Close, Camus, but No Gauloises

So close, Albert, so close. You could have brought us to our knees, had us weeping, had us wailing, but nooooon.  Went with the guy eternally laboring, shoving that blasted rock uphill. Over and over and over and over...and over again.

Sisyphus, touchstone for an absurd existence. We are to--must--imagine him happy?

Except, of course, Sisyphus was a nefarious provocateur.  And a bloodthirsty egomaniac. And, ultimately, a fool.

According to Robert Graves in The Greek Myths, the name Sisyphus meant "very wise to the Greeks". Oh, the irony!

Murdered visitors to his home and travelers in his land, check. Plotted to kill his brother, check. Offended and betrayed Zeus, check. Trapped Hades in chains, check. Deceived Persephone, check.

Albert, Albert, Albert. 

Sorry, but in my puny attempts to stumble across peace and harmony in the ever-expanding universe, I find nary a spark of empathy nor sympathy for Ol' Sis.

However, may I humbly offer up the tale of Actaeon?

The scene in its simplest presentation would be Artemis (Diana) bathing in a favored spring. The hunter Actaeon inadvertently comes upon the goddess and sees her naked. The basic version I prefer cuts to the chase. Actaeon is changed into a great stag and is chased down and torn apart by his own hunting hounds.

Now think of the young hunter--I imagine him young, in his prime--taught the skills of the hunt by a true master, his own father, Aristaeus. Yes, Actaeon, survived by parents and siblings and friends. Sympathy? Empathy? Absurdity?

An accident of time and space, to be ripped to shreds by his own dogs. Why, Albert, why? 

You wanted us to avoid howling in the desert, to stand up to the inexplicable.  Well, au revoir, that ship has gone down in an unexpected storm.

A Modern Man

Simple enough, returning a package to Amazon. Done it a handful of times before over the last decade or so.  Open up the link, to an internal link, another click, and voila--huh?

Two-step verification sent to my cell phone. Okay, fair enough. Let's just get the code and--

Someone in South Carolina is logging onto my account? Do tell. Uh, yep, that would me. And so just tap the link, and--no voila!

Tap the link? Hahahahahaha!

Okay, let me just go back in and verify that I am who I am claiming to be. Account edit. Text with link sent. Okay, check out help link. Account services. Text with link sent. Hmmm, maybe my other laptop will let me get in. Text with link sent.

How about? Text sent. Or? Text sent. Maybe? Text sent. Okay, human contact time.

Customer service rep: Hmmm, that's a problem. Try this. 

Text sent.

Rep sends me up the food chain. Second rep: Try this.

Text sent. 

Second rep: Sending you a new link via email.

Voila!

Second rep: We would recommend you not use that phone for two-step verification.

Really? Oh, I got that. Oh, and I got that my phone is a no to emails and a no to Facebook messages, and a no to the internet--okay that's on me.

And hell no to reading on a phone.

And no pictures unless it's a well-lighted closeup of your face, a new coffee mug, your cat, or a pine cone.

Sending me a picture of the Grand Canyon? Nice streaky colors of some sort. Sending a picture of Mt. Mitchell? Some kind of undulation or maybe a 3D pop-up of some sort, I guess.

I can hear it now: Kaple, get a real phone!

No voila.

Bacon

From a lower cabinet I lift my cast iron skillet. A goodly weight, gently I set it down on the glass top burner. For one slice of thick cut bacon. Into a blistering heat, I drape the slice. 

Hear it. Smell it.

When I was a young lad, my maternal grandfather would carry me--his phrasing--along with him to Lake Tarpon north of Tampa. The sun would still be below the treeline and the air cottony as we set up along a small creek that wound out to the big lake. 

We were after bream, enough to fill a small wash tub. We fished with cane poles and tiny red and white bobbers and worms. Plentiful strikes came fast usually, but the standard was a fish larger than my grandfather's hand. 

The creek had a sandy bottom and in the amber water the fish could be sighted 4 to 5 feet out from the bank. I would hold the hooked worm so the tip of the rod bent a bit and then launch the bait out in a flat arc. Plop. Rarely was there much of a wait before the bobber started moving, and I would set the hook back into the fish.

They came up struggling. I remember the surprise of their fight for such small creatures. Into the tub half-filled with creek water, we tossed keepers.  

When we had a dozen or so, my grandfather would set down his pole and open a brown grocery sack that held 2 cans of Campbell's pork & beans. He opened one for me with an all-metal can opener and handed it over along with a plastic spoon. He had a small plastic jug for water that we drank from plastic cups.

Back to fishing and soon we had more than 2 dozen big fat bream. A few of the smaller ones would be tossed back before we packed the fish in a cooler of ice, and then we headed for home.

Around 10:30 or so, my grandfather would be in his kitchen, bacon in one skillet and fish in another, and grits warming in a pot. When the bacon was done, eggs would go in to be fried hard. If any cornbread was left over from the day before, then that would be served up too. 

A grand feast, eggs and bacon, grits and cornbread, and bream caught that morning. 

I turn my slice over. Hear it. Smell it.