The Zen of Peg

We’re each born with our own buckets of talent. Some are full, some are empty, and some are in-between. One of the traits of growing old is peeking inside those buckets and seeing where nature left you endowed or, perhaps left you a little sparse. With wisdom, one can be sanguine about it. Oh well, filthy rich, nuclear physicist, symphonic composer I will never be.

These, I can accept. But the one that has taken me longest to deal with is clothes-hanging. Yes I am here before you, in a public forum, announcing that I am unlikely ever to advance beyond the 3^rd-dan, brown-peg. Lack of the innate talent, I think. And my gender will always be a barrier, even with prosthetic surgery.

Anne, is the high-master, one who transcends the mere physical world of the peg, the clothes, and the line. Cosmically arranged, they link in multi-dimensional dance beyond the ken of a simple peg-clunker like me.

One must know the peg. One must feel the peg. And still, this is not enough. One must be the peg.

Recently, a short koan was found on the wall of an ancient laundry.
Joshu asked the master “how must one hang the peg?”. “The coffee and the mollusc are one and the same”, the master replied.

Makes no sense to me and if you think likewise, then perhaps it’s time that you too, faced up to the reality of your pegagogic ineptitude.

A frightening experience

The human mind sits upon the continental plates of the primitive brain. Most of the time we are unaware of it, but we can see its affects through the mountain ranges and rift valleys that hint at tectonic forces below. Occasionally it ruptures the surface in a more spectacular fashion, letting us know just how delicate the crust can be at times.

Yesterday we were assaulted by a stranger. Mad, ranting, psychotic. We beat a tactical withdrawal but, as he closed on me from behind, I turned to face him. Perhaps not the best move, but I was not prepared to be chased through the suburb by a madman.

We came within seconds of blows but to my great relief, he retreated shouting all the while 'stop looking at me'. And then, once we held a safe distance, I rang 000 and delivered a semi-coherent report. My last view was of him throwing himself in the path of passing cars, spitting abuse in violent, primitive eruptions.

Poor Owl

This poor barn owl I found dying near my office last week. As it lay twitching in its death-throws I marvelled at its soft, downy feathers. I wasn't game to pick it up since I know they carry formidable armoury. Should have checked it for a band, but when I went back it’d gone.

Oh, and about the tooth. Yes, an item of national importance. The next day the temporary filling broke. Okay, no more tooth stories.

Greetings Earthlings

This is my first go at a blog. Don't know whether I'll stick with it, or if anybody will ever read it, but never mind, it's not costing me anything.

A new experience yesterday. A crown. No, not one with jewels, etc, but one inside my mouth. It wasn't that bad, even with the smell of burning bone, and the banshee wailing of the drill.

Fred the Dentist was doing fine until he got distracted, and had to attend to another matter. I'm sitting in this chair, mouth agape, waiting while he rushes out. I discovered why when I went to pay the bill.

Meanwhile I'm left pondering the weirdness that is a visit to the dentist. Have you ever considered the unusual circumstances involved? A near stranger, with their assistant, hands buried up to the fists in your mouth along with thousands of dollars of hi-tech do-dahs; glues and gums, and metal scrapy-things, and the awful whiny drill. No room for modesty here.

So it's all done, I'm off the chair, and out to pay the bill. Here is where I discover Fred's distraction. It sounds like the dungeons of the Spanish Inquisition. The moaning and wailing emanating from some poor soul. I haven't heard such torment since wandering the halls of the maternity ward.

Okay, that's all for now. I promise not to fill my blog with dentist stories. Sorry if you're squeamish about such things.