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Now where are you out in the world
Searching for a little grace
Searching for a precious pearl
Wisdom from some future place. ~ Mary Chapin Carpenter

It’s 32F degrees and I am lovin’ it already. It’s not so much the cold, it’s about the change. I mean, it’s always about change, right? Change is the only constant, right? Yeah, that’ll do. I’m down with that. And then I question that, and everything else. I’m like that, you see. Questions are lodestars to me. Change is always there, waiting for you to grab hold and fly. Why I’ve not done that lately is a mystery to savor. Two days off in a row will set work related questions aside, then I can see if new dreams will arise, dreams of purpose, dreams of fulfillment. I feel that gratitude oughtta maybe be gathered right at the starting gate, reckon? Using some of the spiritual technology I have learned through the years? That’s what I’m sayin’.

I have a counseling session this morning. We will address the trauma in my life, the serious stuff that is looming over me at any given time, subroutines that snarl then bite, shiftless forces that need a swift kick in the ass to get them going again, for they are anchors for a boat that needs to move instead of just floating, rudderless at first, because of the stasis, then given purpose, and hope, and transparency, the boat will move, mostly on course, even if the course is a mystery. I love a good mystery. I think maybe I got that boat metaphor from reading about how researchers have recently acquired strong evidence that it was Marco Polo who first put a European foot upon North American soil, yonder in Washington state, 300 years before that scoundrel Christopher Columbus came here. They found a sheepskin map, attributed to Polo, and the map is startlingly similar to the coastline of Alaska. It was friggin Seattle where he landed up. I figure he was looking for a cup of good coffee. But I can milk the metaphor a bit more. Our memories are not necessarily accurate. Where memory significantly fails to put out we can and do easily provide another that covers for the blank created by this failure. Things just ain’t what they seem. Some folks, many folks, do just fine as they sail through life, storms or not, because they have a viable version of stability. Not me. I’m stuck on the rocks these days, these many days, and months, and I want the stasis to be over. Bring on the hope, I’m ready to sail. Of course I am talking about some of the many roots of depression. I feel it today, strongly, and it is a bipolar high, rather than a low, and this high is way uncomfortable. Think nervousness on steroids. Think I’ll pop some  gabapentin right now.

It’s just about sunrise. The air temperature is down below freezing. That means a lot to me. The tide is turning. Right on.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

 

 

 

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“Wisdom and an almost relentless power are embedded in the energies of the Irish Spirit Wheel. They place us in the stream of energy we need to bring about balance and refinement. When we truly embody these energies, we become a force aligned with life, a force that can restore the proper order of things.”  ~ Frank MacEowen

Coffee’s just now ready, stars are faint, cat’s in and out of the cat door. Quiet morning, no dogs, no coyotes. My thoughts are on mundane things, to give it a rest from the more cosmic thoughts of recent days. Those deeper thoughts can’t really be held back, not for long. It hasn’t been in a morose way, but I have been thinking about two deaths, that of my mom and that of Lori Mellon. Lori was the worst. She was the love of my life. That may change in time but it was true then and it is true now. That kind of loss is immense. I remember how, upon receiving the news of her death by car crash, my tears seemed to be sucked right back in once they emerged. They emerged, then all went dry. Denial tried to clamp down instantly but it failed. That was then. Now there is a fairy tale feel to the relationship, true love, tragic loss, amazing animation, and a peach of a song, sung in the crisp modern style that you you might hear on The Voice, America’s Got Talent, American Idol, whatever. I guess we might as well have Ariana Grande sing the song, make it fresh, and young, and youthful enough to mask the fact that this is a nearly old man fantasizing about days gone by. Sure, I’ve got my current crush to stimulate the fairy tale needs I seem to have in fairly great measure. I could categorize it all until I am all blue in the face but it doesn’t change the deep, true nature of the source of all these feelings. And just what is that source, you may ask? Longing. I see it in the sense that comes from some Celtic spiritual paths. Longing, as I see it, is a force of Nature, calling from the future, intimating gifts of wisdom and understanding, and it is rich with the tone of a teacher’s voice, making each and every step that is taken along the path of life into a purposeful act, even when that purpose is as of yet unknown, even when the desire to lay down from exhaustion is at it’s most powerful point and place in time. Don’t lay down, says me.

Well then, I simply must clean the cat’s litter box before I go to work. One must always nurture the animal, for it is from the animal’s perspective that we find pure love and affection.

“I hold the line, the line of strength that pulls me through the fear” ~ Peter Gabriel

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Thief and a Season

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I’ll keep it short today. The muse is not here for me. Our opening photo is of Prince Harry, the cat who has been in the shelter the longest. As reported before, Harry is a theif. He’ll climb up three feet to reach through the cage and grab food from his neighbor, Tiger, then he licks the food from his paw. He may spend ten minutes doing this. It’s way fun to watch. Amusement on the job in a cattery is not hard to find. Cat’s are sometimes clownish, sometimes “awwww” cute.

