Another haunting & he requires she

Could this be the ghost of the infamous Fram the First?

The search for Bridey’s boyfriend ....

I haven't wanted to mention this before, but I've been undergoing hypnotic regression therapy. You know, to learn if I'm me or if I'm someone else.

A couple of things right off the top. It turns out I might have been Bridey Murphy's boyfriend. She lived in Ireland back around 1825, and then was born again as Virginia Tighe in the 1920s in the U.S. That was the story that sort of popularized this reincarnation business. Scary stuff. Weird.

I also might be the reincarnated spirit of Fram the First. Since I'm also a direct descendant, I'm not sure if that would be considered incestuous or not. I don't know much about math or science, so we'll leave that question for the experts to decide. I'm more into reading books and studying history. I slept through most of my math and science classes in school. That's the only way I could keep up with reading books and looking at the pictures in Playboy all night long.

The reason this hypnotic regression therapy started is because Fram the First keeps coming to me in dreams, except it doesn't seem like I'm dreaming. It seems more like I'm over there talking while I'm over here listening. Anyway, he keeps talking to me about going over to Greece and digging up his gold and jewels. He's up to a 15 percent share for me if I agree to be his mule. I ask him why he doesn't do it himself, but he says they don't issue passports where he is hanging out these days.

Fram the First even claims he will get me a date with Helen of Troy if I do this for him. Yeh, I suppose. The face that launched 1,000 ships would spend a Saturday evening with me. Nice try, guy. But, who knows? I can only remember meeting one Helen. She was the mother of one of my college girlfriends. She owned a bar. I worked there one summer. She kept making passes at me after she'd had a few beers. It was sort of awkward, if you know what I mean. I sure was glad when school started again. Helen of Troy, hah? Maybe, there's something about me that girls named Helen just naturally like. Nothing to lose; a night in Troy to gain.

I'm working on Fram the First to give me some up-front cash. Spending money. Travel change. He seems reluctant, but I think I've got him worried. He's started talking about pulling a raid into Normandy to hijack a load of wine, and sell it to the Brits for cash to finance my excursion. I think we might be getting down to real possibilities here, but I told him no euros, only dollars for me. I'll let you know how things are going.

By the way, if you're reading this and your name happens to be Helen, leave me a note with your telephone number. Me or my ancestor-ego will give you a call next week. We're already busy this weekend. We've been booked as the opening band at a casino. If you come to the show, pay attention to where the fire exits are and keep one eye on the pyrotechnics. If you run into Bridey, please help her up and tell her not to wait for me. Rock on!

He Requires Only She *

Happy is she, who knows my love,
For I will hold her like a jewel,
More precious than my life,
More valuable than breath itself.

Happy is she, who knows my love,
For it is given without reservation,
Requiring only a smile, a kiss, a touch,
And will not fade till light leaves my eyes.

Happy is she, who knows my love,
For it has searched beyond the sea,
And knows too well the emptiness of lust,
Now understanding what rapture requires.

Happy is she, who knows my love,
For water cannot quench my thirsting soul,
Nor bread restore my hungering body,
For I am he, and he requires only she.

* (Another story in column form, as fled from my fingers in three minutes flat .... personally timed it.)

Music Note: Content with the radio on a classic rock station this evening ....

Currently playing: Journey is the band; not sure of the name of the song ....

Collecting veils & thinking about ..... about .... about ....

Attention, young ladies age 21 and over: Applications sought from bright, attractive young ladies seeking to expand their horizons. Earn college credits while studying the history of motion pictures abroad. Scholarships available; also loans with very low interest rates and easy repayment plan. Must be single and unattached. Must bring your own personal veils.

This is sort of a "state of the blog speech"

As I have mentioned about a thousand times before, when January snow and cold hits, sometimes, I might go south for a couple of weeks; sometimes, I might go on a reading binge; sometimes, well, I won't tell you everything. This year, I went abloggin' (however a word of that approximation might be spelled) and roamed the sea of blogs.

I am not certain if doing this has served any purpose or not. I am no less restless today than I was a bit more than two months ago when I began to write. While it might not remain winter, neither is it July, which certainly explains some of my restlessness. A few questions I came here with have been answered, I think, but the heavy duty ones persist. If I'm lucky, those, too, will be resolved six months or a year from now.

Being here in "blogland" has been mostly enjoyable. I've only had one troll, and sure cannot cry about having had it rough in that respect. I have been surprised and pleased by the degree of good manners and consideration I have encountered. I've been involved in a few misunderstandings, but we all engage in them every day.

The few bloggers I have followed, I have done so by intent and for specific reason. I liked what you wrote or your topics or your guts or your enthusiasm or your effort to help people or the place you were traveling. There probably are a few other reasons, but there was a definite reason or two or three for each.

