Tuesday, December 29, 2020


Somewhere between yesterday evening and this morning I turned into a grumpy old fossil. And I blame both the weather (cold) and the telephone for that. Trouble with my cell phone made it necessary to communicate ("chat") with the service provider. Which is, it turns out, extremely difficult using a computer, because they are entirely set up to do everything via text. Their 'chat' feauture requires that you talk with the help centre entirely via 'text'. Which means they expect you to have agile little fingers -- nobody's digits are agile in cold weather -- and not mistype because the letters are too damned small.

I am strictly so last century. And I wouldn't even have a cell phone if MCI had maintained their landlines. I hate cell phones. "Oh do get one", everyone kept saying, "it's so convenient, and you'll love it." Even relatives in their nineties did that.

I hate the damned thing, and will not take it out of the house.
It sits where the landline machine used to sit.

Often I see people significantly older than myself happily use theirs, using their agile little fingers and their perfect eyesight to communicate utter triviliaties.
Two of my coworkers are addicted to the things.

Look here, cowboy, I do not need to be able to communicate with anyone about a broken down vehicle by the side of the road up in the Sierras, and the rescue team won't find me any faster in the rubble after an earthquake because of a cell-phone. Even if I text. "Help, I'm stuck."
The battery would have died out before they start searching in any case.

Just follow the carrion birds to the corpse.
Their feed-sense is un-erring.

The apartment mate called in sick today, which means I can't spend too much time indoors where it's warm. Seeing as she hates smoking. It's cold outside.
Computer Paint Program tools: spray, crayon, pencil.

One of the most enjoyable things about smoking a pipe is the room-note, faintly lingering, that brings back memories of golden light slanting in (spring weather long ago) or dusk at a table in a deserted building reading the local newspaper with a pot of tea. Hotel lobbies. A café in Amsterdam. Jeep and jungle in Mindanao. Bookstores in Berkeley. The long well-lit drafting office at XXX company. Our living room, my father's desk, the bookshelves downstairs.

The room note outdoors is fainter, scarcely noticeable.

So much of what goes on inside one's head is smell-related, precious few fond moments are associated with telephones, and only seals and Scandinavians like freezing weather.

The prince shaped pipe above is another one of the pre-owned items that would have been chucked, except I saw something in it (the glow of old wood) and restored it.
It's a decent smoker, comfortable in the hand.

And ideal for short trips into the polar blast outside just after dawn.

Mellow aged Virginia-Perique mixtures, mostly.

I'm younger when I smoke.


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