Never Again

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I can’t help but think that if duelling were still legal in this country, both Houses of Congress, would face serious challenges finding a quorum to commence deliberations. Lies and insults appear to rule the day, the more “esteemed” the Congress Member, the more scurrilous the lie.

The bald-faced lies about Judge Brett Kavanaugh, foisted by the octogenarian Anti-Catholic bigot Diane Feinstein, sicken me. They have strengthened my resolve to NEVER vote for a Democrat again.

I was already soured on the party I regularly supported by the antics of James Comey, and the rest of the Department of Justice personnel who sought to overturn a lawful election through the promotion of the spurious Steele Dossier and subsequent deception of the FISA courts.They lied to violate the Civil Rights of an innocent American, Carter Page. That is just for starters.

If I lose followers, I don’t care. I changed the name of the blog to Dispatches From Dystopia, because the Leftists (Marxists) who run the mainstream media and academia, have rendered America into precisely that state, a dystopia. They have nearly taken control of the Democratic Party, I suspect.

Sen Timothy Kaine, I earnestly desire your complete political demise. I will support Corey Stewart because he isn’t you.

Home Again.

It has been a period of sorting out my thoughts and feelings around Florida and The Villages. The Villages, like much of Florida is an Old Geezer Monoculture. When Mrs CorC? and I shared a chicken nuggets meal at the local Chick-Fil-A tonight, we noticed more small children there than we did in the entire past week in The Villages. That I don’t like. The Villages is like living on a movie studio back lot. They built 3 little “village squares” with three different themes, The West, a sea port, and a “Spanish” town square. They are very nice, but very fake. The senior citizens pride themselves on being active adults. The concept is that active seniors live longer with a better quality of life. I can’t argue with that premise.

The Villages are neat, clean, and well-maintained. The grass is mowed. There is no trash. I immediately noticed the roadside litter as we drove home from the airport in Richmond. When I consider that my brother-in-law and his wife moved from the traffic-swollen DC suburbs of Northern Virginia, I can’t blame them at all. There is no debate on the question.

It doesn’t appear to be an outrageously expensive community. That is a plus.

Riding from The Villages to the Orlando airport on the shuttle bus, we saw billboard after billboard from a plaintiff’s attorney proclaiming “Dan Got Us $600,000!”(or more). Kinda creepy.

My favorite billboard promoted a tourist destination called

Machine Gun America

Fun For The Whole Family

Fire Real Machine Guns!

I can imagine the family firing their rental Tommy Guns

“Junior, help Granny with her Uzi!”

“Watch that barrel climb, Sis!”

Just how badly do I want to live there?

Catching Up.

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I am in The Villages, Florida. It is a mega-retirement complex with lots of golf courses, golf carts, and retired types who golf. I do not golf. Among the other activities is drinking. I do not drink. The Villages have a reputation for high incidences of Sexually Transmitted Diseases. I don’t engage in promiscuous sex. So what’s a fella to do?

1) Visit my brother-in-law and note the progress of his Amyotropic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS). It’s a bitch of a disease but he and his wife are dealing with it with grace and courage. Truly inspiring.

2). Sit in the air conditioning, just like at home.

3). Go walking. There are interesting birds. This is a great blue heron, I tbink. He did not divulge any information about his identity.

When we sit in the lenai at my brother-in-law’s, we can make out the form of an alligator, just below the surface of the water in the pond. There are other birds, egrets, loons, and ducks.

All in all, very peaceful. But I want to go back to Virginia and Hurricane Florence (Henderson? A Brady Bunch homage?)

Madeleines. Ice Cream.

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The Bottle In Question

OK, most everybody with any reading experience has at least heard of the start of Marcel Proust’s Remembrance Of Things Past (A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu), wherein the protagonist bites into a madeleine and the taste of the little cake brings back a flood of memories. Well last night I bought a carton of ice cream at Publix and had a similar experience. The flavor was maple walnut. It was full fat ice cream. (These days admitting you like full fat ice cream is like admitting you enjoy unprotected sex with total strangers. You have self- identified as a risk taker.)

I remember from my childhood, where the family, all six of us, would pile into the car on a hot summer night, drive with the windows down, go get ice cream cones, and then cruise around, looking at stuff. One particular night, Daddy took us to the Curles Neck Dairy Bar, a lunch counter/ ice cream shop that sold their own ice cream It was a local dairy, that had their own farm in Eastern Henrico County (Charles City County, maybe?). Curles Neck denotes one of several bends in the James River. Local dairies were in business then. I ordered a maple walnut cone one night. Then we rode in the 1953 Nash Ambassador Super to Byrd Park, where colored lights shone on the fountain in the Fountain Lake. Quite lovely. I remember the orange colored light on the fountain most distinctly.

This was the great era of neon. Cities, like Richmond, were filled with fantastic signs. One Chinese restaurant, Joy Garden, had a neon sign evocative of an oriental lantern. Gorgeous. The sign was more memorable than the food. The cookie maker, FFV, had its letters illuminated on a water tank, on the roof of its now defunct factory, re-purposed to loft apartments. There was a billiard parlor,the Triple Triangle, that had neon billiard balls racked-up in the triangle Every burger joint had neon tubing outlining their roof, or part of it, at least, in red or blue or green. It was an illuminated night, reflective of an optimism and pride in the businesses of the community.