Nothing has changed my tentative jump off from sometime in July. Nothing has changed my initial jump location as being into Greece for a few weeks. After that? Unless something does change in his regard, I am thinking southern France near the Mediterranean, if not actually on it (ok, beside it, on the beach). From there, another map will have to be drawn. The world certainly has gotten geographically smaller in the past decade or two, hasn't it? A hop, skip and a jump, here we go and there we are.

Despite my "advertisement" above, I decided some time back that I am not looking for anyone to actually accompany me. Selfish me, I want to experience Greece without distraction. My more recent thought has been about the possibilities if I actually do settle in for a year or two. Then, I will want a "magic girl" to visit me, or maybe to hang out with me a while and see if anything develops.

I do have three or four other things on my mind, but they seem determined to stay there. I'm out of sync today. My fingers frequently replace my brain, and they are not doing so right now. I have said in the past that my fingers do my thinking for me. (Imagine my difficulties the two times I've had an arm and hand in a cast.)

Also, winter is moving away, and my mind and body reverse themselves between winter and summer. My body is coming out of hibernation for use during the warm weather months, and my mind is going toward its stagnant period to get some rest while I collect wind, water and sun on my face.

Music Note: Listening to Jimi Hendrix ....
Specifically, "Electric Ladyland" ....
Some lines from: "All Along the Watchtower," written by Bob Dylan:

There are many here among us
who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I, we've been through that
and this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late

All along the watchtower
Princes kept the view
While all the women came and went
Barefoot servants, too

Outside in the cold distance
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl

Mysterious photographs & Fram's treasure

Ever have your camera go off accidentally? That happens to me a lot. I feel so clumsy. For instance, that's what happened in the case of this photograph. You know, you're walking around carrying your camera in sort of an awkward position. You sneeze or trip over your untied shoe lace. As an involuntary reaction, your hand squeezes your camera and the shutter clicks. At least, that's the way I remember it happening. Sure is embarrassing. By the way, this photo is available for loan to anyone whose visit to Rome took place while carrying a 35 mm camera.

And it wasn't even a dark and stormy night ....

Have you ever been witness to a supernatural event?

I believe it happened to me last night. As I mentioned previously, I only slept about four hours Friday night and not at all Saturday night until about 10:30 a.m. on Sunday. I then captured about five hours more sleep. Needless to say, I was a bit drowsy as Sunday evening rolled into Monday morning. I put my head down on my computer table and sort of drifted off.

I began dreaming. At first, I saw nothing, only heard a voice. The voice spoke in a language I did not understand. When I complained about that, the voice abruptly began to speak in heavily accented English.

"Fram," spoke the voice. "You are the one they call Fram?"

"When they are in a generous mood, yes," I replied.

"Hear me then," spoke the voice. "I am your ancestor, Fram the First, and I bring you a message from Valhalla."

"Go for it," I replied.

"You are to go to the land of the Greeks and retrieve the hoard of gold and jewels I left buried there," spoke the voice.

"But, I don't have an archaeologist's license to go digging around in Greece," I replied.

"I'll leave you a couple of phone numbers to call when you get there," spoke the voice. "Tell them the King of the Tsamiko sent you."

"Fine," I replied. "I sort of have been planning to hide out there for a while next summer anyway."

"You shall bring my hoard of gold and jewels to me, on the banks of the wide Missouri River," spoke the voice.

"Now wait a minute," I began to reply, but the voice cut me off.

"Oh Shenandoah, I love your daughter
Far away, you rollin river
It was for her, I crossed the water
Away, I'm bound away
Across the wide Missouri
Well its fair the well,
I'm bound to leave you
Far away, you rollin river
Oh Shenandoah, I will not deceive you
Away, I'm bound away
Across the wide Missouri
With notions, his canoe was laiden
Away, I'm bound away
Across the wide Missouri," the voice continued, while the sound of a guitar being softly strummed could be heard in the background.

"What do I get out of this," I interrupted.

"Ten percent," spoke the voice.

"Deal," I concluded.

Suddenly, the room was filled by a brilliant light, and I was fully awake. When I looked at my computer screen, there was sort of a photographic image present. Although technically dismal, the background of this sort of photograph clearly showed it to be my computer room. I understand some will be skeptical, but I am convinced the image can be none other than that of the ghost of Fram the First.

Whatever, I think I'll go to Greece and look around for his buried hoard of gold and jewels. Nothing to lose; ten percent to gain.

Who other than Fram the First could this ghostly image be?

Music Note: Listening to Lita Ford ....
Specfically: "The Best of Lita Ford" ....
("Kiss Me Deadly" .... ok)

Wait! I'm not ready yet! I'm still thinking!

Real friends? Why not?

