Little Bang Theory

Because I need your help.

I’ve engaged a small troop of guys who see things very differently from you and me, and I think it’s because they’re operating in a different paradigm. They know, or at least believe, something different from what you and I know and believe.

And to some degree, I think they’re lacking information. Because you know, they seemed like decent people, deeply concerned about the future of their families and our Country.

So I’m digging deeply to find informative, progressive, non-inflammatory sources of The Truth ( as I see it) which I can share with these guys, to maybe help them see things more nearly as I do, as you do, as we believe it to be.

So who can you point us to, sources of progressive thinking, hyperbole free, insult free, without snark, without condescension, something an other-minded individual can read and digest without choking on it?

Because these guys are patriots, Americans, and our neighbors. And they’re trying to do right by their families, their neighbors, them selves.

Can we help them to see what we understand?

Link me to any Truth you can think of which doesn’t disrespect these people’s reality, so I’ll have something more to share with them this Saturday than my own biased understanding of How It Is.

I know it won’t be easy; I’ve eliminated most of my favorite links because, I’m sorry to say, they fail the “neutrality test.” My blog-o-hood is pretty fired up, and not necessarily receptive or kind to differing viewpoints.

Do we need to rethink this approach in order to reach others who aren’t yet seeing it our way?

I know, it’s complicated and difficult. That’s why I can’t do it alone.

So link me to your best Velvet Shots and wish me luck. I’m SO not a natural born diplomat, being most commonly a snarling little prick, but this seems important enough to warrant trying to get beyond that.

I’m hereby officially calling all my blog-friends to make an effort on behalf of this project:

Ah, the ecstasy of it!

Me, arms outstretched,

Elbows locked, eyes wide with wonder,

Gazing down at your wind-swept beauty,

Supported, surrounded, engulfed by

You, gliding smoothly below,

Holding me, bearing my weight,

Thrusting me upward,

Upward,

Upward, until I disappear into

The miracle of

Your Love.

The ribbon road runs westward, winding winsomely along the verdant valley floor.

On the right, fields flow by, hay fields with their nascent sprouts, cornfields tilled but as yet unplanted, roadside barns, gravel drives aiming anonymously toward neighbors you know but don’t know, nameless people you say hello to at the Post Office, the gas station, the general store.

On the left, a thin screen of maple trees unfurl their prayer flags in the steepening rays of a setting sun, celebrating their own arrival with a symphony of lime and chartreuse.

Beyond that runs The River, down and back to your upward and ahead, contrary to your Mission Homeward and simultaneously central to the world which you inhabit, an irrepressible canvas of blue light and pink noise, the sight-and-soundtrack of a riverine existence.

And above it, appearing and disappearing between the ecstatically budding trees, an undulating patch of bronze parallels your journey, catches your eye, connects with something deep inside of you.

You forget the road and focus on the bronze, and it becomes an Eagle, wings rowing effortlessly through it’s own ethereal stream, the long, low rays reflecting first off its smooth uppers, then off its dense lowers, seeming to propel it forward with every beat of its heart, every breath, every tick of the odometer.

For a thirty second eternity you move through time together, siblings on a journey, Destination Unknown, stripped of every intention other than being, watching each other exist and not exist through the shadows and light of the intervening reality, your windshield reflecting the same setting sun which warms its brilliantly white head, the powerful hook of its golden beak, its glorious tail splayed in aerodynamic perfection as it appears, disappears, appears, disappears, and finally fades into the night.

Thank you, Father Sky, for sharing another of your children with me.

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

I’m sorry I don’t have photographs; it was all too brief, and I was all too mesmerized.

The Mother of All Roller Coasters is the Roller Coaster of All Mothers.

From the beauty of conception to the angst of watching a jet plane recede into a vast and pitiless sky with your grown child on it, from the radiant wonder of a chubby child clutching buttercups for Mommy in a dimpled fist to the turbulent indigos of teen meltdowns, from the holding of tiny, trusting hands to the letting go as their lives and choices become fully their own, there is no greater joy, no deeper sorrow and no higher calling than being a Mother.

Thank you, Gina, for twenty years and counting of doing that which only a mother can do.

Love Always,

Ralph

In my food post yesterday I said something really thoughtless and stupid and base, and a dear friend let me know privately that they found it deeply offensive.

I’m sorry.  Really, truly, deeply sorry.

This isn’t the first time my attempts at humor have crossed the line into the Tasteless Zone.

But while I have a bent toward pushing the envelope and being some small bit shocking, I do know that some things just aren’t funny.

Like pedophilia.

I hope those of you who found my lame attempt at humor to be offensive can find a way to forgive my boundless stupidity, but I won’t hold it against you if you can’t.

Words have meaning, offenses offend, and actions have consequences.

And I’m deeply sorry for having expected you to let my words pass as “just a joke.”

