And You And I

IMG_1680 - 2014-06-22 at 13-47-02


“Sad preacher nailed upon the colored door of time
Insane teacher be there reminded of the rhyme
There’ll be no mutant enemy we shall certify
Political ends, as sad remains, will die
Reach out as forward tastes begin to enter you” ~ Yes, from Close to the Edge

Sometimes I wish I had a cuter writing style. Maybe some people think I do. Honestly? I worry about those people. They’re like totally ripe. About to pop a blossom. Hey, why not? I’m down with that. Never mind.

Fresh air meanders through the window behind my desk. The ceiling fan, set on low, gives it some direction and purpose. Would that I could, I would  be like that, but spinning just makes me dizzy, a state of mind that renders me unto unstable curiosity. What doI find there? Well, some of what others have called wisdom comes from there. Go figure. Comes and goes; that’s the ticket. Maybe unstableness is a stingy cornucopia of sorts, spitting out sporadic apples or kiwis. The idea of a sporadic kiwi tickles me. Must be the fuzz on the fruit. Or the deep digging semiotics it has in its pockets. A kiwi with pockets? Please stop me now. No good can come of this; I’ve already passed that point.

 I spent a fair amount of time viewing Yes videos on You Tube last night. They were, of course, awesome. From Rick Wakeman’s skill at forcefully drawing magnificence out of any number of keyboards, there in his wizard robe, to Steve Howe’s always startling prodigious guitar magic, to Chris Squire’s strutting foundation of melodic bass punches, Alan White’s drums at his behest, topped off with a strange and beautiful man, Jon Anderson, with a voice like a kestrel in flight, with a sheer and uplifting poetic skill, or maybe a kiwi. No one stopped me, I’ll have to do it myself. The band of brothers work magic, they call up spirit with rock and roll transcendent wonder. They first give you a lift then kick that lift and you up into the stratosphere, or something like it. You must look at the video at the end of this post. Made my head go quiet so I could hear the wonder, and I did that thing.

The fella in today’s opening photo is Apollo. He’s ten years old, and the photo was taken in the senior’s yard at the animal shelter, where them good old dogs congregates away from the rowdy younger bunch throughout the shelter. Apollo, Betty, Meeka and Cooper get to while away the time on a sunny day. I sometimes think I should grab a chair and join them. In four months I will qualify for a senior’s discount at the movie theater. Six decades. My mind and heart are beyond that. They don’t seem to notice. It’s good, that faux deference: respect the many years by heeding them not. I could say that it has all been dreamlike, and in many respects this is true, but the Dreamtime is also beyond all that, giving open range to the underlying magic that is so hard, for many, to see at even the briefest of moments. I once wrote, “Everyday magic is all wrapped up in the forgotten dreams of the common man”. Them uncommon men got a thing or two comin’, reckon? Reckon! Boy howdy let’s let ’em flap in the breeze with a “Don’t tread on me” banner clipped to the their belt buckles and the knots of their ties. I know – I know –  there are many other kinds of uncommon men, and women, but we can tell the difference, n’est pas? I’m speaking in a metaphor here, my friends. Ain’t nobody gonna be run up no pole, myself included.

I’ve got some readily noticeable anxiety waves this morning, coming up from my second chakra and radiating up to the fifth after stumbling over the fourth. My right foot is twitching; it wants to wag while perched upon a jittery knees. Puffy eyes, heart beat slower than usual. Breath needs to be called up consciously on occasion because the residuals of trauma kinda have me sitting there like a clump of ripe kiwis. Perhaps you have, by now, noticed that I am using Monty Python-esque techniques in today’s prose. Their bit about the dead parrot – irrelevant, eh? I’ll get on with it then. I saw my pretty doctor lady psychiatrist last week. She was gathering info on just what I would like to work on in talk therapy. I pulled a couple of candidates out my – ummm – out of the air. My beautiful former therapist gone, she was trying to place me with a new one. When she finished with the data input on her computer she looked up and said, “You sure you don’t want to work on the trauma?”. She was referring to the bike accident in ’84, and she was quite obviously leading me to what I needed the most. I’ve written at length about the spiritual aspects of the crash, but I haven’t even begun to approach the emotional aspects, nor the physiological after-effects, nor the psychological lurking riffraff that threaten to blacken the soul, although they do not have the means, they are full of horseshit. I was reading Dr. Penny Sartori magnificent book, The Wisdom of the Near-Death Experience (I’m on page 45!) the other day at the laundromat, between loads. (That’s the way I see my NDE, it happened between loads. Obscure that 😉 ) Penny talks about the trauma after an NDE that often comes from many different angles, one of which is the shunning brought on by the sharing of a transcendent and preternatural occurrence. I’m well aware of that. It haunts me to this day. But what I have never really and deeply examined is that I am covertly disturbed by having had my face punched in by the handlebars and gear shift levers of a Raleigh bicycle. Then 27 years later I find out that I also had nearly broken my neck, literally. Makes me misty-eyed to casually look at it, and the perpetual butterflies in my abdomen turn into kiwis – ummm – I meant to say lightning bugs, and hornets, big yellow hornets.

After that David Foster Wallace-esque paragraph I am rather unsure of where to go in closing. Yes, I am going to see Yes in a few weeks. Yes, I am soon gonna work on psychological trauma. No, I really don’t  care for Kiwis, they are rather like apricots to me, edible, that’s all. No more than that. Flavor? Meh. Whatever. I’ll be going to a staff meeting at work today, even though it is my day off, and they will have free coffee which will push me over the edge in my coffee consumption, because I am out of the stuff so I am going over to the convenience store to buy a cup to take yonder  to the Gorge Bridge with me, I’ll need the shot of Nature’s grandeur before I get the full dose of rigmarole.  Video below. Watch it. Prodigious, flawless mastery, with transience woven in as well.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

“And you and I climb over the sea to the valley
And you and I reached out for reasons to call” ~ Jon Anderson


2 thoughts on “And You And I

  1. Totally cracks me up the senior canine crew has names that harken key things in my life…the MEEKA is not far from my son’s name, Meka…and Cooper, that’s a BIG one.

    First off, I was born Florence Emily Cooper to a family in Concord, MA (true descended-from-the-Mayflower, summer docents for the Louisa May Alcott home types, though the patriarchal line went a bit more south and dark-skinned.) It’s understandable how my stay there would be foreshortened and I end up in the system that landed me somewhere my name got changed to what it is. I always did like the name “Cooper” – in fact in my journals when I was young I wrote as if I were Jaime Cooper – Jaime was for the Bionic Woman. Remember, Jamie Sommers – long legs ‘n hair and all powerful – she was my avatar before I knew what an avatar was!

    Anyway – a speck of what this post brought to mind for me….Now, Florence Emily Cooper – doesn’t she sound like a writer? I always wanted to be her. 🙂

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