Osgood and Gore Schlatter

          Osgood Schlatter is a dove; not very attractive, as doves go, because of his damaged knees and the company he keeps—and kept—and, please understand, those reasons aren't the only's.  Just the top two.  Supposedly, Gore Schlatter is a type of dove; Ok, ok, more of a pigeon.  Mostly pigeon.

          There was a pun, bandied about when Osgood started-up with her, or she attached herself to him—whichever.  It went something like: who's dumb as a rock, been a pig for eons, and behaves like a gore?

          Admittedly, the pun landed better with those who knew her prior-name had been Gore Behavre (she escaped from Quebec) and were aware she, visually, could be of rock pigeon ancestry.  And—it certainly helps understand the pun better—to know that a gore is a chunk of land, which is on the outside of every local jurisdiction, created by a surveying error.

          Many consider it impossible to mate-love with a different species; morally, physically, practically—whichever.  Well, Osgood appears to actually mate-love Gore.  That's what is important, right?  He deserves to be happy.  Today.  None should hold the service-related crimes of his past against him.  But many do.  Which is puzzle-confusing.  Relatively speaking, he never committed any of the autocracies caused by his masters.

          Did his master commit crimes?  Well, of course they did or she did—unless one ascribes to the philosophy that she/they only behave as a goddess is/are required to behave.  Generally accepted logic (among every mammal who, annually, suffer the whims and dictates of Spring) is that if there is a Goddess of Spring Moral Code, those twisted bitches constantly violate it with impunity.  When Osgood was drummed into service as one of her/their translator-protectors, in the eyes of many, he became guilty by association.

          So.  Gore is Osgood's sole associate now.  (There is a pun somewhere around-near here, probably; it would only take a small flex to create it.)

          Gore never had parents.  Instead, she was genetically created.  In a Canadian laboratory.  And somehow escaped or was intentionally released—whichever.  One trait of the lab-born is they smell wrong; Gore smells like a member of the porcine species, which can cause problems.  It is very difficult to get comfortable when anything (with a working game-nose) is constantly being screamed at by their inner voice:  fly, dumb ass, fly! some predator-pig is too close, fly!  it is going to eat you! fly...

⟪ 🐖 ⊗ 🕊 ⟫

          "Oz. You awake?"  Gore asked in her rumble-cool-quiet tone which would not wake anyone who was even lightly napping.

          "I can be.  What's shakin' me favorite bacon?"  Osgood murmured from under his wing-pit, causing a few tiny white feathers to fluff with the pop of his breath.

          Gore liked that Oz wasn't put-off by her smell and the smile in the back of her voice caused her to pause longer-than-she-intended between words, so she could prevent herself from laughing.  "I was just.  Thinking.  Maybe.  We.  Go much further south to where it is already summer.  Avoid the vernal equinox.  Otherwise.  She will be here.  In a few weeks."

          "Appreciate you thinking about me."  He replied while slowly straightening his neck and beginning to flex his angrily swollen leg-joints. "But it seems a lot, too much, for the sake of avoiding them.  You know they can't make me do anything anymore.  Right?"

          Gore swiveled her neck.  The iridescent sheen of her grey ruff shone silver-green-to-pink in the early morning sunlight.  She preened along the apex of Osgood's neck, where he always got a nasty kink and said, "Honestly, I'm more concerned about myself.  I've never been outside of a cage when she arrives.  Never been influenced by her designs or affected by those who were influenced by her.  What if she makes me do things I can't control?"

          Osgood sighed and replied, "Please Gory, we need to communicate clearly when talking about Ostara.  You and I do, that is.  Others may refer to the Triple-Goddess of Spring using the singular pronoun, but I see and hear all three.  When you use she, I think you are referring to the central mother-figure."

          "You've not wanted to discuss this with me before.  I have questions.  But, don't want to raise feathers.  Is now a good time for blunt?" Gore asked, still preening Osgood's angry-swollen knees and legs.

          "Yes.  Now is a good time."  Osgood said.

          Gore bobbed her head up and looked him in the eye.  She wanted her silence to give him an opportunity to change his mind or to indicate pessimism or show he was being untruthful about it being the right time.  Body language was more honest than word-language.  Always.  "Ok. Tell me."  She said, "I've heard others talk metaphorically about Spring.  I've heard you vaguely mention the Triple-Goddess.  That you worked for..."  Gore allowed the sentence to drawl-out in a questioning-to-quieting way, while shrugging her wing and shoulder to indicate she didn't know how to end the sentence correctly.

