Jailed in a FreeCell

I'm beginning to feel like a mad scientist. Not the mad scientist in the middle of the movie, when he has been overtaken by his madness and is intent on destroying the world. Of course, the cinematic mad scientist, besides being mad, is brilliant enough wreak havoc all over the world. That he never destroys more than himself and his laboratory is because the hero is even more brilliant. You know the hero will triumph because he is younger, sexier, has better hair and doesn't have a sinister foreign accent. There is no dashing young hero in my movie. In my movie, the world is made safe by my ineptitude.

But none of that matters, at least right now. My madness has nothing to do with world domination. And at this moment I'm as sane as the next man teetering on the edge of insanity. I am the scientist when he is still aware that his mind is a battleground and that he's going to lose the battle if the cavalry doesn't show up soon. Late at night, in a corner of his laboratory lit by an anemic candle, the mad scientist writes furiously in a notebook. His handwriting is barely legible and, for the convenience of the movie audience, he reads the words as he writes. Given the thickness of his accent, his reading is of minimum value to the audience. But those who are paying attention catch enough to know that an idea - an idea that he can rule the world, that every human can be a slave to his needs and desires - is quickly seducing his mind. He wants to regain control of his mind, to put it to work making the world a better place. His mind, however, has a mind of its own, and willingly cedes it to the evil notions that came disguised as high class street walkers.

So, here I sit at the computer, which happens to be in a dark corner of the house. The only light comes from a small reading lamp - I used the last candle the other night. And, in what's left of my sinister Pittsburgh accent, I read the words as I type them illegibly into a Windows document.

"FreeCell has seduced me," I say as I type. "I don't want to play FreeCell; I don't enjoy playing FreeCell. But it won't let me go. I come to the computer each day hoping to produce something worthy of my talents, or at least something legible. But the moment I sit down, I can feel FreeCell approach me. 'Go ahead, just one game,' FreeCell, a scantily clothed lass with even scantier morals, says softly. 'No, I can't. I have work to do.' 'Work, shmerk,' she says. 'Come on, just a quick game. One game isn't going to hurt.'

"It will hurt," I continue scrawling into the computer. "I know it will hurt, no matter what she says. One game of FreeCell will lead to another, and another and another. Fifty-three games later, I'll still won't be satisfied. I'll play FreeCell through lunch and late into the afternoon. Why is it that I'm so weak? Why is it I cannot resist the urge to play this game? Why can't I stop once I start?"

I sit hunched over the keyboard, typing feverishly, hoping to find the strength, the tenacity, the determination I need to subdue the temptress FreeCell. "Wait a minute," I say to myself, "that might work. That might be the answer. Just maybe this will free me from FreeCell."

I'm boiling over with excitement and anticipation for a new and better life, a FreeCell-free life. The thoughts are coming so quickly. I can master this. I know I can. In the euphoria, my mind becomes a hectic jumble as it devises plans to slay the monster that lurks in the games menu. But I need to get control. I must calm myself and plot at a more deliberate pace. Everything is moving too fast, my blood pressure is rising, my head is throbbing.

"There, there," FreeCell says. "Just play a game or two. It will clear your mind. Then you can sort things out."

"You're right," I say. "But, you know this is the last time."

"Of course. We'll never see each other after today."

"You say that as if you don't believe me."

"I have faith in you," she says coyly.

"What's that mean?"

"You figure it out."

"I will," I tell her. "Just as soon as I finish this game."

She smiles, pulls up a chair and makes herself comfortable.

Let the Sunshine In

Though I have spent the winter whining most of the time, I haven't been whining the entire time. Why just the other day I stumbled upon something I started on almost a year ago. So, I thought it would be wiser to dream dreams of summer than to wallow in the nightmares of winter.

Cuddles is now almost a year-and-a-half old now, and as the days get longer and the sun gets higher, she, too, is anticipating summer.

Let the Sunshine In

Not yet a year old, Cuddles the Cat is experiencing summer for the first time. The sudden burst of heat and humidity that dropped by the other day didn’t faze her, although she is none too happy about changes it caused in her routine. The disappointment can be seen in her dreary eyes, her sad countenance and her shuffling gait. Where once there were thrills, excitement and activity, there are now two empty hours in Cuddles’ day. Whether the old Cuddles will reappear in October or be forever lost, a victim of the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, remains to be seen.

From the day the clocks jumped ahead to savings time, Cuddles had derived great enjoyment from chasing the lively beams of afternoon sunlight that flit around our living room. I often joined in her games, using a book cover or the screen of my cell phone to transform sunlight into a frolicsome Tinkerbelle dancing on the walls. Cuddles loved the chase; she crouched in anticipation; she darted; she jumped; and finally she pounced and covered her prey. Seconds later, I made the elusive glimmer reappear, and the chase resumed. There were times when I didn’t know the game was on; times when I was unaware I’d become the source of jumpy sparkles. But Cuddles was always alert and always aware. And when one of the sun’s rays bounced off of a passing car and onto the living room wall, she eagerly pursued it.