Let me put it this way. I have had friends, girlfriends, drinking buddies, best friends, Marine Corps buddies, casual friends and any other manner of friends describable.

It makes no difference what bar a guy walks into, or what job he takes, or what organization he belongs to, or what girl he meets, the chance of developing lasting friendships is sort of rare. Golf buddies? (Bad example, since I do not golf and shoot me if I ever want to.) Friends to go to Minnesota Twins or Vikings games together with? Easy to find, but usually pretty shallow types for anything beyond rah, rah. (Maybe it is different between women.)

I have casual friends coming out of my ears; no current girlfriends (do not want one in that simple sense) and I am beyond the bar buddy stage for more than two or three drinks after work. (He says as he stands and shouts, "Valhalla!" and is pushed back into the corner of the booth by his bar buddies.)

Among my best friends "ever," two out of three are dead, one cancer and one suicide. The cancer victim was a woman about 20 years older than me, not beautiful, but wise and intelligent beyond belief. (That means smarter than me.) The suicide was a man six months older than me. (My boss, but I was his crutch. He had the charm; I had the backbone.) That leaves me with a photographer, and you know how they are, sort of weird. Besides, he lives a bit from here.

Among Marine Corps friends, only one who was really close who is still alive. He lives a bit from here, too, mostly fishes and has his disability check, which keeps him happy. (I am not certain he even ever has read a book, but he sure can fish, and there is more to explain here than can be simply done.)

What I am saying is that there is magic in more ways than one. (And, you might not ever hear me say it again.) Possibly, the internet actually will be a road to friendships not otherwise achievable in the past. I have seen others write much the same sentiment here, people who are thinking the same thing. I am not saying, do not take care. Never completely trust until the eyes meet (and maybe not even then), but never fear to explore or to dance. Am I wrong here?

By the way, I really am cheating. I wrote this about 20 hours ago, but I am just now putting it on my page because I am not sure if I am finished or if I want to say more. Oh, well, there always is tomorrow ....

One more run at turning left instead of right ....

When I joined the Marine Corps, I already literally had been within minutes of joining the Air Force. Had not a holiday delayed a flight to "haul me away," I would have gone USAF instead of USMC. But, the delay happened and, during the intervening few days, I decided on the Marines. I could do only one. If possible, I would have liked to have had the experience of being an 18-year-old in both services. I would have liked to have done this not to find out if one experience would have been better than the other, but simply to gain knowledge from the experience of having done both. To know.

If it were possible to do both experiences, one almost certainly would have proven to be better or worse than (preferable to) the other, but that is not the object of my thought, and does not even matter at all. The only purpose would be to have had the experiences.

Of course, in reality, unless there is another me in a parallel universe doing exactly the opposite of what I am doing and we are able to meet up and to compare notes, the exercise is one of futility for anything other than stirring the imagination. Stir, mix, bubble, boil, toil and trouble ....

More things & more, more things ....

Have you ever looked down and noticed both your shoe laces were untied? I do not know about you, but that is when I went to cowboy boots pretty much full time.

At least twice a week, I do not want to sleep. It is not insomnia; it is not wanting to sleep. I am so anxious for summer that I want to be awake until it comes. I suppose it would be wiser to stay awake after it comes rather than now.

Someone asked me some time ago why I quit hunting, and I never answered. I do know why. I know when, almost to the minute. I just am not certain how I want to explain it or if I want to explain it. Sooner or later, I suppose it will come.

Someone recently said she was looking forward to watching my Plan A as it evolves. Actually, I think Part 2 might already be written, but I cannot be absolutely certain, so it is premature to publish it. And, Part 3 definitely remains a mystery because the future cannot be known -- or can it?

Did anyone who read yesterday's commentary about Lawrence Durrell notice that "the course of his career changed" when he moved to Corfu, Greece? Hint, hint. Maybe travel Greece, maybe settle (for a while) between there and Valencia. Follow the example of your elders should you wish to .... wish to what? Sure would have liked to have been able to interview Lawrence Durrell and his brethren.

Almost forgot. Beware the Ides of March ....

Music Note: Listening to classic rock on the radio ....
Heard me say that before?
Playing this instant: ZZ Top and "Legs"

The patience of readers; winners$ & losers$

A homemade illustration just for the fun of it: I turned around, and what did I see, but these things on a bookshelf waiting to remind me that summer approaches, nothing can stop it, and only I can prevent me from making this summer forever a part of my life. Keep the sights on the target and squeeze the trigger.

Thank you, for your patience, those who read ....

A few people are being very patient with me. Sometimes what I write is overly serious, more-or-less brooding. Sometime what I write is more-or-less goofy. Long live Fram the First. Right now, I am eating crackers, salsa dip, Swiss cheese and dill pickles, drinking apple juice and trying to type. Pretty interesting material to read. Right?

