long ago.

And I should have knelt beside you
Should have found some word to teach you
Should have plumbed some well of wisdom
From my empty years of exile
But I turned away in silence
And repeated my first sin committed long ago.

In my dream I saw you harshly
I dreamed that you stood screaming
In your justice-driven hatred
Of your distant shrouded captors
You were driven to rebellion
But you could not hear their laughter from so long ago.

You rebelled without a purpose
Striking out without direction
Hidden from your eyes the authors
Of your insubstantial prison
They awaited your exhaustion
In the way that they have always done from long ago.

And I should have stood beside you
Should have put my arms around you
Should have found some means to tear away
The scales that kept you blinded
But I crept away in silence
To the shadows where I’d hid myself so long ago.

In my dream I saw you darkly
I dreamed that you knelt weeping
In your weary understanding
Of the hopelessness of protest
And I thought I saw you break, then
As so many men have broken, from so long ago.

You were cleft from your illusions
And the solace of your anger
And your bitter comprehension
Of the dim, confining future
Left you prey to more confusion
In the way that men have drifted, from so long ago.

And I wept to see you losing
All the promise of your manhood
And I burned to stand you up
And show you hope is no illusion
But I feared to harm you further
Or so I told myself, that time so long ago.

In my dream I saw you brightly
I dreamed that you rose grimly
I saw you stand and look upon
The worth of your tormentors
There was death in your regard, then
I feared your death, as other times so long ago.

But you kept to your own council
You sought no guides to lead you
I saw you then surrounded
By a thousand books and weapons
Your dreams were all of blood, then
The blood of those who hounded you, so long ago.

And I should have joined you gladly
Should have added my strength to you
Won a hope for my redemption
Even if I fell in battle
But I slunk away as always
As I do each time from time’s beginning long ago.

In my dream I saw you faintly
I dreamed that you lay dying
In a field strewn with your foemen
And a million burning volumes
Of the edicts and commandments
Written by dark men from days beginning long ago.

In your hand, your blade was dripping
And the very ground was smoking
And the hills still sent the echoes
From the roaring of your battle
There were vultures at the treeline
Gathered to the feast prepared for them from long ago.

And my heart leapt up within me
I fell to my knees beside you
And my shame was an avenger
Rising up before its victim
For I should have been there with you
I have known about this battle from so long ago.

And I wake then from my slumbers
In the darkness of my exile
I am Cain, and I am Judas
I am Moses on the mountain
Weeping out toward the horizon
To the promised land forbidden to me long ago.

I will never rise from darkness
For I seek no greater freedom
And in every life I know the price
But always fear to pay it
And in every land men know my name
And spit upon it from the days of long ago.

For the child becomes the hero
I should always stand beside him
I should never fear the fury
Of the empty men who rule us
But I know my name is Craven
I destroy the dreams of each new age, from long ago.

Our Moment of Culture...

I get weird songs and poems stuck in my head. I don't know why. Maybe I'm the only one who does.

Anyway, I'm taking the bread out of the maker and grabbing a bite to eat, and sit down to look up the words I can't remember to a Kipling poem (Kipling being the only poet I could ever sit still for or take seriously, my whole life) that's been rattling between my ears all damned day. It's called "Hymn to Breaking Strain", and has always been one of my favorites because I've had times in my life when it really hit home. Goes like this:


The careful text-books measure
(Let all who build beware!)
The load, the shock, the pressure
Material can bear.
So, when the buckled girder
Lets down the grinding span,
The blame of loss or murder,
Is laid upon the man.
Not on the Steel - the Man!

But, in our daily dealing
With stone and steel, we find
The Gods have no such feeling
Of justice toward mankind.
To no set gauge they make us, -
For no laid course prepared -
And presently o'ertake us
With loads we cannot bear:
Too merciless to bear.

The prudent text-books give it
In tables at the end -
The stress that shears a rivet
Or makes a tie-bar bend -
What traffic wrecks macadam -
What concrete should endure -
But we, poor Sons of Adam,
Have no such literature,
To warn us or make sure!

We hold all Earth to plunder -
All Time and Space as well -
Too wonder-stale to wonder
At each new miracle;
Till in the mid-illusion
Of Godhead 'neath our hand,
Falls multiple confusion
On all we did or planned -
The mighty works we planned.

We only of Creation
(Oh, luckier bridge and rail!)
Abide the twin-damnation -
To fail and know we fail.
Yet we - by which sole token
We know we once were Gods -
Take shame in being broken
However great the odds -
The Burden or the Odds.

Oh, veiled and secret Power
Whose paths we seek in vain,
Be with us in our hour
Of overthrow and pain;
That we - by which sure token
We know Thy ways are true -
In spite of being broken,
Because of being broken,
May rise and build anew.
Stand up and build anew!

Summer seems to have arrived!

I don't know what the actual temperature is, because an outside thermometer remains on the "really must remember to buy one of these" list. But it's got to be pushing eighty today. High, wispy clouds, hardly any wind at all...geez, if the weather was like this every day I'd be up to my armpits in Californians.

For once the boys aren't bothering me with "Uncle Joel, let's go for a walk!" "Uncle Joel, Fritz is touching my side of the bed!" "Uncle Joel, turn the thermostat up!" No, now it's more like, "Uncle Joel, don't make so much noise."

The weather has been freakishly nice for a freakishly long time, with the exception of some wind. Fritz has started to drop his undercoat; for once I get more hair from him than I do from Magnus when I brush them.


I brought some shingles from the city last weekend, and today I'm working on improving the awning I made for the generator. A perfect time of it, since the wind will get to be more and more a fact of life as the year proceeds. Also I'm not fooled: The winter is not over, it's just waiting for me to relax. I've still much to learn about living here, but even I know that much.