          "I was forced to work for them an endless season.  Years ago.  The choice was serve or die.  I chose to serve.  After summer arrived and they departed, I tried to kill myself.  Many of the slaves of spring die of exhaustion or will themselves to death, I gave myself to be eaten by a human.  Only the human wanted...  I don't know what.  It kept me in a cage with a horrible idiot-dove.  I think of her as my penance-torturer.  She would not shut the fuck up.  Bitched and moaned—dawn to dusk—for almost two years and then the human let us go.  Maybe Ostara caused the human to release me; release us.  Not everything they do results in evil, even though that seems to be their intent.  That was a month before you found me in that culvert."

          "Explain what they look like to you, Oz.  I've listened to others say they've seen a single goddess.  Still others say they have never seen a physical entity, only environmental effects."  As Gore said this, she nuzzled her chin along the back of Osgood's neck.

          Ozgood appreciated her directness and replied with a directness of his own, "I was selected because I understood their language and could translate their commands.  From Vernal Equinox until Summer Solstice, for every year of my adulthood, I have seen the Triple-Goddess as they are and not as they wish to be seen.  Or unseen, as the case may be.

          They appear to me as three human women.  The young one, referred to as The Maiden, is named Patience; she is playful, naïve, foolish, and more-than-a-little careless.  Fortitude, known as The Mother, is noticeably heavy with child, commanding in a not-to-be-trifled-with way, and is always emotionally-somewhere between low-simmer and high-boil angry.  And the elderly woman, some refer to as The Crone, goes by the name Resignation; she routinely attempts to temper, cajole, and encourage acceptance of what they do as if it were inevitable.  They have the power.  The most fantastic power.  I... I'm sorry."  Osgood's voice grew quiet.  Then he slowly turned his pink-white beak towards the side of Gore's grey beak, until they touched, and said in a whisper, "They can question anything, everything, into and out of existence."

          Gore waited to see if Osgood would continue.  She was certain he did not intend her to think he was speaking metaphorically, but she also knew things which looked like magic were, actually, explainable by human technology or microbiology or science.  And carefully worded her next question to determine if there was a logical explanation.  "Which one caused the most harm?"  She asked, not pausing between words nor emphasizing any of them.  Gore wanted to learn where Ozgood's mind was focused; if he answered with a name—then he'd interpreted her question as if she'd asked: which one caused...' and if he described an event—then his mind had heard: ...the most harm?

          "What you really want to know, Gore-me-love, but are treating me as if I'm fragile-minded—which I greatly admire, as well—is if I was a co-conspirator in a ninety-day, pan-species, mass-genocide or if I was merely tricked into tagging along with an entity who possesses a limited superpower of a..."  As Osgood spoke in his normal, somber, quiet manner, he now slightly raised his right-most claw and curled his inside talon.

          Then said, matter-of-factly, "...shape-shitting ability: either one human, three humans, or invisible..."  As he said one, three, and invisible, he nodded his head for emphasis, then curled his middle talon.

          And continued with a quizzical tone, "...a second superpower which involves a limited ability to see a short time—no more than a few days—into the entire planet's future..." then, curling the last talon on that claw.

          He finished with a increased weight to his words, "...and this entity must, then, constantly pretend to initiate the infinite rape, death, plagues, floods, droughts, and misery, which are merely the result of thermodynamics, entropy, electromagnetism, chaos and hormones.  For over two thousand straight hours.  every.  single.  year.

          "If that is what happened and happens?  Then I did not participate.  I was just one of many victim-witnesses who's real purpose was/is to tell others of the mighty Ostara.  Spreeaad the word."  Osgood breathed a somber exhale looking down at the branch in a contemplative way and then turned his neck to look close-directly: his left eye into Gore's right.

          He said matter-of-factly, "Only.  I never saw behind the curtain, so—from my perspective—it all seemed to be literally caused by them.  With my assistance."  

          "Shape shitting?"  Gore whispered, trying to add a bit of humor into the conversation.

          "What?" Osgood asked, with confused uncertainty.

          "Did you say shape shitting, as in, "the entity had such great anal sphincter power it could crank out a square sh..."

          "Rectangle.  From a rectangle shaped..."  He giggle breathed, loving her more for her attention to his verbal faux-pas and willingness to not get too dragged down by it all.

