Altruism and Leftover Cake

“Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet.” ~ Barbara Kingsolver

“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.” ~ Richard Dawkins

“It is impossible to discourage the real writers – they don’t give a damn what you say, they’re going to write.” ~ Sinclair Lewis

Yesterday was a challenging day. I was able to step into Flow for most of it. Good on me. No way do I consider it to be an accomplishment. It was simply needed, as the situation demanded. Today may be the same, who knows? Right? Yeh, right. It is simply a matter of employment in the retail world. Employment being the operative word. So, yeh, I’m tired this morning. I could go on, whining like a . . . oh, never mind. I’m feeling kinda sorta . . . dag nab it, I’m trying to find a word here, but it is hovering just out of reach, and I fear it may drive me to distraction to sit here like a lump until it reveals itself. Ha! I suspected that the word would reveal itself if I started writing about trying to remember it. Altruism. That’s the word. It would be fun to play with it for a while – i. e. , altruism, alt-truism. But I won’t go there except to say that the definition of the term might suggest a truth that is not so evident. Like – how did the Federal government become such a wasteland of altruism. Or lack thereof. I suspect that goes way back. Maybe the Ancient Greeks? I don’t know. I’m just playing here. And I’m hungry. I so rarely feel hungry in the morning, until I get to work and moving. So I’m gonna publish this post and eat some of the leftover birthday cake.

All is well. Goof gloriously.


Bitter Ale at Summer’s End

“Miracles… seem to me to rest not so much upon healing power coming suddenly near us from afar but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that, for a moment, our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there around us always.” ~ Willa Cather

“Reshaping life! People who can say that have never understood a thing about life—they have never felt its breath, its heartbeat—however much they have seen or done. They look on it as a lump of raw material that needs to be processed by them, to be ennobled by their touch. But life is never a material, a substance to be molded. If you want to know, life is the principle of self-renewal, it is constantly renewing and remaking and changing and transfiguring itself, it is infinitely beyond your or my obtuse theories about it.” ~ Boris Pasternak

“Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern.” ~Oscar Wilde

To shaky add boldly ringing ears. These ears have been quiet for a few weeks. Hardly even noticed during that time. Why is it back, this annoyingly musical sound? Yeh, I understand that there is a neurological component. Some New Agers say that the ringing is subliminal access to the vibes, frequencies, whatever, of the Astral plane. I think there is something to that, though I have no interest in the astral realms. The collective unconscious is where I like to hang out when I have the time and need to ease off from the mundane world. In that realm are archetypes, gods, goddesses, monsters; a cornucopia of shadow stuff and universal Oneness. You ease off like you would ease off from a period of mild overindulgence of IPA and stuff like that. The physical plane is somewhat of a necessary addiction – we are so much more than that. An interesting thing – two days ago I noticed something, nearly ironic, about one of my coping strategies as an introvert and an empath. I get through with a day of gainful employment, during which I deal up close with dozens of humans. It’s a big drain at the best of times. I finish the day, usually with a bitter taste in my mouth, and I go home and pour bitter ale into a blue glass goblet, and savor each sip or slug. I treat the bitter taste in my mouth by pouring bitter ale in there. It’s darned near homeopathic medicine.

Celtic mystics consider Halloween as a sabbat to honor Summer’s end. The old god dies and is reborn just around Christmas time. Hmmmm, where have I heard that story before? The ancient Christians coopted pagan sabbats. I strongly relate to Celtic mysticism. The Mother Goddess, Brighid’s, sabbat falls on February 1st. The Christians call that St. Brigit’s Day. Yeh, whatever. But the Celts call Halloween Samhain (pronounced “sow-in”). It is two weeks away, as of yesterday. The world is in tumult, which thins the Veil, but Samhain thins it even more. I look forward to it, though it may be a rocky passage for me. No biggie – I’ve got more than a few of those coming. But I feel relaxed and mostly peaceful this morning. Yesterday’s massage was exceptional, and the conversation was rich – nurturing dynamics, both. The synergy of therapeutic massage is a delight to me. I needed it and I got it. Today is a workday; a whole other world than the one I have inhabited the past two days. I use my home as a sanctuary, where I can withdraw from the mundane world when the need arises. So it was the birthday thing, the 65 years old thing, for the past two days. I just laid back and lived. Living is something I have appreciated much more since my fatal/near-fatal bicycle accident in 1984. Brain trauma, temporary facial disfigurement, and about 6-7 years of recovery of my brain. I never planned for the future, rather stumbled along quite successfully. Now things have changed. I have but one actual desire at this time of transformation. It makes me smile, however unlikely it is to happen. Yeh, it’s not realistic – granted. It’s like comfort food. The feeling comes not from the actual food, it comes from the soul. Green chile mac and cheese casserole sounds good right about now. That is unrealistic as well, at this time. But I gotta get ready for work – and that is real. Ciao.

