Blog #308                                February 2, 2023

 

What in me is dark, illumine.  What is low, raise and support.  That is the exhortation John Milton offered to the muse, Urania, to inspire him as he began writing Paradise Lost in 1658.  I went to school with John.  Well, sometimes I feel that old.  You know you’re old when you fill in your date of birth in some online application and the dropdown box hits the floor before it gets to your year.

 

Every writer needs an inspiration, a muse.  My muse is, of course, my wife.  Not only that, she’s most of my material, and as much as I pick on her every week, she’s pretty much a combination of Glenda the Good, Mother Theresa, Joan of Arc, Martha Stewart and Natalie Wood.  Well, I may have exaggerated a bit with the Joan of Arc, although Carol does like to be warm.  Even so, she’s a jewel.   Some men have an old bag for a wife, I have a Judith Leiber.

 

But she picks on me as much as I pick on her.  She says I have two faults – I don’t listen and something else.  I’m pretty sure I have more than two faults.  I am moody, stubborn, quick-tempered, forgetful, moody and often forgetful.  In my 77 years, I’ve crammed so much stuff into my brain cells that other stuff had to leak out to make room.  So I am often a font of cogent and titillating information but, just as often, lost.  I recently had somebody from Arthur Murray come and paint footprints on the carpeting so I could find the bathroom.  Cha-Cha-Cha.

 

My neighbors take care of Shakespeare when I’m out of town, and I take care of their plants when they’re gone.  Last winter I was watering their jade plant, a gnarled and brawny old beauty that probably weighs more than 60 pounds.  I noticed a twig on the floor that had fallen off the jade.  That wasn’t abnormal; the jade sheds leaves and twigs from time to time.  This twig was Y-shaped, about eight inches long and had a few healthy leaves on each arm.  I didn’t feel like throwing it away, so I took it home.  I found a small glass vase, filled it with some soil I scraped from under a bush outside and shoved the base of the Y into the soil.  I’m not good with plants -- black thumb they call it – but I put the vase on the porch, an environment with little sun and little warmth in winter.  There it sat.  I watered it each Sunday and after a year it was still in its little vase growing over the edge.  When my daughter was in town in December, she took pity on it and bought a large pot and some potting soil and replanted the little thing.  It’s now sitting in my kitchen, still small but healthy, waiting for warm weather and a trip back to the porch.  I have named it Nemo, which is Latin for nobody.  No, you will not see a new section in each blog called Message from Nemo.  Nemo can’t talk.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I would I had some flowers o’ the spring (The Winter’s Tale).  Of course plants can’t talk.  Only cats and a few humans can.  Even if it could talk, what would it do?  Recite a limb-erick.  I’m so funny I could just purr, but I’m not happy he named the ugly thing, like it was a pet.  There will be no more pets in my house!  Grrr.

 

As the writer Robert A. Heinlein said, Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.  Hi there and welcome back.  I know you’re not going to believe this, but I had another cornea transplant on Tuesday.  The last one, three weeks ago, didn’t “take”, so Dr. Eye decided to try something a little different.  He’s using a kangaroo cornea this time.  It should work fine, but I will always hop.  Only kidding, but I did have the operation and now I’m lying on my back for 22 hours a day again, dependent upon my wife for care.  That’s why I said all those nice things about her before.  Obviously, I am writing this in advance.  I hope you’re all doing well.  Today is Groundhog Day and I am happy to report that:

 

·        Punxsutawney Phil crawled out of his burrow, saw that Donald Trump and Joe Biden both were planning to run again, then went back inside and shot himself.  Or he may have just hired Alec Baldwin to shoot him.

·        Joe Biden crawled out of his Corvette and saw a bunch of lawyers searching his garage.

·        Representative George Santos crawled out of his office and claimed he was the real Punxsutawney Phil.  And the Tooth Fairy too.

 

I was a math teacher once, and one thing I can do while staring at the ceiling this week is solve mathematical problems in my head.  I’m planning on writing a racy and erotic novel about a math teacher one day.  I think I’ll call it Fraction in the Rye.  Or maybe Five Squared Times Two Shades of Grey.  Or Tropic of Calculus.

 

The following is an absolutely true news report:

 

All jailed Russian mothers

 would be freed regardless

 of their crimes under an

amnesty proposal

Putin has approved.

I think Putin decided on the amnesty after receiving the following letter from a group of sad Russian children:

 

We’re writing you, Dear Mr. Commissar

To find out where all of our Mamas are

We’re very good Commies

And we miss our Mommies

‘Cause we don’t know where our pajamas are.

 

I thought that was a pretty clever limerick, until I heard there is now an artificial intelligence program that can write limericks.  What?  As clever as that?  That rhymes with commissar?  I mean, who are you going to bet on, a modern, highly technical and sophisticated machine or an old, blind man with a pacemaker?  Don’t answer that.

 

Our Weekly Word is exhortation, which is an emphatic urging, like me exhorting you to come back next week and see if I’ve been replaced by some antiseptic Artificial Intelligence that won’t even tell you to stay well and count your blessings.  Or find a rhyme for commissar.

 

  Michael                                           Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com