The Dog Polarity

 

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For a few minutes I thought of posting a cute cat photo but I thought the better of it. Actually I thought the better of every photo I looked at. Then I remembered that I took some photos of my favorite dog, out of over 100, at the shelter where I work. His name is Tambo. He likes me too. He is very sweet. Sorry about the bars, but I do like to remind us all of the place the dogs and cats live, which is not on the streets.

Maybe this blog is too personal? It would be this morning if I wrote about what’s on my mind, wrote about in detail. Very depressed this morning. I work with the cats today, which is good since I had a bad experience with a dog yesterday. He bit me, although there was no injury beyond a single bruise. That was on the way out to the holding pens. On the way back in he was manic, nearly pulling me over several times, until he just plain pissed me off. I shouted, very loud, “NO!”. That 60 pound dog hit the dirt in a heartbeat. Submissive is the word. I realized that it is a major personality trait of mine. It is why I haven’t gone far at all in my life, and likely never will. Too bad.

Peace out, y’all.

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Fun and Games in the Canyon

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Some mornings I have such a hard time getting started on writing the latest blog post here at EyeYotee, that I . . . oh, wait. I’ll be right back.

Had to go look at the sky. It’s actually a little cold out there. That’s one of the perks of living in Northern New Mexico. Summertime temperatures reach the 80s during the day and drop into the 40s at night. I have no illusions of writing a travelogue here. Likely I could, but I won’t because I don’t want to. Some things are that easy. Fifty years ago I would have earned the badge of impertinence for saying something like that. Today I can call it artistic license and move on. Which is what I will do, right now.

Yesterday I was reaching into the regions of dreams and metaphors. They have a lot things in common, one of which is that they both hover in the deep places of the Imaginal Realm. Click on that link and it will lead you to some pretty heady stuff, but I won’t go there this morning. All my head is good for right now is to challenge and act as physical therapist for my beleaguered neck bones. My head feels heavier than it is, which explains a lot. My neck? Don’t ask. It hurts, that’s all. That tangent aside, I’ve gone through a lot of learning and research to get to the point of gawking at the vast topics of consciousness, field theory, and the Imaginal Realm. Favorites of mine are Christopher Bache, Rupert Sheldrake, Rick Strassman, and a wily philosopher and logician named Christian de Quincey, who plays as sort of a foil in keeping things on track when it comes to exploring things that could go all New Agey and stuff at the drop of a hat – a metaphorical hat, of course. I really need to include a remarkable Native American man named Joseph Rael to the all too short list. Rael, who also goes by the name Beautiful Painted Arrow, is a Taos homie, having come predominantly from Picuris Pueblo, just south of here a ways. In his deep and thoughtful book Being and Vibration, with Mary Elizabeth Marlow, he lays out the provocative premise, embodied by the traditional beliefs he follows, that what we call reality is comprised of metaphor. It’s all vibrations, says he. Metaphor is what takes the vibes from there to here, where we assemble them as if they were some sort of Christmas toy with bad instructions. Ouch.

Rael is the one who inspired the metaphor that I probably love the most: echoes from the canyon walls. I may have stolen this directly from him. The book is somewhere in a box and I ain’t goin’ to look for it right now. Imagine sitting down within a deep and somewhat narrow canyon. You call out, then listen to what comes back to you. Echoes return for countless different facets of the complex canyon walls. They are all accurate in their return to your ears. Out of the many you must select one that is most real, but they all are real, so your task is a fool’s errand. It kind of reminds me of the question of extraterrestrial life. We assume that it probably is not out there, but I reckon there may be some guy out there wondering the same thing. He just ain’t quite found the right echo yet. Nor have we. But we are close to having the right equipment to accomplish the task. Very close indeed. That some of us can find extraterrestrial intelligence in the Imaginal Realm seems to be a different story. I don’t think so. Heck, we are only now beginning to see that the living beings that share this rather tiny planet with us are not only sentient, they have consciousness, and feelings, just as we do. So, who’s the nitwit in this picture? That would be your trusty writer – me. It’s all about me. Trust me on that.