All is well. Goof gloriously.

The Chaos That Always Shines Through

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” ~ William Faulkner

“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” ~ Corman McCarthy

“When time is reduced to linear progress, it is emptied of presence.” ~ John O’Donohue

“I am now 33 years old, and it feels like much time has passed and is passing faster and faster every day. Day to day I have to make all sorts of choices about what is good and important and fun, and then I have to live with the forfeiture of all the other options those choices foreclose. And I’m starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life’s sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path and time speeds me through stages of stasis and atrophy and decay until I go down for the third time, all struggle for naught, drowned by time. It is dreadful. But since it’s my own choices that’ll lock me in, it seems unavoidable — if I want to be any kind of grownup, I have to make choices and regret foreclosures and try to live with them.” ~ David Foster Wallace

Coyotes by moonlight. They have since gone silent into the night, which is nearly over, this moment being sunrise, and the Moon whispers to me, beckoning, with gentle smiles. New information came to me yesterday. For decades now I have found Sundays to be anything from inconvenient to “get down, get dirty” depressing. Often I have pondered this, when rationality allowed. That takes work, believe you me. Sometimes I think that rationality is not our natural state. Or is that a rationalization? No worries – it gets confusing sometimes. Even at its strongest rationality cannot fully mask the chaos that always shines through. So, what is it that I discovered about Sundays? I was born on a Sunday. Food for thought, indeed. But today is Thursday. Today I turn 65. That’s right – 65. Today I have a massage at 10:15 AM, and a casual dinner with a friend and her dog at 5 PM. The dog’s a nutcase, BTW. You can tell just by looking at her that some coyote took the liberty of a little dalliance somewhere along the line. It will be a day of nurturance. The massage is much needed, more so than usual. This time it was five weeks instead of four between sessions. Calendar time and the Social Security Administration conspired to make me wait an extra week. But the wait was worth it because a skilled massage is the perfect birthday gift for me. Topped off by a visit to the dispensary to take advantage of the 15% birthday discount they offer. I call that a bargain – the best I ever had. Let’s leave it at that, k?

All is well. Goof gloriously.

Clipping a Few Errant Irish Curls

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.” ~ William Wordsworth

“I was free with every road as my home. No limitations and no commitments. But then summer passed and winter came and I fell short for safety. I fell for its spell, slowly humming me to sleep, because I was tired and small, too weak to take or handle those opinions and views, attacking me from every angle. Against my art, against my self, against my very way of living. I collected my thoughts, my few possessions and built isolated walls around my values and character. I protected my own definition of beauty and success like a treasure at the bottom of the sea, for no one saw what I saw, or felt the same as I did, and so I wanted to keep to myself. You hide to protect yourself.” ~ Charlotte Eriksson

“We sleep, allowing gravity to hold us, allowing Earth- our larger body- to recalibrate our neurons, composting the keen encounters of our waking hours (the tensions and terrors of our individual days), stirring them back, as dreams, into the sleeping substance of our muscles. We give ourselves over to the influence of the breathing earth. Sleep is the shadow of the earth as it seeps into our skin and spreads throughout our limbs, dissolving our individual will into the thousand and one selves that compose it- cells, tissues, and organs taking their prime directives now from gravity and the wind- as residual bits of sunlight, caught in the long tangle of nerves, wander the drifting landscape of our earth-borne bodies like deer moving across the forested valleys.” ~ David Abram