          "...Rectum."  they both said at the same time and cackled with full-on laughter.             

still more talking-animal stories:
Squirrels: trichotillomania or alopecia or scabies (oh-my) 
Space feline: Jorge with a cat - Part 1
Space feline: Part 2: Jorge with a Cat

         

Covid Kōan

  

           H. R.   Hufflepuff

           P is for plague playing card

           Fairytales R guff

           From: Fee Fye Foe Fum

           C is for Chinny chin chin

           Teeth U have granmum

           Ring-a-round rosy

           Market piggy is called pork

           Comfort able cozy

continue considering paradoxical compositions:

artwork & poem full of explained confusion 

A Song Which Describes You

Epitaph to Live by

The Lazy Witch Coffin Windows of Vermont

          Driving thru the wonderful Vermont countryside, one will invariably see the occasional house with a full-sized window shoehorned at an incongruous angle near the roof-line.  Ask a local why and here are a few explanations they may provide (yarns they may spin):

• Lazy windows are referred to, as such, because they appear to no longer "stand up straight" but instead have "tipped over on their sides" - or - because the homeowner was too lazy to hire a contractor to build a series of smaller bespoke windows. 

• Witch windows are referred to, as such, because they were purposefully built at an angle, in the attic of homes, since witches are unable to fly their brooms thru an open angled window without bumping their head.

• Coffin windows are referred to, as such, because they are the "size of a coffin" - or - because the steep stairway to the attic should rightfully be called a ladder and if someone died up there it would be impossible to get a coffin up or down the ladderway - or - because they were built as fire escapes and people climbing out of them would probably be coughin.  (I just made this one up.  If you use this to play six truths and a lie, this is the lie and all the others are real Vermont lore.)

• Vermont windows are referred to, as such, because they are almost exclusively found in the state of Vermont (with a tiny bleed-over into similarly-challenged homeowners in neighboring states).

          What do I mean challenged?
          Well, of course, I mean homeowners challenged by a window which prefers its own comfort over its duty; or who are fiscally challenged; or challenged by: low-flying witches, a lack of body-bags, or a complete and total lack of fuckin aesthetics (pick one).

         With a bit of research, I surmise the truth is somewhere in the neighborhood of:

• Prior to 1972, the Vermont Fire Code was not adapted to the US-standard.
• Back then, a homeowner who wanted to remodel their unfinished attic space into habitable living space was required to install "sufficient means of emergency egress."
• The cheapest (when considering the need to retain interior-heat in the winter) and easiest way to accomplish this: install a double-pane sliding storm window over a standard double-pane interior window above, or near, an outside roof.
• Expensive options:  build dormers; raise half of the roof and install a wall with windows; add an entire new second floor, add an exterior fire escape.

          But—why are Vermont Windows limited to this state?

          Most states have residential building codes for one and two-family dwellings.  Vermont does not (fire, electric, and plumbing codes only - no building codes).  Cutting thru several load-bearing studs in an exterior wall, to install a large cattywampus window would be anathema to anyone with an eye for design-aesthetics, as well as for every experienced construction engineer.  Normal structural settling will prevent these windows from opening a few years after installation.  Consequently, use of a Vermont window—to escape from a lazy witch (or a fire) and not end up in a coffin—will require smashing out the glass.

added articles addressing unique Vermont insights:
Good Day to Be a Crow
Before Driving Your Smart Car to Vermont
Before Looking for an Apartment in Vermont

Make a Version (Squat Over This Fire) - Day 1 - My Fav Song

          This is important.  Do Not Let News-Company-Fear-Porn Infect You to the extent that you begin to dream about the escalating numbers, the calamity, the CCP virus, and the briefings (unless you are so-very-curious about how self-induced depression or a mental breakdown might feel going-in).

          Knowing we are instinctively wired to slow down and gawk at the horrible traffic accident surrounded by emergency vehicles—while also being aware that every other motorist on this jam-packed roadway is also no longer looking where they are driving—requires you to exert control over your impulse.  Force your attention exclusively on the car in front of you.  No matter how loud the sirens.  No matter how frantic the firemen and paramedics.  No matter how bright the lights.

          This is a great time to do a version of this (again).  I re-post this thirty-day challenge of a video-a-day for you to either be entertained by (or to participate in).  Nine years ago, I did this challenge (archives for March and for April) with days 1 thru 8 in March of that year, and days 9 thru 30 in April.  Some of the videos have been eaten by google.  If you want to make your own list or just read them all-in-one-go, here is the master:  MySoLiMo - My Song List Month

Day 1 topic:  My Favorite Song

Like a Version*:  Squatting over someone else's fire

          There are some high-quality writers I eagerly look forward to reading.  Andrew Vachss, Dean Koontz (some things have changed) and Malcolm Gladwell are three one (off the tip of my temporal cortex) who've sufficiently proven themselves that I spring for their hardback.

