Sir Kalen

Success!!


as of 4:02 pm. EST the 1988 Dodge pickup has successfully passed its test. The old transmission is out, the new transmission in. A by-product of 2 1/2 weeks of much vexation, work, greasy hands, arms and faces.


I shall post pictures soon. I must repeat myself, there is no better emotion than the satisfaction of success, after hard long work.


Now back to my Volkswagen.

To solve and ponder, to query and muse. To consider a mental road less-traveled. Pardon my redundancy, but yesterday was Dec. 7, the day that lived in infamy. But has it really? What could have become of those days left un-lived? What happened to those whose futures were snatched? What could have happened? What wrongs could be undone?


Oft I visit the shrine and edifice to the unwanted elderly, that sorrowful building for the aged. And too oft do I see death there, so much so that I am no stranger to it. It is emulated in their eyes, entombed on their face. A soul who will not claim or hold on to something in this breath and vapor called life. Mortals who shun this temporal shell and beg for a release. They lie or sit incapacitated; the only human emotion is the desire for an end. If one can stretch that and find an emotional classification for it.


So I have been captivated by such a demeanor, and logic has failed to prove, that such could be a decent state of mind. They fear not death, too oft have they seen it, too frequently have they escaped it, and no more do they shun it. Fain would they embrace it. Fain would they take its hand and submit themselves to its test and travel. Is it something to herald as an outrage? Is it something to see and weep over? Is it something to decry, to strive against? Or is it another thing yet to envy? To envy them, that no bonds hold them to this earth. That they will take sacrifices no others will risk. That you cannot threaten them with loss, for either they would gladly embrace loss, or that they have nothing to lose? I weep that such a mindset is lost on youth. That when age has rendered limb and body useless and time has dulled the senses, that then they take on an attitude that would morph them unstoppable. I am reminded of the poem, "Sin is a monster of such awful mien, that to be hated needs but to be seen. But seen to oft, familiar with face, we first endure, then pity, and then embrace." Could death equally be something of such a mien? For I no longer fear it. I’ve seen it too often. I’ve watched it haunt those halls, and prey upon souls. I’ve observed it in the faces of those around me.


Oh it crushes at everything mortal in me! Too oft do I walk those halls; too oft am I the spark of youth in the suffering aged. Too frequent am I a small source of little consolation. It grinds away at all emotion, either leaving one ragged, or hardened. Masculine pride decries that raggedness, and so we hardened. Hardened; no longer the youth that harbored fancy, no longer the eager soul who oft traveled the road of dreams. A youth who woke to see emotions, dreams, and loves, as facades, as something shallow and shifting. Not something desirable to build a life around. Too many times have I seen the sparks fail to ignite; I’ve literally seen a life abandon its shell. I cannot take such a delusion anymore. For I cannot touch those lives, I cannot have the mere thought of them resting on my shoulders. That I, in my ministry am the only spark of youth they see, the only shadow of a life that once was, the bitter reminder of days and paths gone by, and irreversible.

I'd rather wish it not come at such the cost. but worthwhile perhaps?


This weekend has proved itself harrowing, even stressing, which is abnormal for me. As it takes a great deal to stress me out over anything. For in my masculine dignity, stoicism, I have determined not to stress over anything, if it be in my power to do so.


But there is achille's chink in my armour. In that I cannot perform, or hate to do so. But enough of this.


Now for experience. Thanksgivings tuesday, Mornings I work, however the afternoon holds other possibilities. and so we find that I am not-so merrily trying to find my piano teacher's house. My brother is with me, as he works with me, and therefore we form a perfect team. We do everything together, and nothing seperates us. we make quite the perfect driving team also. He watches all my blind spots, tells me where and when i can merge, while I control speed and gears. but I diverge...


so let me explain... No there is too much, let me sum up. While perfroming a flawless 3 point turn, the transmission fails me. The thing grinds, growls, clunks, and goes on strike. So I am left with 1st gear and 35mhp @4000rpm in the busiest section of my town. not good at all, cell phone battery is dead. So therefore i proceed down the nieghborhood to find some kindly soul that would permit me to borrow their phone.


To cut some more... My dad is the scion of brilliant money saving ideas. I am his chiefest tool, greatest asset. The figures are as follows, to replace or rebuild current transmission 1000-2000 $$! or, buy used transmission for $350 and have son put it in for free.


guess which one he chose?


well so far, so good, transmission is out, new/used transmission awaits its new home +- a few modifications...


Wish me luck :-p

Oh yes, Embrace the happy Pyromaniac! Or an Interpretation, Working On "Og"


Oh yes The Joys of restoring a car!

this is the Rifugee website right? mind if I stay awhile?

Oh yes, I told you it was coming, here are my
yes ignore siblings and dog in background, please note car and new proud owner in black shirt.:-P


So... what you think? Its gonna need rebuilding and restoring, but thats half the fun and makes driving it all the better. Fear hammer wielding maniac!



Now pardon me, i must go off and fix engine :)

My candidate, "The New Walt" v. 2.04 beta version offers this, Better tracking of your most read blog, e-mail updates, better bug fixing (like the post/comment) and A general sense of all-around propeity.


Vote for Walt! v. 2.04...

But this isn't fair. Or does it come from a mis-placed tinge of jealousy? either way it derives from a fact of measurement. A poor and abstract quality. However you draw the line, I find myself on the opposing side. tisn't fair we cry, but inwardly we know, life isn't ment to be fair.


so to this we say,


Hmph!