My second cup of coffee has been delivered and received, both by my own two hands. There is comfort, creature comfort, in this coffee stuff. It’s a good drug. I take it, right now, along with my lamoTRIgene and gabapentin, which are provided to me through the permission from my pretty doctor lady. This is another comfort, and these two drugs keep me on a fairly level coarse, as opposed to the friggin roller coaster ride I was on before being introduced to them. Why I’m talking about drugs right now is a total mystery to me? Maybe, just maybe, I am doing it because I am consuming them right now, and all three alter the way I was experiencing, perceiving, the world I know and love so well. When they all kick in it is not the way it was before. I’m receiving a different echo from the same canyon wall. And I feel better for doing so. It’s pretty simple, really. And if I do not share with you where I am coming from, rather than being some internet pundit, I am remiss in my doings. At least I feel that way. Feelings count too.

There’s a raven squawking outside. Earlier I heard some vocalizations from coyotes, and it sounded more like casual conversation than hunting cries. Conversation is important. That’s what I say. That said from a guy who has been rather stingy with his spoken words for his whole adult life. Sorry about that, chief. I make up for it when it comes to the written word.

“It’s all so simple really if you just look to your soul” Keith Reid; Procol Harum

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That’s my cat, Rosie, as a kitten, looking, I suppose, to her soul. Outside it is now magpies, those mockers and grifters who would steal food right off of your patio furniture. I don’t know if they would drink your beer or pina colada but I wouldn’t put it past them. They challenge the joys of summer while being one of those joys at the same time. Ponder that ye seekers of knowledge, growth, and conscious awareness. I’ve got pastrami for lunch today, and a non sequitur for breakfast. How d’ya like them Wheaties!? It didn’t happen because I forgot to start a new paragraph, because I – did – not – forget! It’s been fun my friends. Time to shower then go play with them doggies.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously. I do. So can you.

Dreaming in Realtime

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“Great dreamers’ dreams are never fulfilled, they are always transcended.” ~  Alfred North Whitehead

It often happens that the cat wakes me up anywhere between 3-3:30 AM, and it happened once again yesterday. I don’t recall what I was dreaming at the time, and it seemed to be a good one, one I would have liked to continue, but the soft, repetitive wamp of little paws on a soft blanket yanked me out of it. I was sitting upright before I knew it, having curiously bypassed my accustomed moans and groans, and I found myself saying in alarm, “You didn’t bring a mouse into this bed, did you?!”. The truth of it is that I was stating the obvious, something I have a lingering reputation for. Yup, I used to think it was funny to state the obvious because it made people stumble when continuity was a bit too rigid, but these days it comes across mostly as a sigh in a whirlwind. I knew that rodent’s days were numbered. Again, obvious. While I sat here at the computer desk, next to the bed, the cat exercised some precise instinctual cat stuff, those fluid hunting postures that cats of all sizes, makes, and models, do when they want something that is about to vividly run away from kitty’s covetousness. My bed is raised, raised to a level where I really have to climb to get into it, which puts it up near eye-level when I sit in the desk chair. I watched her on and off, deeply admiring, tagging esteem, wondering if martial arts started with some friggin guy watching his Siamese cat scanning and synching with a mouse on his bed, and that mouse was headed for doom by the very grace of the animal who’s attention he had regrettably  apprehended. Woof, life is strange. It was like some Shakespearean play for critters, or, more likely, a simple exercise in revealing the roots of Tom and Jerry. But the mouse survived to see another day, then this morning it was all like catawampus as said rodent made its last moves. Bye, bye, little mouse. When the sounds of the hunt ceased I knew the mouse was deceased. As I got up to make the first coffee of the day I was greeted with confirmation. Rosie the cat lay on the rug, casually preening her right forepaw, and what had once been a mouse was now a ragged corpse, and I was all like dude! I grabbed a paper towel, which gave me trouble as I tried to work the provided perforation, and went to grab the mouse. Duh. It squirmed away from my grip and ran into the corner behind a door. Not nearly so graceful as the cat, not even close, I lunged, paper towel in hand, and snatched that critter. The hunt was off, the mouse died in my hand, and once again the cat had tricked me into doing something for her. Then she asked for kibble. I did that for her as well. Scratchin’ ma head here.