So Jen over at A Few Choice Words had this up, and in case you’re in one of these Venn Diagram subsets which doesn’t intersect with Jen, here it is.

I expect to see a few astonished looks around here:

Oh, Happy Day, when someone squats in the tall grass, clutching resistant handfuls of the stuff, and with forceful, panting breaths, a mighty push, and a guttural proclamation, Puts Forth a Dense but Radiant Blogstone of his Own Design…

Angels sing, birds twitter, and the Sun Shines Down on the newly birthed GuitarGuy58’s Weblog, the likes of which, if life has been kind, you may never have seen before.

Hey, at this point I’m just makin’ this shit up.  He’s only posted like one thing.

But I really do know this guy, and if he tells half of what I know, this could get veeeery interesting…

…And as you read this, he’s headed Westward on a Two-Wheeled Tour of Somewhere Else, so hop on board and let’s cheer him on!!!

Or, more accurately, Little Bang Theory is one year old today!

And WOW, what a year it’s been, filled with new friends, new challenges and new opportunities.

Since my first post on April 28, 2007 I’ve dabbled in poetry, taken up photography and gone under The Big Knife.  I’ve ranted about the asswipes who are running our Country, shared my goofy sense of humor and learned many things from each and every one of you who stop by here, God knows why, on a semi-regular basis.  The six of you have erred on the side of indiscretion well over twenty-seven thousand times and counting, and have given me over twenty-six hundred pieces of your mind.  I know those are relatively humble numbers, but still, they boggle my tiny mind!

I’m almost, but not quite, too boggled to say, “Thank You.”

The art and skill of Walking On Water has been mythologized and reversed-anthropomorphosized since it was first observed by sinking people, noticing and dearly coveting the abilities of so many other of God’s creatures to go about their business despite the fact that they were in over their heads.

The numbers of the so enabled are beyond my counting; among them are fowl in protracted take-offs, and more numerously and abundantly, insects of varied forms.

Now when water birds do The Jesus, they tend to explode in an orgy of flapping feathers and a flurry of flying feet. And frankly, to Human observers, that looks like a LOT of work, especially in light of the slimness of the chance that we could ever beat feet and fly.

But insects…

Ah, the idyllic life of the water bug, flitting, pausing, posing, defying gravity with a deft command of surface tension, with agile agita, the staccato dance and Dervish-spinning of whirligigs and water beetles, and the gentle glide of the Water Strider, a stick-slender Hans Brinker on an unfrozen mission, both hunting and hunted, nearly invisible but for its shadow:

The Strider’s Light is deflected, channeled around the slim contours of its diminutive form, bent by its being, funneled to its feet and mirrored in the menisci where adhesion battles cohesion battles a phenomenon we’ve heard of but can’t quite comprehend, yet somehow know is true.

Oh, that we too could attain that lightness, rise to the surface and skate away,

skate away,

to Freedom!

OK, I’m abandoning my general principle of stiffing meme-passers and taking Mathman up on this one, because it’s easy and quick and I have more coffee to drink before I head out with my picture-box.

Here’s The Deal:

Link to the person who tagged you (done. )
Post the rules on your blog (done. )
Write six random things about yourself.
Tag six random people by linking to their blogs.
Let each of the six know they’ve been tagged by leaving them a comment (on their blogs).
Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

Had the task been “six things we don’t know about you,” I’d have screamed and sent him a virus for his troubles. I mean, I’ve already showed you my ass, what else could you want to know.??

Anyway, here goes:

1) I almost always wear two pairs of socks. The explanation is more complex than I really want to get into at the moment; it’s sunny out and this sitting-around-blogging stuff is making me fat!

2) I prefer to eat my tomatoes with lots of black pepper and NO SALT. Salt is for pussies who can’t handle pepper.

3) I’ve been arrested in three states, though not all of them “took.” If there were truly any justice in the world, that number would be much closer to forty-nine (haven’t been to Hawaii yet…)

4) As nature abhors a vacuum, so do I. My floors can be a bit, um, “festooned,” shall we say? But I keep my kitchen, bathroom and bed-sheets in What-If-I-Get-Lucky condition. If you know what I mean.

5) Speaking of which, I only have six. But I have it from Reliable Sources that they’re six particularly nice ones!

6) While I’m always, ALWAYS ready to try something different, and am foolishly looking forward to my first Haggis, I’ll pass on the fermented duck embryos which I heard described on NPR, thanks to some “foul” -smelling experiments I did in the fifth grade.

OK, that’s all I have time for, I can feel my nascent tan fading and my ass spreading out as I sit here typing, so I’m off into the ecosphere to fish for photos!

Oh, yeah, the “tagging” part -

Phydeaux and Phriends

A Few Choice Words

pidomons posts

Saying Nothing Charmingly,

and last but not least,

Hill’s Country.

Sic ‘Em, Kids!