          There are other writers who I feel the same way about.  Ginny is one.  Because she posts infrequently, I normally check monthly for new articles on her site, Praying to Darwin.  Today, I discovered she just lit a self-inflicted fire under her own ass.  The intent of Ginny's post a video-a-day for a month self-challenge, in her own words:  Who knows what kind of stuff that’ll make me write about?

          If I'd not checked on Praying to Darwin until after April Fools Day—and she was already a couple posts into this challenge (I say this because I can't completely avoid commenting on the funny flying pink elephant in the corner)—I wouldn't think about joining hands in solidarity or in emulation or in an icky meme-like fashion.  But.  This is her day one.  That's a sign.  A SIGN, I SAY.  So.  I'm in.

          I enjoy spurring myself towards discovery, research, and the crystallization of ideas (both new-to-me and new).  This was why I compiled Like a Version: My Alpha-vile Autopsy.  Creating the pics and mining for just the right words in order to identify an alphabet of things I dislike was an extremely self-informative challenge.

          Back to Ginny's Day 1 topic:  My Favorite Song.  Her's is Everlong by the Foo Fighters.  I hadn't seen the video in a decade and didn't remember it.  It contains overlapping dream sequences.

          I have an aversion to dream sequences.  It's not strong enough to call dislike, but I recognize my avoidance urge.  I'm bothered by them (which my little sister once called dream sequins and then got mad when I wouldn't tell her what I was laughing about) because when a story uses a dream to explain what a character is thinking I can't stay in the story.  Flashback's are fine; story within a story—also fine; jumps in time, yup, still fine...but when a character says, "I had this dream..."  Nope.  As I read (or watch) my mind keeps reminding: this is just a dream.

          I feel the same avoidance urge when reading fiction and the main character is a writer; or watching a TV show, play, or film about an actor; or listening to a song about music; or when the poem is about poetry; or the artwork is about the medium; or the joke is about being funny.

          There are exceptions, but most creative people don't have what it takes to craft a convincingly successful multiple reflection in a mirror.  Or a dream.

          Following in the shadow of Ginny's footprints—my favorite song...anchoring me in time.  The instrumentals of Starship Trooper by Yes are as important (if not more) than the lyrics. 

...take what I say in a different way and it's easy to see that this is all confusion...

   *  I'm always surprised when other people are "late to the pun" (because I am the KING of Never-get-it Land).  The title, in case you are also a resident of this land, is a pun on Madonna's song Like a Virgin with a wink and nudge because this is my version of someone else's list.  get it? get it? Huh? 

Day 2 - A Song You Fucking Hate 

Avril Poisson's Mailbox

Avril Poisson's Mailbox  -  1 Apr (April Fools Day / 'April Fish Day' in France)

          Some details about this composite-collage artwork can be found at:  when in need of a tiny giggle.

more date-specific mailbox art:

Santa Claus' Mailbox - 25 Dec (Christmas)

AULDLANGSYNE's Mailbox - 1 Jan (New Year's Day)
Sommerzeit's Mailbox - 8 Mar (Daylight Savings Time 2020 / 'Summertime' in Germany)

ÔSTARA's Mailbox - 19 Mar (Vernal Equinox / first day of Spring - northern hemisphere 2020)
St George's Mailbox - 23 Apr (Feast of Saint George)
May IV's Mailbox - 4 May (Star Wars Day)
Serling's Mailbox - 11 May (Twilight Zone Day)

  image excerpt by Jamie Wheeler

Pathogens in Sociopaths

          From the 1970s until his death (36 years ago today, of AIDS-related organ failure) Gaëtan Dugas spread the HIV virus to thousands of people.  Dugas' behavior was never in question—he claimed 2,500+ sexual partners during his years as a flight attendant.  What is debated: was Dugas a sociopath, intentionally infecting with the conscience of a serial killer?

          Consider the last paragraph a springboard to a personal perspective:

          In 1988, the US Army Criminal Investigations office where I worked, in Seoul, South Korea, began an attempted murder investigation.

          "Corporal Sid" was diagnosed with HIV (referred to as "the AIDS virus" back-then) and, subsequently, was informed by medical professionals—and his commanding officer—that he was to never have any sexual contact without a condom and was always required to inform every sexual partner he was HIV positive (even with a condom).