Point is I lost that dream. Or did I? Here I sit, shaking in anticipation without a goal, hearing the grumblings of a semi truck yonder on US 64, the didgeridoo sounds of a neighbor’s old pick’m’up truck, finches and magpies as well, all coming together on this chair, where the man who killed the rodent sits in wonder, casually counting his blessings. Nice, that. It gets me back to that dream, and how I, in my profound presumption, see it as gone. Is it? I’m guessing that the answer is no. I’m not going with the “Life is but a dream, shaboom, shaboom” that Richard Bach used allusively in his wondrous book Bridge Across Forever. That’s done been done already, k? Hear tell that we humans dream all the time, awake or asleep. During the day, when we are consumed in our doings, the dreaming is in the background because we are otherwise directed. I almost, instead of “directed”, wrote “occupied”, but that sounded like all military and stuff. I don’t want to go there. Not today, not ever. I’ll admit to using the sounds of dawn allusively, because it fills out my prose, letting it go out in directions, fading into the subliminal realms as it flies, leaving the words on the page as a launching pad, which can and will host expeditions into forgotten places. Serena Roney-Doulgas wrote of how the subliminal levels of input silently influence how we see the waking and dreaming worlds. I mean, we get it, but we don’t know how we got it. Get it? Or am I being obscure again? My habit is thus. My point is that, ummm say, synchronicity may well be where subliminal lines of happenings and communications, before and including after death, come together, and the ones on the Other Side snicker and guffaw in wondering “WTF, these people don’t get it?”. These concepts are way fun to play with. I suggest you give it a try. Just try it.

It’s getting near that time again, time for me to go to work at the animal shelter, to play with them doggies and kitties, and earn a near pittance in doing so. Today is pay day. That’ll provide funds for my trip to the scientific tech labs where they will have a looksee at my brain. I’m tellin’ you right now, something up there ain’t quite right, but that’s alright, I just want to know. I already feel it. Let’s take it to the next level.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

Across Time the Eagle Flies

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“Even with all our technology and the inventions that make modern life so much easier than it once was, it takes just one big natural disaster to wipe all that away and remind us that, here on Earth, we’re still at the mercy of nature.” ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson

“Relate to the fear, not just from it.” ~ Stephen Levine

I see fear, in my job at an animal shelter, five days a week. I know fear for seven. Since I know fear I tend to see animal fear more clearly than my own. Theirs is natural, but I am told by many New Age talking heads that mine is not, mine is an illusion. Okay, fine. Be that way. Be here, now. Those animals are not wrong, they know something that we don’t. Listen to them, I tell myself, because they listen to me, five days a week. The tremors of a Chihuahua or the belly-crawling of a traumatized German Shepard, visions of flesh made to cower. I respect any lingering dignity they display, penned up, waiting to go home. That is what we who care for them say instead of saying they got adopted: we say they are going home. There is a glaring semiotic difference between the the two phrases. Dogs and cats, when in captivity, are symbols of acceptance.

“Well, I woke up this morning, I got myself a beer
Well, I woke up this morning, and I got myself a beer
The future’s uncertain, and the end is always near” ~ Jim Morrison

A smooth cup of coffee sits before me this morning. Yesterday it was beer, just one can. I had what comedian Dana Carvey calls “a case of the fuck-its”. Now, here I sit slinging a metaphor as the egg-shaped moon looks down upon another beautiful day. My bad? No, not  today. I’ve been fearful for days now, maybe seven, I don’t remember. In its tenacity fear has convinced me to let it “roll, baby, roll”. I’ve got things to do, right? Not really. These days have passed, through my haze-ridden head, all anesthetized and stuff. It’s like nobility, k? When nobility gets anesthetized all is not lost, rather suspended in the amber of self-despair. And that goes away, fast in some cases, but in mine is not so fast. It’s an investment that began with puberty and the annuities of the soul it pays are dull and restless, because grimness. Mine is not an isolated case. There are many of us, we seekers of hope, and we find it when our mercy goes home, like them doggies and kitties, our hours and years of belly-crawling determination bears fruit, finally, then we breathe, as if for the first time.