What I am saying is that a few people actually are being nice and putting up with me. Fewer still, but some, actually are taking time to write comments about my stuff. It amazes me. Thank you.

When working for a newspaper, a reporter knows the circulation numbers but, most of the time, never knows how many people actually read the articles he writes. I remember an occasion when a man came up to me, said he knew the editor was out ill, and asked me who was writing the editorials. Immediately going into defensive mode, I braced myself and said, "I am." He looked at me with genuine amazement and said. "My god, I've met a philosopher. You're a philosopher. You know that, don't you?" He made my day. On another occasion, a man simply told me he enjoyed reading my book reviews; on another, a county bought some land to turn into a public park, initiated because of articles I had written about canoeing and camping there. Another time, a state agency that cost the taxpayers about a million a year was shut down due to articles I had written about waste and corruption. Sometimes you know you had an effect.

Having completed this circle, I want to return to Day 1. What I really am hoping for here is that the right person is reading what I write, or that I will drift onto a site where I encounter the right person producing her own page.

Ernest Hemingway once was my favorite writer. He probably remains among the top five on my list. Hemingway said, "Things either happen or they don't." Whatever impressions of Hemingway remain in me, those words have become an absolute part of me. It is sort of like U2, and "with or without you," and most of us learn to accept that.

I think I am growing. In the least, I know I am changing. I think I am becoming more a citizen of the world and less of a nationalist -- although I curse anyone who tries to take my guns or my books away. I believe there are principles that override daily life and comforts. I think, with the exception of some medieval cathedrals, nothing man-made surpasses the beauty of nature. The call of a wolf is majestic; the sound of a motorcycle is junk noise. I envy people who have religion, and abhor those who would try to do away with it, which is one reason I am disgusted with the current state of affairs in the U.S.

There I go, drifting again. What this amounts to is to say that I think life is an experiment, whether created by a universal god or by accident, I have never known and probably never will. I have reached a point in my life where it is more important to know rivers and ruins than it is to know mayors and their cronies. Thieves have more to fear from me than I have from them; all they have to do is to stay on their own side of the street and they will be safe from me.

Those interested, please continue reading in days to come. As I said long ago (well, a few weeks ago, anyway), I am here to learn, which requires you to be writing, whether in reaction to me or to express your own thoughts. If anything further comes of it, so much the better. If not, the essence of old Ernie and I will drift along to another time and place, maybe on to Harry's Bar, while on the road to Greece.

Some make it, some lose it ....

It is fascinating how economic times hurt some and benefit others. I might be a beneficiary. My house is a 40-year old ranch style rambler (? I was informed ?). After talking with a pair of realtors, the suggestion is to ask a somewhat premium price for it based on its location, and to put it on a 60-day, first-of-the-month-notice, rental basis until there is a sale.

The house is a block away from an elementary school, around three or four blocks from a high school, a mile away from a major mall, two miles away from a hospital and on a quiet street. Someone with a bit of money is bound to come along. And, if not, this is a house that certainly would rent to a young family. The rental income would pay the taxes, pay the insurance and provide me with a few dollars. I could play it by ear whether or not to actually sell, should the opportunity arise.

When I had to depart Sanctuary/Refuge, the housing market was booming and I was able to make money. This was a couple of years ago, before the advent of socialism in America. Even with a more-or-less split of the money from the sale of Sanctuary/Refuge, I gained enough to pay cash for this house and to have money left over for play-time or save-time or whatever. I could say more, but not right now.

This is turning into Part 1 of Plan A.

Music Note: Listening to and sort of watching the Rolling Stones ....
Specifically, "Bridges to Babylon Tour '97-98" ....
The relevant lines from: "Gimme Shelter:"

I tell you love, sister, it's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
Kiss away, kiss away

Time for Odysseus, critical mass & turn signs

Another photograph by an unknown photographer, this time of the ruins of Troy in modern-day Turkey, across the Aegean Sea from Greece. The site is estimated to have been occupied from around 4000 BCE until it was devastated by the Greeks about 1200 BCE. Odysseus walked here, among the Greek army, at least according to Homer in his "Odyssey."

It is time ....

I think it is time for me.
Time for me to know,
Time to walk the paths of Odysseus,
Time to search for his presence,
Time to discover if he was real,
Time to meet his goddess of the flashing eyes,
Time to stand before his rosy-fingered dawn,
Time to watch Achilles die,
Time to witness Troy in flames,
Time to swim his wine dark sea,
Time to dance with his Calypso,
Time to blind his Cyclops,
Time to walk his Ithaca,
Time to greet his Telemachus,
Time to string his bow,
Time to kiss his Penelope,
Time to know if he was there,
Time to learn if the words were true.

