Brownian Motion in the Home

Everyone must believe in something. I believe in housekeeping by Brownian motion.

You never set out to clean and neaten and organize. Boring. You let sublime nature take its course. When the molecule glob which is you bumps against a blob of not-you  molecules which seem dirty or out of place you may react, clean it or put it away -- whatever seems necessary.

Or you may not. (What the heck, it isn't +that+ bad. I'll get at it tomorrow.)

It is a low-stress approach to domestic respectability, perhaps something like having a mute, invisible, Martha Stewart drop in once in a while.

Interesting thing about that, though; there seems to be a second absolute zero other than the one Lord Kelvin sort of discovered. Around here, anyway, the titivation-motivator molecule is often  remains inert for weeks, regardless of indicated ambient temperature. So, for days on end, a photo of my quarters would perfectly illustrate the Wiki entry on "entropy."

Other times, like this morning, it gets entirely out of hand.

All I intended was to get some books off the table, the couch, and the kitchen counter and maybe wash the dishes. That was about 8 a.m. Now, three and one-half  hours later, the books are shelved. But also I have vacuumed. I have rehung pictures.  I have cleaned the"miscellaneous" drawer. And, so help me, I am washing blankets.

Please.

Help.

Stop me before I get out the Windex.

Why we're broke

I've been thinking about Newt Gingrich lately.  Maybe an undigested bit of beef?

Thinking about Newt, the Ghost of  Christmas Future, reminds me of George Washington Plunkett, a real man who helped run Tammany Hall, famous for defending "honest" political graft and for summarizing how he got rich ward-heeling in New York City:

"I seen my opportunities and I took 'em."

He boasted that he never shook down widows and orphans.



"Just let me explain by examples. My party’s in power in the city, and it’s goin' to undertake a lot of public improvements. Well, I’m tipped off, say, that they’re going to lay out a new park at a certain place.


"I see my opportunity and I take it. I go to that place and I buy up all the land I can in the neighborhood. Then the board of this or that makes its plan public, and there is a rush to get my land, which nobody cared particular for before.


"Ain’t it perfectly honest to charge a good price and make a profit on my investment and foresight? Of course, it is. Well, that’s honest graft. Or supposin‘ it’s a new bridge they’re goin’ to build. I get tipped off and I buy as much property as I can that has to be taken for approaches. I sell at my own price later on and drop some more money in the bank."


That's at least candid, but it's remarkably crude by modern standards. Today Mr. Plunkett would leave his powerful political office and collect a few million or so giving strategic advice to the public titters of Freddy Mac and Fannie Mae.  And he could claim he wasn't lobbying.

If that don't beat the Dickens...

Thoughts after a great loss to American Letters

Putting the finishing touches on a Big Post, I highlighted and deleted a single word. And all the rest of it was wafted off into the ether, down the Memory Hole of No Return, all 800 or so words of truth and beauty.


"Damn Blogger! Damn everyone who won't damn Blogger!! Damn everyone that won't put lights in his windows and sit up all night damning Blogger!!!"


If that rings a bell, just think back to our 1795 treaty with the Bloody Brits not long after the Battle of Fallen Timbers. An anonymous proto-graffiti artist splashed it on a  Boston wall. Substitute "John Jay" for "Blogger".


Then say something about how civil our political discourse "used to be." :)   

From a Transylvania Fen

The single hint of color is the van, a subdued maroon breaking up the somber Gothic morning even through its coat of dust mud. Otherwise in this freshly thawed December world nature's only movement is a misty drizzle. The fog has lifted just enough to reveal the stone-still tops of the tallest oaks.

I should move the van from my window sight line, regress to a simpler time, and embark on a Gothic novel. Or see if I can find a nice Vincent Price film on the teevee.

Or write one of those dreary poems as the English used to like.

Hard by the steel mirror of sylvan lake it came,
Black as a the grave of its day's destiny.
And staccato on the ancients cobbles
A team of four, heads low, no bells to cheer their harness,
Bred for rue...


Aw, the Hell with it.  When it's this dreary only a bacon sandwich will get me moving.