          Sid bragged to a buddy about 'killing whores with his dick' - his buddy told us - we interviewed Sid - and he readily admitted to having unprotected intercourse with several prostitutes.  He was charged with: Disobeying a Direct Order; Aggravated Assault; Reckless Endangerment; and Attempted Murder.

          Our contact-trace investigation was of limited effect.  Although we were successful in locating and interviewing every woman Sid claimed to have had sexual contact with (three tested positive for HIV) we were unable to identify most of the men with whom those women subsequently had sexual contact with (Note: in the late-1980s the period between contamination and first symptom averaged 9-12 months.)

          When asked why, Sid said, '...I'm gonna die because got the-AIDs from some whore.  So why not try to take-out as many as I can?...'

          When asked what he thought about the men who he was passing the virus to, Sid said. '...I never had sex with any dudes!...'

          When re-asked (after explaining what we thought was obvious to everyone), Sid said, '...guess you're right about that, but fuck-em.  Teach those dumb asses not to wear a condom. ...  I really don't care.  I am going to be dead in a year or so.  Guess I'z just doin my part to thin the herd a bit...'

          Coronavirus parties, Rudy Gobert-Bourgarel, Spring breakers, mega-church evangelists, and other people who behave recklessly, may only be (most are) clueless idiots.  But there are infected people who are sociopaths and there are also those who are hyper-focused psychopaths—who may be smart enough not to tell anyone what they are doing.

          Stay home.  Wash your hands—constantly.  Wear a face mask or scarf over your nose and mouth when you go to the grocery store, walk/jog outdoors to stay fit or go to your mission critical job.  I specifically want to thank all who are risking their life to perform society's critical hands-on jobs in:  health care, security, transportation, administration, logistics and supply (which, currently, includes my wife).

image excerpt by Mary Hurlbut    

Science Housekeeping

Part II of:  Understanding Faith and Belief  - and -  When You Ponder Why You're Who You Are, What Happens?

          In my 2011 essay Understanding Faith and Belief, I drew a literary corollary between my lack of understanding of the mathematics, physics, and scientific theory (as outlined by Michio Kaku as he explained the Theory of Everything) and those who claim to believe in a creator and possesses religious faith.  I did this by referring to Professor Kaku as "the priest" and the lecture I was watching as in "my church".

          As soon as I posted, nine years ago, I received this anonymous comment: 

     Mr Expert,
     Are you going to have a follow up post or article about this anytime soon? :)

          To which, I replied:

     Mr Snide,
     Nope.

          Well, Mr Snide, although this would not be considered anytime soon (by anyone's standard) it is a follow-up article.  Also, it can be considered a follow-up to When You Ponder Why You're Who You Are, What Happens?

          Recent scientific research has identified:  Dark Energy may have never needed to exist; the entire universe may not be flat; and there is a possible explanation (which fits with our known physics) as to what Dark Matter might be made of.

          Dark Energy was surmised to need to exist because (in the 1970s) a group of astrophysicists measured the speed at which distant galaxies were moving away from our galaxy.  They expected galaxies would be moving away at the constant speed of space expansion.  Instead, they claimed to discover, reported, and received Nobel Prizes for identifying: the further away a galaxy was, the faster it was moving away.  Because this could not be explained, they used the term Dark Energy as a placeholder to describe this as-yet-unknown force which they claimed was 'speeding-up' distant galaxies.

          The measurements and math of these 1970s-astrophysicists was recently re-examined.  Instead of just examining 130-or-so galaxies from a small segment of the sky (like was done in the 1970s) the new team of astrophysicists measured thousands of galaxies from the entire sky.  As a result: they failed to identify a consistent speeding up of all distant galaxies.  Which will hopefully be re-checked by more scientists (hopefully, before they're all awarded Nobel Prizes) but this means that Dark Energy is and was an un-needed placeholder and is no longer a thing. 

          Flat or curved:  Until now, space was observed to be flat, which was a term to describe the lack of curvature (not that it was flat like a two-dimensional surface, but that it was not concave or convex).

          Which, I realize, is not any kind of explanation.  Sorry, I barely understand this shit myself.  Best I can do is say it this way:  because everything in the observable universe is moving, it is almost impossible to "see" if the entirety of space itself has a shape—it was postulated that radiation traveled in a straight line, and the "fabric of space" was, therefore, flat.  But, recently, it was measured that at immensely vast distances (hundreds of thousands of light years or more) a slight curvature was possibly identified.