There can be no tomorrow,
Until yesterday has been lived.

The invention of a natural-born critic ....

My journalistic responsibilities, once upon a time, included putting together a weekly outdoor page and a weekly arts and entertainment page. (That might actually be a conflict of interests.) Define an arts and entertainment critic. Are they born? Do they descend from a mountaintop? In this case, it was an English major who walked in through the door, had opinions on just about everything and said, “Sure, I'll do it.”

Having a broad background in literature through reading countless books in the course of obtaining a degree and simply because I enjoy doing it, there was a certain amount of logic for accepting this task. Most of the work was coordinating coverage by reporters and freelancers, but I did a certain amount of writing myself. I did book reviews, and expressed my viewpoint about a few plays and motion pictures. So far, so good. But, I also was a critic of music, art shows, photography displays and a few other events associated with arts and entertainment. That was a stretch. It involved reciting my approval or disapproval based on personal taste, without any real training to back up my verdicts.

So much criticism is just that -- personal opinion based on personal taste without credentials upon which to base it. I suppose there is nothing wrong with that, but I wonder how many people have given up on writing poetry or short stories, or painting or singing or playing an instrument, because they received no comments or only negative comments from people who had no real background to provide legitimate criticism.

Back at the newspaper: I think I at least tried to be fair and innovative. For example, there were occasions I would assign three writers to attend a play or a concert, and run their pieces side by side so as to present a multi-opinion review. Instead of two reporters arguing who would review a particular book (and get to keep it), I would stretch the budget to buy a second copy and run the reviews of both.

This came into my mind because I made a comment yesterday that, re-reading it later, sounded more like a critical analysis than a simple remark expressing pleasure. It was in regard to a particular post at another website. I suppose this might demonstrate why I win awards for writing editorials, but fall short at writing love letters. My initial reaction always is to charge, even at times when I should tread softly.

Regrets, no way; new exploration, yes ....

There has been brief discussion (mostly by me) about being able to go back in time and doing things differently. When I consider it, I am not thinking about regrets or mistakes I have made. I am wondering where I would be, what would I be doing and who would I be doing it with had I turned right at the last intersection instead of turning left.

My illustration is this: When I decide it is time to change jobs, I might send out 50 resumes, not to specific job openings, but to newspapers in geographic areas where I would like to live and to explore. I might get five or six interviews and be offered three or four jobs. One time, for instance, I had my choice between work in Arizona, Michigan and Nebraska. I took Michigan. If I were to return to that time period, whatever the method, I would choose one of the other locations simply to have new and different experiences.

I know everyone has had experiences like this: A young lady might have had to decide between Clint and Brad (or neither). She went for Clint. Had she the opportunity to relive this episode, would she choose Clint again or would she go with Brad to discover what her life would have been like if she made this selection? Forget about how life was with Clint; simply think of it as repeating history vs. creating new history.

Had I this option of reliving an episode of my life choosing between a pair of similarly matched young ladies, I would not choose the one I actually did the first time around. I would choose the other. Good times, bad times, mistakes, happiness, sadness, whatever, my choice would be to experience the new.

The more I think about it, the more I believe most people would stay with the known quantity even in this hypothetical experiment. Perhaps, that is why I have doubts about the existence of the proverbial "soul mate."

Music Note: Listening to Uriah Heep ....
Specifically, "Look at Yourself" ....
Some lines from: "July Morning:"

There I was on a July morning
Looking for love
With the strength
Of a new day dawning
And the beautiful sun

I was looking for love
In the strangest places
Wasn't a stone
That I left unturned
Must have tried more
Than a thousand faces
But not one was aware
Of the fire that burned

Who would guess their descendants would be cousins? & "the great battlefield tour"

Family details can be an absolute mess ....

I am fortunate in the sense that I have had relatives who devoted a considerable amount of time delving into genealogical records. One of my father's cousins traced the male lineage (young ladies, do not blame me for that) back to the 1500s. If you want the precise date and location, tell me, and I will pull out my copy of his papers and check.

On my father's side, I have a direct ancestor who fought in the Civil War. Meanwhile, moving on over to my mother's side, I have three non-direct ancestors who fought in the Civil War. Now then, who has the edge in that competition, indirect ma or direct pa? (All wild-eyed northern boys, by the way.)

Another absolutely, positively fascinating element (at least, to me) in this maze is on my mother's side of the coin. One of those ancestors who participated in the Civil War did so only briefly before becoming a volunteer in a militia unit riding against the Dakota in the wake of the 1862 uprising in Minnesota. At this time, I should like to mention that I have a relative married to an individual who carries Dakota blood, as well as another relative whose spouse has French-Canadian/Ojibwai ancestry. Beyond that, I have been a participant in an Assinaboi initiation ceremony, have sat in a few sweat lodge ceremonies and been among the honored guests at a wacipi. This simply is to say I have extended family members among the Native American community, and am aware of some of their customs and beliefs.