There are vestiges still. The flavorings and spice maker here in Richmond, The C.F. Sauer Company, has an animated sign featuring a mustachioed chef in a chef’s hat sampling something, as a string of bulbs light up. The night was a show. When I think of illumination these days, I think sodium vapor lights, making the community a little safer from thieves and predators lurking in the dark.

Today, I have a milk bottle from Curles Neck Dairy. I use it to fill the reservoir of my coffee maker. It holds a quart of water. and I can use eight tablespoons of ground coffee to make four eight-ounce cups of coffee with the water poured from the milk bottle. Kinda cool, I think. It’s a memory, or a bite of a madeleine, every day.

Hootenanny Mass

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Sunday at Five PM, they break out the guitars and tambourine, find piano arrangements weirdly evocative of an 80’s piano bar, and sing about Jesus not as Redeemer, but panacea for one’s problems, just in case Prozac© Cialis© or Omeprazole© don’t work.

This is The Holy Sacrifice Of The Mass? The Confiteor is abbreviated, combined, if not blurred altogether, with the Kyrie. Why not? Confession is mandated but once a year. You can do a lot of sinning in 365 days. Your mindfulness can all but vanish and the rationalization of your selfishness can take free rein.

Somehow, The Church has abandoned exhorting, guiding, and nurturing the faithful in the discipline of personal holiness. Practice of faith comes with minimal abstinence, fasting or penance. Quiet contemplative prayer is the province of decrepit monks and praying the Rosary is relegated to little old ladies in Warsaw, Sicily, or Mexico City. The Hail Mary is now a synonym for a desperation play in football. And the clergy? They agreeably play along as if spine on their part was optional, if not downright rude.

The Church acts as if good social policy, and a cheap sentimental love are substitutes for the selfless love that Christian love, agape, compels of us.

The sappy music follows the Mass like the soundtrack of a Hallmark Channel Christmas show. And the nagging questions never pierce our consciousness, “Am I loving God with all my heart, mind and soul?” “Am I willing to walk away from my life, comfort, prosperity, the esteem of my friends and family, for the love of God?”

The Precious Body of Our Lord is distributed as if it were a cookie.

The Mass soon ends. As the last strings have been strummed, the last chord played and the tambourine shakes no more for at least another week, the audience, oops, congregation applauds. Yes applauds. Can a priest at least admonish the parish that this is not entertainment? Applause is inappropriate.

I feel as empty as I felt when I walked in.

Sunday

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Yesterday it rained. A lot. I feel like I’ve been in a strange tired and lethargic state, sleeping on and off, as if I were taking a long nap.

MrsCorC? worked last night, closing the store, arriving home around 1230. This is not unusual. I stayed up to talk a while about nothing very important.

I got up today, shoving to the back of my mind the hopeless feeling I have about this house never being a home. Is this it? Are our senior years about waiting around to die, living in clutter and junk? I don’t feel very alive. My sexual frustration is off the charts. What this means is that I have to put my feelings out there again, expecting them to be ignored, if not out right ridiculed.

She knows I won’t leave. Or cheat.

Peaks and Valleys

So my mental health has been OK. I don’t know why I call it “mental”. I feel these emotional swings that are noticeable, but not extreme. Just when I feel most hopeless, that feeling dissipates. Right now I am fine.

My sleep patterns are odd. So now, it is 0140,Thursday morning. I should go back to bed. I had a nap around 20:00 Wednesday for about ninety minutes. I thought I was going to sleep the whole night. But I woke up, energized. Now the sleepiness is creeping back.

I miss having a sex life. A little romance might help.

Summer

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There are people out there who have fabulous Summers. They go to the beach, A LOT, and they tan perfectly. They do all the cool things, have perfect barbecues, on beautiful decks, with lovely Japanese lanterns, drinks with paper umbrellas in them, and no mosquitoes.

I am NOT one of those people. I can’t stand the heat, nor do I like to sit in grid-lock traffic jams on the Interstate to get to the beach. I now have a healthy fear of skin cancer. My back deck is falling apart. And I own no cute paper lanterns. Or paper umbrellas for sissy drinks. Can mosquitoes count as pets?

Sunday was the 15th, the Ides, as the Romans called it. I thought six weeks til Labour Day. Football season is grinding ever closer. Baseball season is half-way done. Wimbledon just finished.

On the plus side, I am retired. I can reinvent my leisure any time I want. I have strawberries and a pint of heavy cream in the fridge with a copper bowl chilling in the freezer. Plus a watermelon.

I have these lovely roses blooming

So what if it ain’t perfect? It’s close enough.

What I Did Today. OK, Just Some Of It.

I love that feeling I get when I’m climbing out of a hole, even a shallow one. There are certain markers that indicate I am making progress in handling the stuff of life that we could just as well do without.

1) The bills are paid.

2) My son came to visit.

3) I’m swimming regularly again.

4) I’m getting to AA meetings.

5) I sleep when I need to.

Today I had lunch w Mrs CorC?. I went to the Y and swam. I did not worry about the state of my stomach. I saw friends at the Y. They seem to be doing well.

We ate our back log of leftovers tonight. When the news upset me, I turned it off.

A good day.