          I think this may have been measured in radio or x-ray wavelengths, not in light-waves.  And, I have no idea what they used as a reference point to "see" the curvature.  This - also - needs to be re-checked.  However, if these measurements are confirmed by other scientists, it seems the entire universe is convex or concave.  Which means it might-could double back on itself and be a sphere (huge question mark).

          Dark Matter may be a fifth state of matter.  Solid, Gas, Liquid, Plasma, and now maybe a form of ultra-hot or ultra-cold type of quantum-gas where the quantum particles (which normally make up molecules at all other temperatures) flow apart from their ability to form molecules and, instead, flow into themselves and form a totally new state of matter.  A gas which has mass and which, accordingly, has a gravity component.  The mathematics allegedly works.

Haiku 検疫 5-7-5 俳句 Quarantine

neoadjuvant

quarantine, empathic act

thank true sickrifice

haikudos:
Haiku ほ 5-7-5 俳句 HO
Haiku 小道 5-7-5 俳句 Path
Haiku 装飾 舗装 5-7-5 俳句 Asfault Ernate

Before Driving Your Smart Car to Vermont

Thinking about driving your smart car to Vermont (or moving to Vermont with a Smart Fortwo)?

• Premium gasoline is available everywhere.  Ethanol-free premium is more prevalent than in many other states, with the number of stations selling ethanol free in the state coincidentally similar to the number of covered bridges in the state.  (Pure-Gas.org/Vermont) (Vermont Covered Bridge Club)
• For driving on plowed roads, in snow and ice, switch between winter snow tires (non-studded) and all-season tires, mid-November and mid-May.  Snow tires can be ordered/installed at several major retail tire shops.  (Vermont Tire and Service)
• Due to smart's low undercarriage clearance, it is recommended not driving when snow falls, or is expected to fall, faster than ½ inch (1.25cm) an hour for more than five consecutive hours.
• After major blizzards subside (Vermont averages 4 or 5 significant snow storms a year) all business parking lots are professionally plowed within hours.  And, the Vermont Agency of Transportation is exceptionally proficient at plowing all major and most minor roadways inside of 12 hours (the only roads not plowed, or plowed last, are dirt and gravel, Class 4 roads). (VTrans Winter Weather Central)
• Significant potholes, irregular pavement, and semi-repaired asphalt is the rule in almost every city and on portions of almost every secondary road or two-lane highway.  Interstate highways and many "high-traffic secondary roads" have recently been/are currently being/will soon be repaved.  Drive your stiff-suspension-smart with care.
• Parking is rarely free.  Even in small non-tourist towns meters are prevalent and their hours are extensive.  In winter months, parking bans can prohibit parking on select or all city streets.  In large cities and select towns parking in residential neighborhoods can require a resident parking pass.  (Burlington Parking App)
• Because of tourism, Vermont charging stations are becoming more prevalent.  (Public Charging Map - Vermont)

A dangerously-unsafe habit of Vermont drivers, on four-lane highways:

• Vermont drivers over-adhere to one never-enforced-unless-in-an-accident "law":  left lane is for passing; right lane is for travel.
• As in almost every state, when traveling on four-lane highways, motorists are required to indicate their intent to change lanes with their turning signal.
• Following too closely or "crowding" is as prohibited in Vermont as it is in the "down states," however, it is never enforced and never obeyed. 
• Routinely, Vermonters will indicate their intent to pass with their turn signal, pass in the correct manner, and then—as soon as their rear bumper passes your front bumper—immediately cut in front of your car.  All Vermonters are incapable of gradually merging back across the center line and over into the right lane of travel after they are a few hundred safe feet ahead of your car (in a slow manner).
• The most extreme example witnessed:  Driving the speed limit on an empty four-lane highway at night (no other headlights in sight); a car with Vermont plates caught up (they were going about 15 mph over the speed limit), tailgated for a few miles, so-close their headlights were hidden (less than 20 feet away) then they indicated with their signal, passed, and cut so close in front that their bumper was not visible (less than 6 feet).  [If it weren't so prevalent, I would have thought the driver was acting with malice and I would have called 911.]
• At least 25% of Vermont drivers seem to be unaware they are dangerous drivers. 
• When "turning-in" after passing (which is the crux of the issue: learn to merge and stop veering) many Vermonters will over-correct, cross the right white line with their tires and/or hit the rumble strip and throw up dust and sand.      

extra essays encapsulating unique Vermont insights:
The Lazy Witch Coffin Windows of Vermont

Before Looking for an Apartment in Vermont

There is (still) nothing to see or hear except what is not here to see

          Sometimes it is more important to note the absences—what is missing—than to focus on what one thinks might be visibly present.