Back to the story before I forget it. This 1862 rider of vengeance later returned to the regular U.S. army cavalry. He did not last long. He was among troopers killed on a patrol in Kansas by a party of Sioux and Cheyenne in 1867. (The Seventh Cavalry on a search and destroy, with George Custer in the lead, discovered the bodies.)

The element which makes the events uniquely special to me is that I visited the exact site (no more than a few meters away, at the most) of his death during what I designated my "battlefield tour." Have you ever stood on the ground where an ancestor went down fighting nearly 150 years ago? Then, scarcely before you have taken another breath, wondered if the ancestor of a modern-day relative might have done the killing? Ain't life a mystery?

Maybe I should have signed on as a deckhand ....

Whether you know or not, it snowed in Minnesota on Thursday. I had about six inches of heavy, wet stuff to throw from my driveway into my neighbor's lawn. He does not care, since his boys build forts and caves in the heaps of snow. Here is a glimpse of my neighbors. Sorry, Diva. (I already told her this one.)

On one side, my neighbor is 97. She still shovels a path through the snow to her mailbox by the street. On the other side, my neighbors have two little boys (nine and four), who frequently are trying to sell me things, mostly stuff from their dad's garage. I usually buy it. Real bargains. A dime here, a quarter there. Is there more to these stories? Never mind. Write the endings yourselves.

Now, where was I? I certainly have a tendency to drift off topic.

Snow. And, cold. (Three degrees Fahrenheit above zero this minute.) Winter has returned to me again and, again, I have become immensely bored with it. The last time this happened was during the winter of 2000-2001. (Time flies when most of it has been spent in the same routine, as mine has, for a couple of years now.) In February 2001, I briefly toyed with the idea of flying to Florida for a week of sun and whatever. I was within the punch of a keyboard button to close the deal. But, I did not.

I decided, instead, to save the money and to spend it (and more) on a "decent trip" that summer. In May, I took an "unpaid sabbatical" from work, departed Sanctuary/Refuge and left on a driving tour (the aforementioned "battlefield tour") that ranged from Canada into Mexico and lasted until well into October.

Much camping with many nights under the stars, a few good motels, a few bad motels, much canoeing, much brandy, some days spent walking and some nights spent sleeping on old battlefields from the days of the "Indian wars." Too much tequila, dancing and a bar brawl across the Rio Bravo del Norte in Ciudad Juarez. (We won; locals, including me, against outsiders. Weird, hah? You fit in where you fit.) Too much money spent on gasoline and potato salad, many historic sites seen, kissed the Alamo, a great sun tan and uncut hair bleached blond once again by the sun -- well, you get the picture. Free Bird.

This is the most beat-up by winter I have felt since then, and I continue to wonder if this, again, will be the year of the traveler. (Do not panic; I think I may have passed beyond the bar brawl stage of life.) Greece and the "wine dark sea" of Mediterranean waters linger on in my mind.

I think if I could be age 18 again, I would skip the Marine Corps, skip college, skip newspapers and a few other distractions, and sign on as a deckhand on a Great Lakes ore carrier. Once upon a time, after an hour or so of drinking beer and mingling with a group of Great Lakes sailors in a Lake Superior waterfront bar, I was asked "what ship I was from." To me, that was an enormous compliment, and another occasion of fitting in where you fit.

Music Note: Listening to 38 Special ....
Specifically, "Live at Sturgis" ....
("Hold on Loosely" -- wanna dance?)

A walk on the ice, nest building & some ouzo after work ....

"Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow."

Robert Frost
(San Francisco born)
Some lines from: "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

Could winter ever become fun for me again?

When I moved back to Minnesota, I rented a house by a lake for several months. Sunday, I drove out to that lake, parked in the driveway of one of my former neighbors, talked with him for 30 minutes and then went for a walk on the ice.

I have spent a fair amount of time walking on the ice, starting as a boy playing hockey and going hunting. I had not been on it for a couple of years now, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy walking on it. I have lived by lakes. I think that is one reason this winter has been harder on me than most. I live in town, not in the country by a lake or a river.

I have not walked on the ice under a full moon for a long time. I have not heard the ice and the water beneath it "talk" -- gulping, gasping, swallowing, roaring, rolling, cracking, crackling, the sounds reverberating, coming and going, beneath my feet -- for a long time. That is another "end of the earth" sensation. True winter is something to be enjoyed, and that does not happen when winter has been reduced to shoveling sidewalks and driving on ice-covered roadways.