“Hear that lonesome violin play
See the notes float up into the overcast
And change to white birds as they sail on through
And soar away free into incandescent blue” ~ Bruce Cockburn

Okay, now, snap out of it. That’s what I like to hear, right? Not even. My sarcasm comes to bear, and rightly so, when I am afraid. I am often sarcastic, and round and round it goes. But not today. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do, real thinking, not that brain firing at random thing that usually charms me into joining it. With that kind of thinking you jump up and down and call it flying. I’m a gonna git me the real thing, use it wise like, and feel real good iffin I git that far, reckon?

What I need to think about, and really think about, is my upcoming neurological examinations, next Monday. It appears that I am afraid, even though there may be revealed a truth that can ease my worried mind. Anxious too. On the spectrum which spans the gap between clarity and mistiness, I’m usually down below, looking at the pretty colors. It’s all pretty from down there, and all at a distance as well. If you, at times, see me staring vacantly, you will find me there, or just wait for me to return. A little of that stuff goes a heck of a long way these days. With two suspected seizures under my metaphorical belt, and one brief though thorough stabbing burning pain deep in my head, which seemed to source from somewhere immediately up and to the right of my right eye – I umm, that sucker hurt! I had to lay my head down on the keyboard until it passed, which was only seconds, but it seemed like hours. Or maybe its all my imagination? Psychosomatic dreams, long after the “illusion” thingy became so popular. This body is not an illusion. Stop saying that, you guys, or at least take it out of my earshot. You’ll find no lack of willing ears. Until then, just stop it, k? I’m more of the persuasion that I have, somewhere, a crack in my hologram. How do you like that! And I need for the hologram to be real or that crack ain’t a gonna be worth a hoot. So if you hear me hoot, go away. I’ve no time for illusions right now. Yours or anybody else’s, and certainly not mine. Wink, wink.

I got so wrapped up in writing this post that I never made a second cup of coffee for myself. Imagine that. I can fix that by filling the hot pot, putting a filter in the Melita mini-cone, putting ground coffee into the filter, and gently pouring boiling water into the coffee grounds. There is a method to it. In fact I will do that right now, to address and hopefully ease the mistiness and headache that has blown in on the winds of – or was it chance? Was it chance? I’ll make the coffee while I try to figure out what the heck I was just talking about. Chance? I was like all what?

“The season rubs me wrong
The summer swells anon
So knock me down, tear me up,
But I would bear it all broken just to fill my cup” ~ the Decembrists

Somehow, as I lured the scalding water into the Starbuck’s continuum, the aroma reminded me of some other lure, took me back 27 years, and slipped me into a memory of sitting at the kitchen table, at #8 Plum Street, in Worcester, Massachusetts. This sitting would’ve been done at 3 AM, by the feel of it. Easing into the meat of the memory I can see the huge hydraulic machines lifting full semi-trailers onto the flatcars of a waiting train, long arms, rock-solid arms, yellow in color, all within the pale orange suffusion of sodium vapor lamps, calling out for, and then retaining, the rapt attention a sad sack dreamer oddly enough awake, dreaming of dreams, then failing. That time, on the top floor of an old triple-decker in the Italian district, I was only three years past my death. That is how I reckoned it was. My brain was foggy as shit. I could work my job as a shipping clerk in the warehouse of The Casual Male, and work it well, working my wages up from $7/hour to $15/hr over a period of six months. They loved my work, and as for me? It was the closest to real of anything I knew at the time, that and listening the the echoes of my boot steps matrixing through the cold night air as I walked across town to the Ben Franklin Bookstore at #21 Salem Street, across from the Worcester Library,  walking on a Thursday night to purchase a fresh copy of the New York Times Sunday Review of Books, which was released on Thursday only to justify my walking in the night across town. I was so self-absorbed after the severe blow to my head, which happened three years earlier, that I probably believed that. The world was mine and it was fuzzy. Way fuzzy.

