Beautiful weather continues, but I have to say this. My neighborhood contains a Professional Bad Neighbor. The growing season is over, but he's still riding around in his "smart truck" that notifies my computer when it's near, poisoning the air and land. If you are a local person who wants to live in this neighborhood, you need to know that fifty years of progress toward a clean, wholesome environment--still not achieved, as is shown by the lack of rock lettuce at the springs--have been reversed by one fool's intention to exploit corrupt laws to get away with murder. Literal murder. He'll not get away with it if he does succeed in committing it, and he must know that much, so he's only venting spite at this point, but he is doing damage. The land is not fit to pick morels or ginseng on, it won't yield crops, and it won't feed healthy animals, for another ten years or more. It's not worth a dime an acre--if that--for farming or homesteading purposes. And it will be worth too much, for those purposes, to be turned into parking lots or golf courses. Its only value for the next ten or twenty years will be as the home of those who love it and will work to restore its rightful value for organic farming. It will one day yield morels and ginseng and rock lettuce, probably even chinquapins, and I have seen a few actual butternuts not far from the Fabulous Feral Elberta Peach Tree, but for the time being the beautiful neighborhood where I grew up is a toxic waste land. Though if God ever made a prettier place, or one with more inherent value, God has yet to reveal that place to me.
And my cats all have acute obstructive pulmonary disorder, which is one reason why Silver is running around in the woods, courting neighbors' tomcats and trouble, and annoying a renter who frets about cats squatting in the yard where her children play. (That girl does not belong in this neighborhood; let us all help her find a place in town where she can be less miserable.) Silver has a right to look for another best buddy, even if she can't have kittens; she's always enjoyed the company of a male cat friend, neutered or not, and as that's about all she seems to ask for and she's certainly earned it, I say she has a right to it. Whether she brings him here, like Sommersburr, or moves in with him, like Trumpkin, or just encourages him to visit every few days, like Wild Thyme, is her prerogative. But it's absolutely reasonable of her to want to avoid the more toxic side of the hill, until rain washes some of the poison out of the air.
The wind blew a strong dose of "New Roundup" right across the screen porch around sundown. (I'm typing this on Friday morning, before posting.) I closed all the windows, lighted a candle to burn off the glyphosate vapors, took some charcoal, drank a bottle of water, and still felt my midsection puffing up, internal muscles locking down, voluntary muscles becoming so weak that I could hardly drag myself down the road leaning on a stick yesterday evening. So I stayed in town overnight. During the night I felt my waistline resurfacing, stiffness and soreness subsiding; this morning I walked in at my usual brisk healthy pace, having no use for the stick and wishing I'd been able to leave it at home. Glyphosate does wash out of the body quickly--though some other chemicals in "New Roundup" don't. But its effects really sink into some bodies and I sincerely hope that, for his sins, the Bad Neighbor finds himself spilling enough of his poison right into his face to keep him paralyzed for ninety-nine days. (I don't believe thirty-nine days is still the world's record but it is the longest-lasting glyphosate reaction that even Bayer-Monsanto have, so far, acknowledged. That record was set by a mere dumb laborer who probably didn't deserve it. The Bad Neighbor deserves to set an all-time record.)
Anyway, for visitors, leaf peeping is getting good, with chilly if not frosty nights and warm sunny afternoons, and the coming weekend is probably the optimal time this year to drive through the Point of Virginia.
Books
A new Scalzi? How the time does fly. Yes, Monsters of Ohio should reach a bookstore near you this week. If you don't see it, pre-ordering books always encourages writers.
Desperation
I'm so glad that sponsors are keeping this from being me!
Found on the Mirror. The joke predates the Internet.
Music
The Beatles, together or separately.
Porno for Pyros. (No, the song's not incendiary. Not even very hard rock.)
Velorith.
English Beats.
Tom Petty, with the Traveling Wilburys, Mudcrutch, Heartbreakers, or whomever else.
Unknown group, video posted from China? But the song is in English.
Eric Clapton, with friends.
Buffy Sainte-Marie.
Crosby, Stills, Nash, and/or Young.
Gims.
Random background music for a pretty video.
John Coltrane.
Johannes Bornlof.
Roberto Cacciapaglia.
Florian Christl.
Politics
Especially salient main entry on the Mirror:
Travel
Marmelade Gypsy's human went to Stratford, Ontario, and among other things met a Great Blue Heron just like hers, back home:
Verbal Abuse Games
Whew. Bradshannon walked right into this one.
The exchange should still be on X.
World Events
This one was actually found at lifeafter50forwomen.com. Lens says it came from something called Appalachian Podcasts on F******k.
No comments:
Post a Comment