Sunday, my ice walk was in daylight instead of moonlight, but it still had a familiar, comfortable feel to it. I really am in need of wind, water and sun, very much so. But, maybe after a few years of such living and then settling in the "right" location, it would be possible for me to enjoy winter once again.

Women, and the desire for nest building ....

When you cannot sleep, what do you do? I have been up pretty much all night for two nights in a row. This is not insomnia, either, at least in the usual sense, and this is completely unlike me. I normally fall asleep within two or three minutes of my head hitting the pillow. (Once asleep, the slightest "unusual" sound awakens me, but I sleep right through even the loudest "familiar" sounds.) These two nights, I think, have been the result of dwelling (too much?) on thoughts about once more changing directions in my life. Which direction to go now?

This seems to be a common dilemma running through many blogs. So many individuals are experiencing change or seeking change in their lives. I said once before, and I quote myself now: "There is so much wonder in the world, to see and to know. My choice would be to have experienced 1,000 jobs in 1,000 different locations before I 'cash in'."

The essential question here is, do I accept the fact that to do this, to continue seeking new experiences and new country, means that I most likely will do it alone? Or, do I actually think that maybe, possibly, I will randomly encounter a woman who could love me and would have the same nomadic attitude toward life as I do? It seems to me my position is in direct conflict with the innate instincts of a woman. If that sounds chauvinistic, so be it, but are not all women nest builders?

Ouzo on the beach, but only after work ....

New idea: I have participated in two archaeological digs as an amateur volunteer. (That means no money and a lot of grunt work.) One was at a battlefield site (hiking up and down a steep hillside, up and down, sweeping the landscape with a metal detector -- uff da). I was there for two weeks. The other was at a prehistoric Native American campsite, near which had been uncovered an ancient dugout canoe. That was my first such venture, and lasted a week. Really fascinating.

Anyway, "Archaeology" magazine contains advertisements for such projects round the world. At least it once did; I signed up for a subscription again last night after an absence from it for a few years. I'll soon learn if such projects continue to exist. Possibly, this would be a sensible way to begin a trek around Greece.

I can envision myself on my hands and knees for a couple of weeks, digging and sifting dirt. Then later, sipping brandy on a sandy, secluded beach (all right, in this case probably ouzo), and cooling myself in the "wine dark sea" of Odysseus. That would be an appropriate reward to come after "the dig."

Maybe ideas like this are why "true love" is difficult to find. Good idea? Bad idea? Thoughts?

Music Note: Back to the radio, listening to a classic rock station ....

A queen! A queen! My kingdom for a queen!

Queen Sibylla is very lovely, indeed. But, can she paddle a canoe?

As one search ends, another begins ....

I am sorry to announce that I have ended my search for Ms. Perfect.

I have been informed, by a reliable, trustworthy, non-partisan, unbiased source, that Ms. Perfect has been won over by Mr. Perfect. (That scoundrel!) She no longer is available.

There is, I also have been told, a distinct possibility that there might be a Ms. Best-For-Me just waiting for my arrival, somewhere. With this thought in mind, I further announce that my search for her will be launched immediately upon the completion of this commentary.

Might I even find an actual queen? How many of them are on the loose these days? The last one I remember seeing was in a movie about Jerusalem with Crusaders and Moslems and big siege machines. "The Kingdom of Heaven." That was it. Queen Sibylla ran off to France with some guy at the end of the movie but, who knows? Maybe they got divorced, or maybe he went off on another Crusade, or maybe she's on vacation by herself in Greece.

It probably would cost a lot of money to keep a real queen happy. I'm sure she'd always be wanting more jewels and expensive clothing. Could be worth it, though. Just look at her in that outfit. Really nice. Exotic. Beautiful. Stunning. All right, cool off, boy.

Expensive? I suppose but, on the other hand, if she came with her own retinue I wouldn't have to worry about cutting the grass or shoveling the snow or feeding the camels. Her servants could attend to those chores.

Whoa, now. Not camels. If I remember right, she liked riding horses. She could ride far better than I can. I guess that would be OK. I’m pretty sure I can paddle a canoe in a straight line better than she could do it. If she'd be willing to practice her canoe work, I'd be willing to start riding again. Opposites might attract, but they don't last. I managed to figure that out.

I remember something else. Queen Sibylla liked dogs, too. All the better. There are some possibilities here. Something to think about.

Computers, cameras & suggestions?

Only one suggestion each so far regarding computers and cameras and Greece. Either no one is reading here or no one has any suggestions. Oh, well, such is life.

I did contact a friend, who is a programmer for Intel, regarding suggestions about middle-of-the-road computers (price, that is, not politics) and two friends, one who is a photography hobbyist and another who is a professional photographer, about possibilities for cameras. Never-the-less, I would value advice from anyone who has experience, good or bad, with a particular product. Any ideas?