Alas, the heat from the summer sun is too much for Cuddles’ primate friends. Now when the sunlight begins to creep in the front windows, the shades come down. A disappointed Cuddles is left to wander through the house, searching for a wayward shaft of light that isn’t there.

Cuddles is not a demanding cat; she asks for little beyond food, water and a clean litter box. She is content to spend most of her daylight hours doing very little. For the few minutes of the morning and early afternoon when slumber isn’t enough, a scrap of paper or a hair band provide all the diversion she needs. But as the dinner hour approaches, and the light from the westbound sun streams in the living room window, Cuddles comes alive and her predatory instincts come to the fore. Crouched in a corner, she stares alertly toward the window and, with her muscles taut, she waits for a darting speck of light, the elusive prey she loves to chase but never captures.

At least that’s what she did before the shades came down.

Is There a Longwinded Me?

Suzanne, our writing teacher, tells us every week to bring something from our longer work. I don't have a longer work. As a writer, I like to think I'm a sprinter, not a marathoner. I usually give out after two thousand words or so. Then again, maybe I'm lazy and just quit once the initial urge peters out.

There are times when I think I should write about my experience with Multiple Sclerosis. But every time I've tried to keep a journal, even those times before MS entered my life, I've quickly become a whiny bore. If I get disgusted after reading a few paragraphs about me - and I am my own favorite subject, you know - how long will those people who are not me last?

As it happened, Nancy and I were in San Diego over Christmas. The weather was wonderful - we got there the night all the rain in southern California ended. There were a few chilly days, but there were no sunshine-free days. I left there determined to immerse myself in a longer work. But all the enthusiasm disappeared when we got back to Ashtabula and winter. I like to think the weather had something to do with that. But now spring is just around the corner - or maybe the next corner - and whether or not a longer work is forthcoming will reveal much about the cause of my winter funk. Is it the weather, or is it laziness? Only time will tell.

The AARP Bulletin Came Yesterday

Brother Jim reminded me today that I have been ignoring my blogger duties. The truth is, this has been the winter of my discontent. We got back from San Diego on January 2, and a day or two later it snowed, and we never saw the grass again until the middle of last week. Last night the grass disappeared again under six or eight inches of snow.

Anyway, AARP has been getting the best of me lately, mostly because their magazine is dedicated to celebrities, who are mostly boring and have had so many face lifts their faces look like masks. Then came the January AARP Bulletin, which was all about boomers at sixty-five. It caused a reaction. Whether that reaction can be classified as getting things off my chest or merely as whining is for others to say. For better or worse, this is how I felt about the article at the time. A month later, I still feel that way.

The AARP Bulletin Came Yesterday

The AARP Bulletin came yesterday.
The AARP Bulletin, January issue,
all about Boomers at sixty-five:
busy, vital people;
people doing things,
energetic, happy people.
People who walk, and run,
and swim, and bike,
and lift weights,
and work, and do useful things.

It’s winter.

My world ends at the front door.

The snow.

The goddamned snow keeps me inside.

The snow and my legs.

My heavy and slow and unreliable legs

that make driving difficult on clear, dry roads.

How the hell am I supposed to drive on icy, snowy roads

when my legs are heavy, and slow, and unreliable?

What if I lose control and go into a ditch?

Big deal.

What if I lose control and make someone else’s legs

heavy, and slow, and unreliable, and useless?

Ask for help, I’m told.

Don’t be ashamed; don’t be proud.

Ask for help.

Get in the wheelchair;

let someone else push.

And let someone else struggle with my legs;

my stiff and uncooperative legs,

my legs that won’t get into the car without a fight.

Then, when we get where I am going,

someone else can get the wheelchair out of the trunk

and help me out of the car,

and back into the wheelchair,

and push me through the parking lot that isn’t plowed,

and down the sidewalk that isn’t shoveled,

and through the door that isn’t handicapped accessible.

Have someone else do the work.

That’s the life for me.

Keep your magazines, AARP.

Don’t bother me with them.

Don’t remind me of what I can’t do;

don’t remind me of what life could be.

(Some day I'll understand how to copy and paste Windows documents into this blog and maintain the spacing. Until then, bear with me, please.)

Not so Heavenly

It isn’t always easy being smug and self-righteous in the here and now, and it might be even more difficult in the hereafter. According Dr. Johnny Joe Dennis, Saved Person, writing in the latest issue of Oh Joy: The Journal of the Really Special People God Truly Loves, the self-righteous might find their eternal rest less than restful.

Dr. Dennis assures those certain of their salvation that their salvation is certain. After all, God’s love is the greatest love of all, and the love of the self-righteous man for himself is a close second. Therefore, Dr. Dennis says, the self-righteous are the most god-like of God’s creatures, which, of course, they already knew.