Scrolling mindlessly on my Facebook newsfeed is always something that raises a mysterious level of mild dread in me. I mean WTF. My subliminal mind can likely pick up snippets of text, and it likely will also drive my brain bugfuck from trying to stabilize the images that float on by. I find myself doing it much too often, yet less often than I think. Earlier this morning I read a fascinating article about . . . ummmm, how to say it? . . . about how the ubiquitous presence of lies and flights of phantasmagoric bullshit make perusing the internet in search of any kind of truth a fools errand. It seems to me that the pursuit of truth has long been a fool’s errand; it’s not the internet that makes it so. Take the myth, legend, metaphor, whatever, of Parsifal and the Holy Grail for example. Just sayin. Oh, man! Wagner did a whole opera based on the legend. I just discovered that on the internet, and immediately wondered why Monty Python didn’t use Wagnerian splendor in the soundtrack when the knights entered the tower in search of the Grail, only to find amorous sister’s of Christ offering them . . . ummmm, best not go there. You see, I’ve run out of writing time because it is time to shift gears and prep for the workday. A bit of preventative grooming wouldn’t hurt. I tend to let my appearance saunter off the semiotic path, which is a way of saying that I don’t seem to care how I look a good part of the time. Which gives me a good opening to pose a rhetorical question and let it linger off into the day, where it will simmer in my cauldron like a tickle. Why has it taken me so long to realize that if I search for a woman my own age I often just don’t snap because a lot of them look old and stuff? Appearance isn’t everything, right? (He says as he heads off to snip at his beard and mustache and clip a few errant Irish curls from his hair so’s to make himself look pretty for the lasses and such. Wink, wink).

All is well. Goof gloriously.

Along Silent Backroads of Solitude

“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” ~ L. M. Montgomery

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” Albert Camus

“At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Autumn is the season of fresh opportunity. That’s what I think. Or maybe plural: opportunities. It depends on your karma, don’tcha know. My Grandfather usta say “don’tcha know”. The last time I saw him was when I took a rest stop during a long-distance bicycle camping tour back in ’82. I’d traveled 1500 miles, or there bouts. The journey was rudderless, at least on a conscious level. On a whim I stopped to see my maternal Grandmother in the Missouri boot heel. When I left her place, also on a whim, I headed northwest into the Ozarks, through the Mark Twain National Forest, along silent backroads of solitude. I had kin in the Ozarks, still do. Anyway, Grandfather and I sat on the deck of the house my aunt and uncle, Juanita and Paul, built on the tranquil shores of the Lake of the Ozarks, not long after WWII. Grandpa and I sat on the deck, both with a mug of coffee, he with his cigar, and me puffing on a cigarette once in a while. I don’t remember much of what we talked about, but there was one epic moment when I looked to my left to look at his profile. Cigar just about to his mouth, golf cap with the brim just above the ember; his glasses, and a far away look that I now know was not far away at all. Grandpa was blind, yet he gazed out over the lake regardless. But his words . . . out of nowhere he said “People ask me why I don’t go to church. I tell them this is my church”. His arms raised up and wide, and his head tilted back a tad. Looking back today, I reckon I now know that I traveled from the Everglades, just west of Miami, FL, to the Ozarks, 1500 miles on a Raleigh 10-speed bicycle, just to hear him speak those words and make that reverent gesture; food for body, mind, and Spirit, not to mention the soul. My 2nd cousin Robin lives in that house now, so it’s still kin. The last time I was there was about five years ago. Aunt Juanita was still alive, the last remaining elder on my dad’s side of the family. I was unemployed at the time, with $16,000 from my cashed in 401K in the bank. That money first sent me to a conference in Scottsdale, AZ: The International Conference on After Death Communication. After that I went to Cimarron, NM, and stayed two nights at the St. James Hotel, which was a hot spot stopover along the Santa Fe Trail; a place where Wyatt Earp and his brother Morgan stayed along their journey to Tombstone, AZ. Billy the Kid stayed there as well. So today the place is wicked haunted. About a month later I drove back east to see Juanita one more time. Family, kin. She has since passed and I am now one of the elders. It is Sunday morning. As usual on a Sunday I am in front of my iMac, tapping away on the keyboard. Out through the dirty window I can see first light thrusting golden against the leaves of the trees, here in El Prado, NM. It is mid-October, four days short of my 65th birthday. They say that time runs in a straight line but I don’t reckon it does. That last visit with grandpa is happening right here right now just as surely as it happened that other time. That’s how I remember how it feels, enough so to tell the tale this morning, over coffee and a few puffs of medical cannabis. Feelings and memories are not so different, I reckon. They intertwine intimately, here over the keyboard, and I have every right to look, and live, and feel, this and that moment at the same time. Family allows me to do so. That is what I am saying.