A guy has to earn his banana cream pie ....

I don't know what it's doing in your neck of the woods (country talk for "your corner of the world"), but it's snowing here, with a cold wind pushing it. Winter returns. There are three to four inches down. I think it is done, but the wind might pile it up.

That means there are a driveway and a bit of sidewalk to shovel. Yes, shovel. At the risk of offending someone, snow blowers are for old folks. So are riding lawn mowers. I've always looked at shoveling snow and cutting the grass as forms of exercise. (Well, maybe not when I was a teenager.) It's no fun, but it's good for you (and it's good for me), and it reduces feelings of guilt about sitting down with an entire banana cream pie now and then.

We are what we eat, so I guess I'm sweet.

Music Note: Listening to Foreigner ....
Specifically, "Classic Hits Live" ....
Featuring, "I Want to Know What Love Is" ....
(Me, too)

Dreams, Democrats, Greeks & Trojans ....

"…. he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret. — Be it so."

Lord Byron
Some lines from: "The Dream"

A dream ends; a building never does ....

Before I meander away from the notion of reincarnation and transmigration of souls, I want to touch on a thought residing just on the other side of that doorway: The implications of reoccurring dreams. Ever have one?

If I've ever read any material regarding reoccurring dreams, it has passed from my memory. But, I have experienced one, as well as another, shall we say, odd, sort of series of dreams.

The reoccurrent dream: When I was around 11 or 12, I began to have a dream that I was rolling and rolling on the ground while being shot at by a man in a military uniform. I could see him clearly, distinctly, his face, his weapon. I could see the landscape between the two of us, and behind him. I always woke as the rounds seemed about to catch up with me.

I had the dream probably once or twice a year for several years. Possibly, I had seen one too many "war movies" as a boy but, for whatever reason, I never had that dream again after my time with the Marine Corps.

The odd dream: I cannot count the number of times that I have had a variety of dreams that all take place in the same building. The building is an absolutely huge, log structure, in the style of a house, with three stories. But, the settings and the scenarios of the dreams differ vastly.

This building has been on "main street." I have been living on the second floor, while there has been a newspaper office on the first floor. People from both my past (some now dead) and my present, have been there working. We have discussed work and personal matters.

This building has been located in a bog and woodland area, such as one might see in northern Minnesota, where it was my residence. I was moving about on both the first and the second floors, preparing to defend myself against a "home invasion." The door was being battered. There was a woman also present. I knew her, but never saw her face, and now no longer recall who it might have been.

This building has been a hotel with a beach setting, and I have been a guest occupying the second floor, with the lobby being the first floor. Adjacent to the lobby is a bar (of course), where I have engaged in conversations with a number of people, some known to me in actual life, some not.

Those are a few of the "odd dreams" I recall. The building does not look like any I ever have seen, and never have I been to the third floor of the structure. The only elements always consistent in these dreams are the physical appearance of the building when looking at it from the outside, and inside on the second floor. Any dream interpreters out there?

No doubt, liberals rule the media ....

I spotted a newspaper poll yesterday in which readers were asked to pick the "best" president in the history of the U.S. The newspaper included three choices from among the four who are on Mount Rushmore: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. The other four presidents nominated by the newspaper to select from were all 20th Century Democrats, only two of whom even merit an ounce of objective consideration.

Even petty things such as that cause people to lose faith in journalistic integrity.

Missolonghi, Heraklion & where was that place?

Any recommendations for places to hang out in Greece? I'm really beginning to get my head turned in that direction for a "scout," a "recon," an "inspection tour" this summer. I do want to visit Missolonghi, where the poet Lord Byron died and which has a museum commemorating his one-time presence there, and Heraklion, the grave site of writer Nikos Kazantzakis. Other than that, I'm only thinking wind, water and sun. Such is my mantra.

Exit Trojans, enter Vikings ....

I'll stir Trojans and Vikings into my mix today. I recall reading a supposition a few years back that the "Old Trojans" became the "Old Vikings." Seriously. The article was published in "Archaeology" magazine. It offered evidence that after the destruction of Troy by the Greeks around 1200 BCE, the survivors from the region began a journey that lasted a few hundred years, migrating north and west.

Some stayed in what today is Germany. Others gradually continued on to modern-day Denmark, eventually going on into Sweden, and finally into Norway. Evidence cited was based on linguistics, religious patterns and a variety of other elements. Maybe my great-grandpa and great-grandma to the 100th power (please, do not check my math) witnessed the clash between Achilles and Hector. Where are your roots?

Music Note: Listening to Roy Orbison ....
Specifically, "The All-Time Greatest Hits" ....
(Dream Baby & In Dreams)