Writing that previous paragraph made me all misty-eyed and stuff. Y’know, that was not simply a memory. That man, on those streets, walking through the snow or along through a fresh summer breeze, that man still does that, I merely need to reach across time to shake his hand for being such a great companion in the quest to understand what happened when our collective heads were banged against Planet Earth, down in the islands, down south, at the edge of the Caribbean Basin, when my whole world changed, whereas the planet stood proper yet wild. Somehow Nature was at work in respect to that fall, that fall that brought Death into view before yanking it away unceremoniously.

Gosh dang, it’s nearly 10 AM and I’ve been sitting here and danged near wrote a whole book in one morning. Okay, okay, a very slim book; 1500 words, give or take. I’m just sayin’. All those words just to say that I am afraid about letting some tech rattle my electrons so they can get a good image of my brain, then to have a different tech wire up my head to listen and see if they can hear if anything’s really wrong in there. Something is wrong, then and now, across the 30 span that makes things feel wrong, and hopefully will soon make things right as well. Give or take.

“If there is a single definition of healing it is to enter with mercy and awareness those pains, mental and physical, from which we have withdrawn in judgment and dismay.” ~ Stephen Levine

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously too, k?

crazy horse

 

 

 

Along the Windward Shore

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“I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.” ~ Sir Isaac Newton

Waking up in the Moan Zone I found myself, also, in one of those existential states where you just about know what you are doing, laying in bed, groggy and saturated with dreams, trying to open those eyes and they say no, and the cat, within reach, foregoes a meow, instead offering an undefinable staccato vocalization. I woke up feeling large, k? And I wasn’t up to it so I got up. Some of the deep foreboding body pain subsided with the feeble attempt to achieve an upright perspective. That done, finally, I felt, again, large, and I still wasn’t up to it so I said no, then I found that I was all dude like chill. You can’t argue with logic like that. Don’t even go there. Just don’t.


I’ve got a nice cup of coffee here. Didn’t have one yesterday, and that seemed to be alright. I already stepped outside to see the full moon and to listen to the soft distant calls of coyotes. They are in the immediate neighborhood as well; I know that because the neighbor’s dog told me so. Dogs don’t lie. So I sit here savoring the coffee, as the cat prowls and patrols her domain, under the light of the Honey Moon. Sweet.


At work, at the animal shelter, things have been pretty intense in the cattery. It’s the season for incoming kittens. “Incoming” makes it sound like artillery fire, or missiles of any sort, which is not totally inaccurate because these critters got claws and fangs and a terrified feral attitude that makes you go for the leather gloves right away, before you go back and say, “Nice kitty, we’ll take good care of you”. The kitties ain’t having none of it! They would kill you if they weren’t so tiny, and they make that point perfectly clear. I’ve got five coagulated blood spots over the five respectable holes made through my skin, delivered by a raging kitten that couldn’t have been more than five weeks old. I got that kitten into the cage, victory achieved. Animal Control has been delivering single and tiny kittens lately, more than I would expect. The woman who does that job apologizes for each and every delivery, also explaining that she might soon be bringing in the mama, at which point I look at the ground and I’m all like shit and stuff. A feral mama, bearing full blown maternal instincts, is a terrifying animal, but you must play it cool, get that mama into a cage, because you are, after all, a professional. Yes. The Animal control officer, a lovely middle aged Spanish woman, never brought the mama, but she had also delivered young memories of unexpected flirting, which made me all like wow and stuff. I’m one who is usually too shy to flirt, but when she chats with me she gets up close, face to face at no more than 13″, then steps back and strikes a pose. But yesterday she upped it a notch, speaking, out of the blue, of Dwight Yoakum and his tight pants. Then she says, “Look at mine”, so I do. Oh my. Oh my. She strokes the denim and speaks of her muscles, which are toned and sweet, from capturing big dogs, and I take a long look, having been invited to do so, and I suddenly find aspirations attempting and succeeding to surface from the oceanic, instinctual waters within, then skim toward the shoreline, so I stand going all wow and stuff. She captures living things for a living. I wonder. Yes, I wonder.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously. It can be fun. Uh huh.