          Decades ago, within a few short months, I stopped working as an investigator and stopped husbanding (after twenty years and nine years of service, respectfully).  That was the year I let my hair down for the first time in my life—literally as well as figuratively.

          Before retiring, my latter years as a military investigator were spent supervising (an essential element of which was inspecting case files).  One way to review closed criminal cases is to look for what first-echelon investigators and supervisors overlooked.

          Example criminal case:  Accident or suicide.  After ingesting a relatively large quantity of intoxicants (legal and illegal) a soldier apparently disrobed, placed his folded clothes on the hallway floor outside his hotel room, opened the hallway window, and stepped out (or fell, or jumped, or was pushed).  This scene (in Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands) was described, sketched, and photographed in detail.  Witnesses were interviewed thoroughly.   Autopsy, check.  Toxicology, check.

          The only thing of importance, which I discovered missing:  the height of his fall.  Nowhere in the file was there a measurement of the distance from the second floor windowsill to the sidewalk.  Added confusion:  European second floors are US third floors (the ground floor in Amsterdam is 0).   The investigators and their immediate supervisors failed to determine how far the victim/subject fell.   [Based on examination of crime scene photographs, I estimated it was over thirty feet—because "ground floor" was, maybe, half a flight of steps above "street level" and ceiling-heights appeared about three meters high—but, guessing is not investigating.  I directed the investigators to go back and measure.]

          "Why drive three hours to measure that distance, Chief?  Seems like a extreme waste of time and money for a closed accidental-fatality case."

          I looked sternly at the investigator while I "air typed" with my fingers and said, "Dear Senator Helpmeout, my son's death is listed under 'accidental means' and the file, which I obtained under a FOIA request, says he 'stepped or jumped' out of a 'second-story window.'  My son was a good boy and I don't think he would have voluntarily taken all the drugs listed in the toxicology report, but, even if he did, how's it possible for him to have died falling from a second story window?  I could jump outta my bedroom window—on the second story of our house—and the worse thing that would happen is I might sprain an ankle."

          ◫

          Most people let their hair down when they first move out of their parent's house.  I didn't.

          With never a pause, I morphed from overly responsible teenager putting himself through college, to young soldier taking care of an unplanned family, to adult with two cats in the yard and we'll get-together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then.

          So...when I found myself retired and single in Prescott, Arizona at the age of 42...I dove head-first into a auto-didactic double major of meditative self-awareness and immersion in nature.  During which, I experimented with—among other things (some foolish, others less-so)—automatic writing.

          With my eyes closed, in a "light meditative state," I spoke questions aloud and my hand scribbled answers on a large sheet of paper.  After much-of-nothing-memorable the following happened:

          Me:  How old will I be when I die?

          Right hand (eyes closed):  Fifty three.

          Me:  What day of the year will I die?

          Right hand (eyes still closed):  31 December.

          Even at the time I never paid much heed to it.  Over the past decade, I mentioned it, jokingly, a few times when a conversation topic turned to "weird experiences."

          Around 2007, when the 21 December 2012 Myan-apocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I - again - recalled my own faux-ominous date o' death based on nothing but my own foolishness.  One which was supposed to be 31 Dec 2012.

          That was a week ago, and all of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.

          I'm fine.

          How you doin?

          ◫

          What I am attempting to point out with this essay, is that we all rarely pay attention to the obvious, staring-us-in-the-face, always present thing-at-the-back-of-our-conciousness—which we are in the habit of not bringing forward to our mind's worktable very often.

          We would-maybe-kinda like to know how much longer we have and when we are going to die.

          We tell ourselves, it will happen sometime in the future.   And not just the future.  The distant future.  Ten years from now.  At least.  We assume that it will happen when we are old.  And we never think we are old.  Even when we know we are old, we tell ourselves, we are still not old enough to die of old age.

          We always assume:  'tomorrow will be another day'.

          We rarely consider that tomorrow today could be the last day.   And we also don't focus on the idea that when our last day arrives—just like yesterday arrived—it will almost always be unknown to us as such.  We never consider that it will be the last day.  Period.  It will be the end of the entire world from our perspective.  Full stop.  If you decide to "pause the game," there is no way to un-pause it.