All is well. Goof gloriously.

Foregoing the Hunt

“I crave the sweet surrender of sleep and my dreams’ uncensored communication: no tiresome small talk, sucking up to impress, or tiptoeing around charged topics. Dreams are the naked truth; get ready for it.” ~ Judith Orloff

“It’s in the morning, for most of us. It’s that time, those few seconds when we’re coming out of sleep but we’re not really awake yet. For those few seconds we’re something more primitive than what we are about to become. We have just slept the sleep of our most distant ancestors, and something of them and their world still clings to us. For those few moments we are unformed, uncivilized. We are not the people we know as ourselves, but creatures more in tune with a tree than a keyboard. We are untitled, unnamed, natural, suspended between was and will be, the tadpole before the frog, the worm before the butterfly. We are for a few brief moments, anything and everything we could be. And then…and then — ah — we open our eyes and the day is before us and … we become ourselves.” ~ Jerry Spinelli

“One of the Georges – I forget which – once said that a certain number of hours’ sleep each night – I cannot recall at the moment how many – made a man something which for the time being has slipped my memory.” ~ P. G. Wodehouse

Sleep is on my mind today. Or in my mind. Or I’m in it? Never mind. I’ve done a lot of what I call “escape sleep” in the past year. Just this morning, as I was searching for quotes for today’s post, I noticed that I have, with all this kind of sleep, neglected to approach it with a proactive bent. Not make it work for me. It’s going to do that anyway – and who am I to question the ancient wisdom coming forth. And I think that is what it is – let sleep come forth. I’ll likely take a lengthy nap tomorrow. My superconscious mind doesn’t like the idea at all; he’s like all “shouldn’t you go out and do something?”, and I’m like, dude, when I sleep I go out, and I am also doing something, dude. So chill, k?

I just stepped outside. It’s cold. And dark. Somebody has their TV on, loud enough that I can almost hear the words. And no laugh track either. It’s kind of annoying. At least there’re no bombs and gunshots and screeching car tires and many other things. If I had my TV on this morning it would be Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, with the volume turned down to A RESPECTABLE LEVEL! The Moon set a while ago. Tis the Hunter’s Moon, they say. I’ll be on the hunt today. For what I don’t know. I’ll hafta wing it, and I’d best get along now and do it. I expect the shower is gonna feel good. Hmmmm, I could stay in the shower for a half hour, then call in sick at work, and top it all off with an AM nap. The Full Moon is always a good time for dreaming. Maybe I will forego the hunt and just dream away the day. In the past 35 years I have, several times, had one foot in the Dreamtime for days, if not weeks, at a time. Think I will do just that. Today is the perfect day. I will go to work, clock in, and do that very thing.

All is well. Goof gloriously.

