Here by the Intercoastal Waterway is where I have been taking my 1-year-old GSD , lately, for obedience boot camp. I’ve decided it’s high time for Geneva to walk like a well mannered-lady, and not some semi-wild Siberian husky trying to rip my arm out of its socket. It’s a place where there’s a public boat ramp, and modest numbers of people — just enough for my Geneva to get her mental stim, without becoming overwhelmed — walk, usually with their dogs, and bicycle or bring their boats. This walk ended when the kid showed up with a loud mini bike, which Geeva did not appreciate.
Not a bad looking girl, eh? She really looked like a wolf, today, and when she trots or runs, it’s like she’s floating on clouds.
Last 2 weeks, my back gave, as did my comp — oddly enough, both desktop and the display died at the same time. I’ve gabbed enough about my back problems in prior posts, so no more of that. Beata Maria Virgo Perdolens begone: the zounds of the flesh are now mostly in the past — though I am looking forward to being in receipt of the Delta 8 package sometime like soon, man, and transport myself to some entirely higher plane of consciousness.
I set up my new comp yesterday in the monk’s cell / study where I generally lurk. It’s a Dell XPS 8940 with an i5 processor, Intel UHD Graphics 630 card with shared graphics memory, 16 GB of RAM and 1TB HDD storage capacity.
The monitor is a brand new 27″ HP QHP 27mq with IPS and QHD. I think Quad HD makes sense, given the scaling issues that come up, still, with 4K monitors.
This new display has 4 times the resolution of the one that just died, so I am a happy camper. But I predict I’ll be tempted to get a UHD at some point in the coming year as a second display.
So for those of you who are curious to know, here is what my study / hermit’s cell looks like these days. Indeed, this is THE VERY PLACE where I write this blog, think, sleep, code, meditate, and watch movies or TV when not otherwise busy — as well as practice endless mental tahlees.
This may not look impressive, but it is all that I need in terms of physical living space, together with the ensuite bathroom which also has a shower. 20 years ago, I lived in a million dollar house in Greenwich CT on a manicured acre of land that I planted with native wildflowers and beautiful evergreens that I never got to see mature. I thought I would raise a family there. I thought my wife and I would grow old together in that house, after having lived in cramped Manhattan apartments for 15 years.
Well…that didn’t happen. So it goes. The headwinds of cyclical rootlessness prevailed. I burned in two months then what I live in on now for a year. Living below the poverty line for years has had a way of removing most of my more fanciful delusions, the ones that told me that friends and family truly cared and that in the end, people are basically good and you can find someone other than yourself to trust if you look hard enough. If feeling embittered can be avoided — and this is no easy thing for me — then not caring if you lose your material trifles — or your mind in a ditch — or your erstwhile friends in a lurch — can be enormously liberating: a big fuck you to everything the swells think is important, or that which society dangles as some reward: a prize, recognition, money, power…. and the rest of it.
That is why my “Che” US army shoulder bag — same as the one I took with me to Paris at age 20 — and Filson duffel always hang on the door, ready to be packed with a passport or two, some money, and a few simple items of clothing, all at a moment’s notice…falling in place is just as easy as falling out of place — becoming once again the universal Bedouin, the wandering Arab, the bina yallah Man — and either option is equally rewarding, if timed right, for the days of score settling and disappointment and uncertainty and personal humiliation are now finally over. Rira bien qui rira le dernier — mais sans amertume.
Finally, lest you are feeling pity and perhaps even a touch of disdain for this pauvre type loser, a petit conmesquin (which is derived from the Arabic maskeen: i.e., poor), seemingly trapped in perpetuity in some swampy, impoverished Florida oubliette, may I mention, Alphonso, that I can — and do — console myself in the view, such as the one this morning from the back porch of my crib. Hélas!