          Even as we are falling thirty-five feet to our seconds-away demise, sure hope I don't sprain my ankle jumping out this second-floor window is our la...

(Original essay written 5 Jan 2013.  Updated/edited March 2020.)

More how to think about death philosophy:

Epitaph to Live by

 Stories of My Demise - Amor Fati and Memento Mori 

gameboard (art)

coronavirus 2019

Errantly Without Tether

 errantly without tether | attentively phaseout dither | contently overflout blather

currently about whether | cogently sickout bellwether | petulantly doubt weather

evidently indevout neither | nocently freakout swither | redolently rout forgather

virulently spout mouther | patiently waitout bother | puriently pout-out together

(if) ⇒ changing direction in an aimless manner with no physical restraint [then] politely attend to the wishes of others by gradually discontinuing to behave in an indecisive manner [and then] in a peaceful state, openly disregard long pointless verbose rants

(because) ⇒ at present the topic under discussion is requesting a decision between these alternatives [either] think in a clear and logical manner and participate in an organized period of unwarranted sick leave as a leader [or] in a childish bad-tempered manner, question the factual information about current visible atmospheric conditions

(also) ⇒ it is obvious to all, those lacking in religious conviction do not [cause] intentional harm, react in a irrational manner, vacillate between [nor] act in a manner reminiscent of forcing a disorganized retreat from a peaceful assembly

(instead) ⇒ in a bitterly hostile manner, declaim for all to hear, those who give "lip service" [and] without becoming annoyed, hunker down and stay in place during the difficult time [until OK to resume] acting in an overtly sexual manner, holding lips to appear sexually attractive while in public spaces, with one or more other people

additional collections of stanzas structured to instruct:

waod poem

personal values in a poetic vocabulary lesson 

Design Fault

SQUARESPACE Business Model: Kill Golden Geese Daily

          See those metaphorical tight little spaces inside the adjacent squarespace logo?  Like entering an IKEA store, you are not supposed to be able to find what you are looking for—or get out—in a simple, end-user-familiar manner.  Their business model appears to be (from a month of personal experience):

• Impress geese (who have an ability to lay small golden eggs for life) with high-end ubiquitous marketing and impressively up-to-date, shiny, shit.
• Kill geese while removing gold egg.
• Discard goose carcass. 
• Wash hands.
• Rinse.
• Repeat.

          This year, I began to move this blog to a modern pay site.  In the (near? not-so near?) future, I will "go live" on snapperhead.space which was, obviously, only available at squarespace dot com.  For one more tiny golden egg, I can transfer this domain to a different host.  Yes, squarespace, you may consider that a threat.

          I sent squarespace this email and have not received a response.

          Want to know why some fantastic computer games fail?  Because their designers are “too innovative.”  This is a lesson you at squarespace need to heed.  I am three steps away from taking my sites to a more user-friendly home and requesting a refund for my year (before ever going live).

          I just spent ten minutes trying to FIND OUT HOW to change my credit card info (my old card got hacked the day I used it to pay for squarespace - just a correlation, not a causation).  It is not under my Profile; Accounts & Security.  Also, there's no explanation where to find it at Accounts & Security.

          I feel, at this point, you—squarespace-email-reader/responder—might need to have this explanation provided, because you are stuck in your paradigm - and you think “your way is a better way”.  Every other company, which I pay a subscription to, puts payment in a prominent place in my account or profile - or - they tell you where it is placed.  You hide yours.

          Related:  Your FAQ works fine.  Type update credit card; answer is available.

          Related:  Your CONTACT US works like a computer game that wants to test your temerity and willingness to solve the puzzle.  It took me another ten minutes to find a way to send you this email.

          The end of every subject tree ended with another branch of sentences, and a “Do you still want to contact us?  take a screenshot and ...”   WTF squarespace - you need to get out of your own way.

          All this does is tell me you hate emails from customers.  You despise reading complaints.  And, you do not intend to ever peek out at what the industry is doing differently / more efficiently / gaining customer satisfaction better at, than you.

          You need to hire “secret shopper type” users to crawl around inside your over-designed sleek and impressive rabbits warren of a site and make things better or you are going to lose to Wix or Wave or whatever other new site is making things fun and simple, instead of more complicated, on the user end.

          -Veach Glines

I am not surprised they did not respond.  Are you?

Semalt SEO Scam - a Blogger's Perspective

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