Cerebral Meatloaf with Gravy

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Waking up shaky in the morning, not near enough alcohol the night before to cause such a thing, it seems easy to see the passage from the dream world into this one as a likely culprit. It’s not that it is a difficult passage, but the vibes involved, the shift involved, can be startling. That’s me this morning, tired of the mundane, tired of reading about politics, and phased out in a way by my approaching neurological tests. I’ll soon morph into geek mode, which I am very good at and very merry in that path of learning, then in feeding the geek with information on the machines involved and the things the tests can detect, I will commence topping it all with the gravy of discovery. This is a device to lock in an anchor of intellectual reason, which does the grounding needed to keep the anxiety from heading for the ionosphere. Voila! Cerebral meatloaf. Yum.

The cat came back just a few minutes ago. Shed been prowling beneath the Rose Moon full moon in June. Celestial rhyming is noted and archived. She came immediately to lay at my side as I type. I leaned over to put my face into the tactile fluff of her tabby fur, and said out loud, “Aw, sweetie, I’m glad to see you, did you kill anything?”. She is quite the hunter! I love instinct and morphic field born inclinations, delivered by DNA, which acts as a Santa Claus of sorts. Geek stuff, it arrived early. Whew.


 

I just took break to take my bare feet across the yard, to visit the shrine for Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, she encased in light and roses. My mood seems a tad somber this morning so I think I’ll stop writing and face the day. Cats at the shelter, again. We had three escape by feral cats yesterday. I caught one wild kitten and the veterinarian caught the other two. The vet has awesome netting skills.

Peace out, y,all. Goof gloriously.

 

Hope and Goofing Gloriously

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One morning, a year ago or so, I was in a restless and mildly despondent head space, yet I suddenly felt like composing music. Goddess knows why. Let’s call it a mystery. The results were to me the closest thing to channeling I have ever experienced. Listen:

Go figure, huh. As I called up this You Tube video just now and listened to the song once again it brought me to tears, You’ve got yer selves a man here who ain’t afraid to cry, nor to admit it. It’s got benefits. I’ve got so much shit backed up, in a Freudian way, that I could cry at the drop of a metaphorical hat, but I don’t. Cain’t get it out. No way, no how. I look to bipolar disorder for an answer to the tear deficit question, and that beast of a disorder just glowers back at me like some friggin feral, moonfaced tomcat. Nice kitty? Grab the bite-proof gauntlets out iffin yer gonna pull kitty out for a looksee. He ain’t havin’ any of it, he just ain’t. Walk on.

Grayish lavander clouds cast the morning in the dazzling bright light of heart songs and dreams, forming yet already there, giving solace to a sad heart, pulling that light through then out, and giving it to the world. Wow, that was kinda poetic, but this is prose. My bad. Let’s walk on.

My work today, at the animal shelter, will be with the cats. I was scheduled with them doggies but I traded with a lovely young friend of mine. She’s preferin’ dogs if she can. I like ’em too but they ain’t cats. There ya have it. Twisty logic. One of specialties. You should see my friend’s smile . . . oh, never mind.

I’m of a mind to shake, rattle, and roll my whole danged life to see what’s left of me. Depression about paint’s everything black. It pisses me off.  From where I sit this morning I can just see myself waiting for something to come across my desk. But if it comes it will come from elsewhere, someplace ethereal. Friggin desks ain’t got the gumption to deliver in this manner. Mine is too messy anyway. Something coming across here would have to have some rock climbing experience.

The worst tempered people I have ever met were those who knew that they were wrong. ~ David Letterman

Yeah, I’ve been thinking again. I usta write about a boss, several actually, of mine who seemed to be kind of clueless about human dynamics and human resources. You cain’t rightly blame the guys, I mean, we all have our upbringings and stuff. There comes a narrow ledge when the hierarchically lower worker is right and the boss is wrong. We then shuffle along that ledge, like any number of guys in any number of movies, and we are looking for a danged window. But there is a big guy with an axe beyond the window so we leap instead, calling out as we fall, “Helloooo unemployment!”.  In these times it might be better to try and keep the job, yet there is an edge to that where we can allow authoritarianism to grow, whether or not management is seeking that edgy, grungy thing. Then what? It turns out that bipolar disorder was the reason for my losing that job, I just didn’t know it at the time. Mental illness is also a harsh boss, reckon.