Rowdy Visitors at 3 AM

“You don’t see something until you have the right metaphor to let you perceive it” ~ James Gleick

“Chaos is what we’ve lost touch with. This is why it is given a bad name. It is feared by the dominant archetype of our world, which is Ego, which clenches because its existence is defined in terms of control.” ~ Terence McKenna

“Mr. Thomas, any scientist will tell you that in nature many systems appear to be chaotic, but when you study them long enough and closely enough, strange order always underlies the appearance of chaos.” ~ Dean Koontz

Sometimes I fall prey to the propaganda. It is easy to do so. And not just sometimes. It happens often. The bottom line is that Coyote has a bad name. I’m in a kind of mystical state this morning. A mere six days before my 65th birthday, this passage through my Solar 12th house – astrologically speaking – is aided by a nearly unwavering awareness of where I am and what it all seems to mean. The 12th house is the place of Shadow. Past life issues, whatever. Whatever Shadow means to you. I’m in a stuck place in my life, yet it is a place that feels perfect, a place to rest before the next big adventure emerges from the plenum. This rest and the accompanying feeling of perfection suggest a level of freedom. Yup. That it does. This train of thought comes from my first trip outside this morning. Frigid air, 20º – Coyote Winter. They came out of nowhere. Their calls usually strike me as sublimely musical in nature. This time was musical, but in a chaotic way. These folks were boisterous, rowdy, joyful. And quite close to where I sat. It was a thrill as well as a gift. So I came back inside and googled Coyote totem meanings. The hidden road. The need to remain light-hearted and in good humor. I looked for more positive meanings from the symbolism, and the semiotic dance that slices through and out of Chaos. Yeh, Coyote has a bad name. To each his own. Today I walk with this Spirit animal. So mote it be.

All is well. Goof gloriously.

Child of the Wind

“I will go to my grave in a state of abject endless fascination that we all have the capacity to become emotionally involved with a personality that doesn’t exist.” ~ Berkeley Breathed

“Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it’d find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.” ~ David Foster Wallace

“Fiction that adds up, that suggests a “logical consistency,” or an explanation of some kind, is surely second-rate fiction; for the truth of life is its mystery.” ~ Joyce Carol Oates

This is a morning that could drift on by, and likely it will. Yesterday did. Woke up feeling chilled and gently disoriented. Forced myself to go to Taos, all the while thinking it was a weakness of will, or maybe some agoraphobia vibe at work. Bought new wiper blades for the car, in prep for the eventuality of winter weather. It is supposed to get down in the teens tonight. That’s a start, right? Then it was a stop at the supermarket, where I kinda sorta drifted around in my own little world. Then it was an unavoidable trip to the laundromat. Managed a 3 hour nap, then found myself still up at midnight, immersed in Star Trek NextGen. Escapism? Soooo . . I feel yucky this morning. Some manner of respiratory muck. I should have seen it coming. In fact, I did feel it coming, and can trace those feelings back to work on Tuesday. A tad cranky I was. Ack. But back to today . . . I’ll try to moderate my media intake a tad. Is this the road to impeachment? Well, duh. Whatever. Basically my goal is to stay rational for the day. It is easy to slip into situational depression when I am mildly sick. I want it to be an easy day, but not that kind of easy. And after I publish this it will be time to go look out at the mountains then feed the cat. Forecast is for a high of 60ish with winds blowin’ hard, maybe gusts up to 40 mph. We’re looking at a windy day ahead, folks. And I am a child of the wind, so being in my element, as well as in Spirit . . . that’s what I’m sayin’. Today is about Spirit.

All is well. Goof gloriously.

The Blizzard and the Faeries

“I like trains. I like their rhythm, and I like the freedom of being suspended between two places, all anxieties of purpose taken care of: for this moment I know where I am going.” ~

“Time goes faster the more hollow it is. Lives with no meaning go straight past you, like trains that don’t stop at your station.” ~ Carlos Ruiz Zafón

“What thrills me about trains is not their size or their equipment but the fact that they are moving, that they embody a connection between unseen places.” ~ Marianne Wiggins

Memories of the rolling serenity of trains. Immediacy in the nearby yips and barks of coyotes. Chilled air, whispers of Winter. Sleeping cat. Ringing ears. Good coffee. Good morning. How the heck are ya anyway?

