Haikuesque #1

I.
His curly hair is black
His blue passport is out
"Oh my God a foreigner!"
an old lady yells

II.
Early autumn arrives
Leaves gather in piles
I am inside with Netflix

III.
Orange, white cat
Old, red ticket stub
The fight is on

The bee sting

Let the record note that I am as good at keeping up with my blog as I am with my assignments. Never said I was a good student. Smart guy, terrible student. I used to be good. If I were to divulge the timeline of my life, which I won't, it would show a direct correlation between the slipping of my grades and the onset of certain taboo activities. Anyway.

Two weeks ago when my friend was in town from Duluth, I was stung by some sort of stinging insect. I never saw it sting me. My hand was out the window on the roof of my car on the way home from playing a round of disc at Willow River. My car lost its antenna some time ago, but I found if I put my finger in the hole where the antenna should be, I get radio reception, which is cool in a MacGuyver sort of way. So we were travelling down County Road U when it felt like a rock hit my finger. Ouch! It stung. Then it began to sting more. When I felt the toxin spread through my hand, it occured to me that a small pebble did not strike my finger. Wow. Bee stings hurt. They hurt, and they paralyze. Weee!

So I had to document this occurence because it became rather grotesque in nature. Here's the visual y'all. That's my buddy's foot kicked into the frame for flash. He eventually brought me to the doctor, and they gave me steroids for the swelling. I could push down a good centimeter the skin covering my middle finger knuckle. Think I need an epi-pen?

That's a SQUIRT gun, bud.

That's what the kid said, man. Geez.

I went to Back to the Fifties with my dad today. That's a car show. Old cars, custom old cars, vendors, corn dogs and hamburgers. There's a swap meet on Sundays too, which is why we were there. We met up with my friends D₤ and Dus Stone and walked around the swap meet for a few hours.

It's amazing what you hear from people in those settings. It's the kind of stuff that makes humanity seem tremendously humorous and grotesquely stupid at the same time, which sometimes makes me sad, sometimes makes me laugh.

A swap meet is like a grease-and-car-parts-filled flea market. Swap meets and mullets go hand in hand. Swap meets and beer are bed buddies. Swap meets and turd-smelling cigars are constantly in the same location. Ridiculous prices for old Coke bottles, nude Betty Page photographs, model cars, and the occasional Intellivision (no, he won't sell you just the games, like you need another Intellivision) always accompany the ever present manifolds, carburetors, steering wheels and mini-bikes. There are plenty of beer signs, license plates from 1932, cheap sunglasses, trinkets, tools and toys as well.

Which brings us to the comment D₤ and I heard today. We were admiring some squirt guns one of the swappers had at his stand. These squirt guns weren't the cheap, clear plastic orange ones you buy at Tom Thumb next to the candy. These puppies look like real frigging guns. One was a sub machine gun, flat black, and one was an AR-15 looking thing, also black, with a snubbed barrel. Oh yeah, and they were battery operated. And big. Like, full size.

When we were young, we played war every chance we could get. Our parents were cool enough to let us buy the most real looking toy guns, and we had enough to supply the whole neighborhood with arms for the constant war in the ravine. Swap meets are full of stuff from when you were a kid, and wouldn't you believe it? We saw the same kinds of guns we used to play with in the ravine at the swap meet.



Okay, that's not very astonishing. But man, those guns were sweet. The SM gun's clip was actually the water resevoir. The batteries went in the handle. A fully automatic sub machine gun water gun. A fully automatic AR-15 water gun. How cool is that?

When we finished reminiscing, we were about to walk away when a kid picked up the gun and said this to his dad.

"Dad, check out this squirt gun!"

To which the man running the stand replied in return this bit of knowledge for the young child.

"That's a SQUIRT gun, bud."



Wait, I thought. That's what the kid said. Dad, check out this squirt gun. He knows it's a squirt gun. That's why he phrased his exclamation with the word "squirt" before the word "gun".

D₤ and I decided that we need to set up a stand next year at Back to the Fifties. We both seem to have endless amounts of the kind of stuff that people like to pick up, touch, feel, complain about the price, then put down again before they stroll away, bumping into just about everyone in a ten-foot wide path.

That's a SQUIRT gun, bud.

It sure is pal. It sure is.

Pagoda's Gift

I had to ask myself, while sitting here at Apt. #4, facing east, in the afternoon, just what is this blog for? What purpose does it fulfill, for me or anyone else? Anyone else out there, reading this, might assume I have something important to say, so I want to provide a disclaimer toute suite.

Disclaimer: I have nothing important to add to the abundance of thoughts and words out there in webland, so if that is what anyone is looking for, Pagoda's Gong will be of no aid to those seeking enlightenment and wisdom. Not that the pursuits are a bad thing. Or a good thing. It's just that Pagoda's Gong will provide no answers and raise only the most tertiary of questions, so if irrefutable answers or big questions are what anyone is looking for, this is the wrong place. If anyone out there is looking for political, social, or economic debate, Pagoda's Gong is far away from those arenas.

Pagoda's Gong is in a garden. It is the only noise allowed here. But words are allowed. I guess what I am trying to say is that if you are interested in the world, and what goes on outside the garden, then this blog will be no use, dear reader, at all.

Whoa. Anyone who doesn't like the noiselessness might leave. Well, here's some info for those who stay. I'll try to find a bench for you in the meantime.

I suppose I could presuppose some questions that my presupposed readership might ask. Okay, this is basic stuff. You know, first blog stuff.

What is Pagoda's Gong?

Pagoda's Gong is simply the chime that wakes me up from sleep. It is called Pagoda's Gong because a man named Pagoda gave it to me. What a nice guy! I think if everyone woke up to the sound of a chime or gong, we would be a much happier species (note how the above disclaimer allows room for speculation - there will be plenty of that here).

Why is Pagoda's Gong here today, whereas yesterday it was not?

Good question. Perhaps a little too esoteric for the first posting. The truth is, it doesn't really matter why. Here it is now, and I suppose the world will deal with it just fine. As for me, Pagoda convinced me a long time ago that the happiness of all beings is the only real thing of importance. Crazy, I know, and at the time when he first raised the idea, I was whiny and skeptical.

"But what if you're unhappy, and you don't want to wait?" This is what I said.
"You are happiness itself, and you've nothing to wait for. This is the reality," is what Pagoda said in response.

You may argue, and with good reason, that the above statement interferes with the integrity of the aforementioned disclaimer. I want to say in pre-emptive rebuttal that while I will make an attempt to be fully accountable for the words I use, I am responsible for nothing Pagoda says. Anything you learn from him will be entirely your own fault.

Anyway, the conversation we had eventually led me to seriously consider the ancient question that has been bugging materialists for ages.

"Am I happy?"

Ugh. I feel intolerable just typing it. Just asking the question is admitting that I'm not. True, it would be much better to say, "I am happiness", something Pagoda says, or says he says, but I guess I would just feel unsure about the whole thing.

It's ironic. I would very much like to be the source of happiness for all beings, right? Wouldn't you? I mean, my sense of self-importance hasn't waned that much since birth. I would love to make everyone happy, to have the whole universe utterly in love with me, to be the source of happiness itself.

"But that's already true!" Pagoda says. "You have to realize it."

*sigh* I just don't feel it. Well, maybe sometimes. I really don't know.

Hence the disclaimer.

And why suddenly there's another blog in webland.

- D. Sent