That brings us to the homestretch. My typing is getting a little difficult by now, and that seizure a couple of days ago might well be the culprit. Sure, I could put on my big boy pants and plow through, but what would be the sense in that? Push down and darkly archive all of that problem making? Come on now! That’ll put you back out on the ledge.

So what’s new on the proactive, positive front? I’ve got no detailed examples today. I’m still the hopeful romantic fella I was back in my young adulthood. That and a five dollar bill will buy me an Italian sub at Subway. I ponder the wisdom, or lack thereof, of maintaining a sweet and hopeful attitude through the years and on to pre-senior citizenry. I kinda like the sound of it. Sure, it flirts closely with naiveté but so do CEOs and Hedge Fund Managers. Iffin I’m gonna flirt it ain’t gonna be with naiveté, nor with a friggin CEO. She will be nice, and sweet, and pretty enough to be a muse. She will not tell me how to turn my phrases nor will she be shy about turning her own. I reckon I’m talking about honesty. It is sorely lacking in the business world, but it seems to me that we pedestrians could maybe and maybe ought adopt it so that we can metaphorically dance in the street while them really big honchos sit at their desks, or at the bar in the country club of their choice, and tweak away at reality while their hearts slowly and surely begin to look like one of the California Raisins. If I remember correctly, Johnny Depp’s character in “Benny and Joon” said he was afraid of the California Raisins. Yo Johnny, me to brother. Me too.

So, what was I sayin’ about hope? Oh yeah. Silly me, I fergit sometimes. I not a fan of tangents iffin they are not kind and generous. But hope, sweet hope, is not the same thing as positive thinking. I remember hearing Fred Alan Wolf saying that “that positive thinking stuff is bull shit”. I won’t go that far, however much I love and admire Fred. I know some people who can make it work. Sister Special K is one of ’em. Rock on, sister! But, danged tangents! . . . hope can live it the dark, it can see in the dark, fully clothed in the wooliest of wools it can thrive in the dark, and it can “kick at the darkness ’til it bleeds daylight”. We can applaud the great Bruce Cockburn for that last dazzling image. The man is a genius with words. David Letterman said that true genius has no off switch. Steve Jobs suggested that he would rather not have such a switch on his computers. So, why have an off switch on darkness? That shit can, if ignored or shot at, pile up just like it does on my desk. And on that sweet note I deem myself to be a loyal animal caregiver, and on such a charge, I must shower and go.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously. I do. You can too. 😉

 

 

This Close to Magical Stuff

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This post is unprecedented in that I am starting it the night before posting. Rosie the cat woke me up, she has some kind of digestive problem going on. I scoured her water bowl, food bowl, and the toilet, from which she drinks on occasion, so that leaves me awake after three hours of sleep. I’ll return to sleep soon but I am not attached to sleeping straight through the night, so I can be up for a short while in the meantime. Another thing I wanted to mention before I forget is that in being negligent about reading my blog stats I have failed to notice that I have some fellow bloggers signed up as members of this blog. Welcome, y’all! Please forgive my goof, k? Now it’s back to sleep.


Guess what? I woke up. Only got three hours sleep before the cat woke me up, then I was up with her until sleepiness returned. Then I got two more hours. The first cup of coffee made it down into my stomach. Caffeine pumps through my system as we speak, Nature did a good thing with that stuff.

Iffin y’all been thinkin’ I been slack on usin’ faux-Huck Finn vernacular lately yer darn tootin – I have. Cain’t rightly say just why this a been happenin’ but taint no thang. Guess I’ve been feeling a tad conventional. It’ll pass. Thang like that goes down better with an editor but I ain’t got one of them. Too darned pricey they are.