Ever since hauling the trash bin out to the road for pickup I kinda sorta lost my way in a few video clips. I didn’t think I had too much to write about anyway. This morning it is pretty much just exercise, although I don’t mind writing something with meaning along the way. Soooo . . . why trains? Change, movement, safe passage. Besides, they sell beer and booze in the club car. I’ve spent a lot of time on trains, mostly traveling back east to visit my bestie, Sharon, in central Massachusetts. Perhaps the most vivid scene, memory, whatever, I saw was on a severely frigid night, headed east from Chicago, along the lakeshore. They had train cars with giant torches to melt the ice and warm up the rails so the Lakeshore Limited could depart. The blizzard was still blowing hard. I remember several trip to the smoking lounge, trembling through the vestibules, where snow and ice were freely making their way through the gaps along the edges of the vestibules. The effect was quite stunning – ice everywhere, air hazy with powder. That was the trip when I saw the Faeries. It was -5º at midnight. I was standing and shivering on the deck smoking a cigarette, after a puff of sativa in the kitchen. They appeared before me, not as bodies or shapes of any discernible form, rather as a wavering, shimmering curtain of Light. Ya had ta be there. I knew what I was so gratefully beholding. Intuitive certainty made sure. That kind of certainty drives me now, as I make passage unto a new phase of life. An undercurrent of this feeling runs deep below the anxiety and depression. Lucky me.

All is well. Goof gloriously.

Where Reality Comes From

“Both destiny’s kisses and its dope-slaps illustrate an individual person’s basic personal powerlessness over the really meaningful events in his life: i.e. almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of Psst that you usually can’t even hear because you’re in such a rush to or from something important you’ve tried to engineer.” ~ David Foster Wallace

“Yes, I’m paranoid — but am I paranoid enough?” ~ David Foster Wallace

“What the really great artists do is they’re entirely themselves. They’re entirely themselves, they’ve got their own vision, they have their own way of fracturing reality, and if it’s authentic and true, you will feel it in your nerve endings.” ~ David Foster Wallace

I woke to a shadow cat in my face. She woke me gently, and rightfully so, because I’d slept late, on up to 7 AM; nearly precise she was. Yes, cats do have a functional knowledge of human-designed linear time, it’s just that nobody knows how they do it. Such a question, of how, becomes rightfully moot when the fact that cats are, or at least can be, interdimensional travelers is considered. My cat Rosie, throughout her life to date, has awakened me at precisely 3 AM countless times. Just sayin’. So, today is Sunday, my traditional day to feel existentially – and/or or both/and clinically – depressed. It is generally not any more serious than the laborious task of maintaining at least a modicum of rationality and hope. Dismiss hope at your own peril, my friends. My sense and feelings of hope have been much easier to muster now that I have a few of months of a daily baby-doses of fluoxetine, more commonly known as Prozac. Don’t start with me, k? I’m not going to go psychotic on this stuff. I’ve taken it before and it has been 100% proactively effective each time. So don’t even go there. Thanks, you’re a pal. It is almost fun to try a little thought experiment by considering psych meds as God’s or Goddesses’ way rather than a hyper-pharmacological scourge upon mankind. Think of the Christian fringe that forego all medical treatment (I had a beloved friend who died of colon cancer because, I suspect, of this approach). That is one end of the spectrum. Now, think of the other fringe that forego any kind of faith at all in psych drugs, to the point of nearly demanding that friggin everyone should go along with their prejudices. Dude, I ain’t no way goin’ there with ya. Explore that spectrum, from one end to the other, and ask yourself if the gods have or may have a hand in these meds. Like – whatever works? Of course there are those who say that these drugs simply don’t work. That’s hooey, if you ask me. They work for me. You may say that the efficacy is merely an illusion, a spell of psychosomatic origins. An old friend, an indigenous woman from the Bay Islands in Honduras, once said to me “What difference does it make where reality comes from”?”. Can the gods rebel against the biased beliefs of humans and do as they see fit? Or do they have to follow our demands? As the late great Alan Watts pointed out in his autobiography, Christian prayer often consists of telling God what He should or should not do. Just sayin’. Now. moving right along. I think I will mosey along into my day beyond this post. I’ve said enough. Later, y’all.

All is well. Goof gloriously.