But there is one lingering question: Who, besides the smug and self-righteous, will be granted entrance to the kingdom? A noted Stringentarian, who frequently assures his congregation that Heaven will not be overcrowded, Dr. Dennis has always believed the answer to be “no one.”

He has always pictured Heaven as a gated community where the objects of God’s affection can be safely and comfortably segregated from all the riff-raff and other less-than-special persons. At first glance, it is an enticing picture, but the longer Dr. Dennis looks at it the more he wonders.

The riff-raff and less-than-special persons, he notes, are responsible for the preternaturally prodigious self-image of the smug and self-righteous, from whence cometh their happiness. A nose, Dr. Dennis notes, will be of little use in Heaven if there is no one to look down upon. In a place where everyone is as wonderful as everyone else, the smug and self-righteous might start to feel average, no better than anyone else, run of the mill, less than special, uninspired by their own being. And with God and the angels just down the street, the smug and self-righteous might even feel some inferiority.

To avoid that, Dr. Dennis urges the saved to occasionally go to the edge of the abyss and watch the less fortunate doggy paddle on the lake of flames. But, while the smug and self-righteous have that wonderful ability to gain strength and comfort from the misfortune of others, he wonders if the salubrious effects of the scene from the precipice will last for more than a few thousand years.

There is also the possibility, Dr. Dennis writes, that the riff-raff will be frolicking in the flames. Watching those inferior to them drink and wench their way through eternity while they are cowed by the perfection of God and the angels, will not be a gratifying experience.

Of course, God could be a Latitudarian and allow in some of the riff-raff -– the homeless, with their soiled and smelly trousers; the drunks and the druggies; the centrists; the leftists; maybe some communists, even; some Muslims and Buddhists; some agnostics and free-thinkers; some Darwinists, maybe old Charles himself; the prostitutes; the Roman Catholics; and, perhaps even, the homosexuals. Dr. Dennis does not think it’s likely –- God’s selections just couldn’t be that slipshod –- but it might happen, although it would deeply disappoint the self-righteous, and God certainly would not want to do that.

Besides, the presence of riff-raff in Heaven would serve to make things more tenuous for the smug. Having a less-than-special person next door would give the prim-and-proper prig a neighbor to look down on, except this is Heaven and all the residents were chosen by God and everyone is special. As Dr. Dennis points out, the self-righteous have a special need to feel special, but where everyone is special, no one is special.

Dr. Dennis urges his readers not to despair. They are, he says, the greatest of all God’s creations, and God has a plan, a wonderful plan, for them. But he ends with a cautionary note, “Eternity,” he writes, “could be a hell of a long time.”

Cuddles Gets Cuddly

It has taken some - more or less a year - for Cuddles to live up to her name. In the twelvemonth since Cuddles the Cat condescended to allowing us to share our home with her, she has been anything but cuddly. In fact, she has been downright standoffish, preferring to chase reflected sunlight across the wall to spending quality time with them what feed her. But, over the last four weeks, she has plopped her carcass on my lap for at least three thirty-minute spells, allowing me to stroke her luxuriant coat and otherwise treat her as a pet.

I am pretty sure this has nothing to do with my warm and loving personality - warm and loving though it is - and a lot to do with the paucity of sunlight in Ashtabula this time of year. And in so far as it does not have anything to do with short days and overcast skies, it might have everything to do with the space heater beneath the table where I sit.

Still, it is nice to be loved - even if it is only because there is no reflected sunlight to chase and because I am a dependable source of hot air.

The Sporadic E Skip

Around the middle of the last century, orthographic professionals suffered a surfeit of seizures brought on by numerous protests over the inconsistent application of the “I before E except after C” rule, or the Sporadic E Skip. This refers to the sporadic manner in which the “e” skips to one side or another of the “i” in willful violation of the rule. The orthos, as the orthographic fraternity refers to its members, thought about taking this bug out of spelling, because so many people were confused by the weird problems presented by it.

The demands for change were heightened by the swiftly evolving society of the post-war era. The boys who had defeated the Axis powers were now men attending college on the GI Bill. Suddenly, the veterans were competing with their neighbors for preeminence in the classroom, and spelling mattered. Honest men all, they could not in good conscience cheat, but they certainly didn’t wish to be accused of having gneiss, or other rock forms, in their heads.

Unfortunately, neither the vets nor the orthos anticipated the challenge posed by a group of prescient pedagogues, who foresaw declining respect for teachers if spelling was made less complicated. The teacher, they felt, should stand before the class as an omniscient deity, and the removal of the Sporadic E Skip would make spelling proficiency an attainable goal for even the below-average student. Rather than saying, “Heigh-ho and away we go,” when the orthos proposed their new rules, the teachers became intransigent and refused to implement them. They said it was the least they could do for the heirs to their profession.

Now the British, and what a bunch of weisenheimers they are, have buried their heads in their eiderdown pillows and decided the rule is deficient, unveiling another freight car full of evidence on how they forfeited their sovereignty of the language.