I’m still enchanted with my odd encounter at the Rio Grande Gorge bridge rest area yesterday. An old red pickemup truck pulled in as I was walking back from the trail head. An old Indian emerged and walked toward me. He called out, “You want water?” then reached into a cooler in the bed of the truck. It wasn’t water it was Sprite, and I took it gladly, all the while wondering if this was some sort of Carlos Castaneda type of encounter. I then asked him if I could bum a cigarette, but he acted like he didn’t understand. It seemed as if his English was scant, so I thanked him for the drink and walked on, back toward the car. Once more he called out to me. I went back to get the cigarette, but he stunned me by handed me two full packs of Camel Filters. I gushed effusively in expressing my gratitude.

Maybe it was a magical encounter, I thought as they drove away. If it was it would be a blessing indeed. This I believe. I do suspect that I am close to the Veil these days. I need that since my anxiety is running’ so high. It is a very uncomfortable feeling, and it also affects my typing. I have to stayed focused and the going is slow. It don’t do no good to go to Urgent Care with something like this because they will just give me anxiety meds, and I’ve got some of those already. Think I’ll take a little more to ease the shakiness, k? I’m scheduled to work with the dogs today. That will help. That hard work’ll do the trick.

Say Lori, how did you know I am on tap at the shelter? At the end of a working day I sho’ do feel rightly tapped as well. It also leaves me brain-weary, but that feelin’ ain’t so bad now is it? My racin’ mind could use some slowing’ down. Girl, I read some of your stuff last night and I ain’t sure I understood it quite right. I get the feeling that your poetic prose needs some consciousness stretching to be effective in offering meaning, reckon? Mine ain’t quite like that but sometimes it is, regardless I highly approve of a higher consciousness. We could use a heap of that, so bring it on. All you readers here could go have a look by clicking right here. You’d like it. She is way cute as well. Uh huh.

Just don’t think I was flirting there. I’ve got a really nice image of Jennifer Lawrence on my desktop. She’s my current proxy sweetie right now. Julia Roberts can wait. These big stars spark my muse when it ain’t bein’ so sparky, and as a single guy there ain’t no one to diss me for it. I like that. I ain’t ready for the real thing right now. Maybe never. Cain’t tell anyway. Oh – it might just happen that Amy Adams might get up there before Julia. Julia’s a Taos homie, so that’s all cool and stuff.

So I’m gonna go see them doggies and see if I can stretch my level of consciousness some.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

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On My Mother’s Grave

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On my mother’s grave, I swear that this world, in society’s stead, has gone bugfuck. Sure, I use a rather vulgar word on occasion, but it is no more vulgar to do so than the acts of people who seek to change society, and they squirm, and squash, to do so. Oh, wait – my mother doesn’t have a grave. I threw her in the river. That’s what she wanted. It is also true that she wanted world peace. I was only able to provide the granting of one of her wishes. The river in the opening photo is Rio Chiquito. That is where I threw mom’s ashes. I threw dad in that very same river; dad in summer, mom in winter. That river runs into another, which runs into the Rio Grande, which then runs into the sea. And so it goes. I doubt if their ashes got that far, but one never knows, does one?

What set me off this morning, and set me on this course of expression, was an article posted on the website rawstory.com, which spoke of the last man on the moon, Captain Eugene Cernan. How could there be a last man on the moon?  I mean like WTF! Really?! Really?! President Richard Nixon did this, and nobody of Presidential status corrected this noble course of action since then. Again – WTF?

Society should provide sources of wonder as well as the foundation of security and freedom. It does not do this anymore. What happened? We went to the moon. We could have been to Mars by now. We could be off to Ganymede. I do not understand this! Stop spaceflight? Who would stop something so wonderful? It is plainly stupid to do so. Says me, a single blogger in the midst of the maelstrom that society has become. WTF? Yeah.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

 

Raining Cats and Dogs

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What? No blog post today? Sorry. It’s raining cats and dogs, yet it’s not raining at all. Metaphors and conundrums fall by the wayside. By the way, side with truth and beauty, k? Thanks. Yer a pal. I got called into work on my day off. I chuckle.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.