I’m still waiting for the chill of autumn to arrive. It’s been in an almost phase but I will be thrilled when the nighttime temperature drops into the the 30s. It’ll be psych time for me. Portions of my life, which are many, will start moving again. Hmm, maybe the deep aches and pains will ease? That alone would be a thrill.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

As the Coffee Grows Tepid

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“The absence of a neocortex does not appear to preclude an organism from experiencing affective states. Convergent evidence indicates that non-human animals have the neuroanatomical, neurochemical, and neurophysiological substrates of conscious states along with the capacity to exhibit intentional behaviors. Consequently, the weight of evidence indicates that humans are not unique in possessing the neurological substrates that generate consciousness. Non- human animals, including all mammals and birds, and many other creatures, including octopuses, also possess these neurological substrates.” ~ The Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness

The Cambridge Declaration, when it was released two years ago, gave me one of those geek rushes that only a science buff can appreciate. It was right up there with the vivid energy revealed when the wonders held within a starry starry night are set free by a state of nearly meditational inner peace. That’s what I was just doing, 20 minutes ago. The air is now solidly autumn air, no borderline to it. I love that about the autumnal equinox. It’s like the big cosmic switch is tripped and everything changes. I could say that we humans are just along for the ride, but that seems somewhat cheeky to me. The way I see it is that we are, part and parcel, components of the ride. I picture this as I write, here in the cold morning of my life, and I am not seeing the vastness of this high desert mountain valley, rather I am seeing the whole friggin planet, I am seeing the East Indian spacecraft orbiting Mars, the humming mystery that is Jupiter, the eerie cold where Pluto has just gone astrologically direct, and then there are all them stars out there, galaxies beyond, and somewhere in the blessed vibrancy of the whole big picture Kim Kardashian waits to snap her fingers at a photographer, thus bringing further importance to her place in the whole shouting match. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind shouting at her my own self. Pretty face and all. I mean, come on, right?

When I first started working with shelter cats I didn’t know what I was getting into. Goddess knows I should’ve known, but some form of personal mental density came upon me, and there I was, clueless for a spell. But the shelter cats, as all cats do, set me straight on a few things right away, one of which is like all dude what you call chaos is what we call home. And somehow I knew exactly what they meant by that. I wasn’t being dissed so much as I was being given a gift of instructional importance , which I would be wise to consciously accept and examine, thus I did so. Ob la di ob la da. I was already equipped with the gift of instructional importance that was the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness, laid out for all the world to see. Those of us who subscribe to a more New Agey spiritualism already knew that which was declared yonder at Cambridge. It was just nice to hear a cadre of scientist say it out loud. So . . . when I came face to face with a room full of cats I knew that I was up against a committee of sorts. It’s fun though. Usually, when I first get to work, I make the rounds, bidding a good morning to each and every cat, calling them by name, and sparking these greetings with enthusiasm. They are my friends, my family. When I first walk through the door the rousing sound of feline greetings rises up and brings my emotional state with it. Smiles and amusement ensue. Kitties! Some cats just want a skritch alongside the head or behind the ear, some make simple and serious eye contact related to the expectation of kibble, some want to box, and some turn their butt to me then reach out to snag either my shirt or the flesh of my forearm as I move along to the next cat. Friggin cheeky critters. Conscious awareness pervades the room. The rich presence of intentional action does as well. We are all in it together.

My job, which I dearly love, has been therapeutic all along. As a fella with bipolar disorder I cherish the integration that therapy makes possible. Personal growth seems to be the only way out. It’s and incentive plan, a sort of carrot on a stick thing, and if I can keep that knowledge up front in my awareness and intention I can stay hopeful rather than sinking down into that muck of hopelessness, a place that I know all too friggin well. And then there are the situational, serendipitous things, gifts that pop up out of the plenum and grab me by the collar, giving me a head wedgieTake for instance the chat I had with a beautiful woman last week. Yes, I was attracted to her. That wasn’t the point, although it allowed the point to get to the point. The point was the growing and glowing soul warmth that arose within me. Sweet. A few days before the equinox something changed, much like the change that the equinox provides, and the change, a powerful rush of personal growth, was irreversible, and it went on further in that it also led me consciously back into the Dreamtime, the imaginal place that, again consciously, allows me to consider and interact with archetypes and mythological matrices. All of that is to say that I remember those blue eyes in a way that some folks might call haunted. Those eyes and that intellect. Articulation and smiles. All of it. It was like all holistic and stuff like dude she rocks. Now that’s what I call therapeutic. I love the feelings she gave me. Thank you, m’lady.

My coffee has gone tepid while I wrote. I can get immersed in writing. It happens all the time. But for my coffee to go tepid? The implications in that are smiling things in that I use the stuff in my head to get out of my own head. That’s what I mean by integration. Integration brings ambiguity into the picture and leaves it to stay. Ambiguity is actually a luscious quality, when used as a spiritual and psychological tool. Those eyes, those star, the science, the Dreamtime, and them friggin cats. All of it. It all pops up from the plenum, I perceive, and it stays that way.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Imaginal Smile

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Today’s photo shows shelter cats doing their thing. They certainly are a pleasure to be around. Today feels like a soft day. It’s autumn that has done this to me. Aspens are turning to gold up on the high slopes and summits. Just past the equinox the light changed to a crisper clarity that both glances off the skin and warms the heart. This is my favorite time of year, always has been. A soul rush, identical to spring fever, runs through my imagination, and my imagination runs deep, in deep greens and blues, so I let it run, and I give chase. A pretty smile on a beautiful woman is all I need to snap out of any stuck mind space. That’s a really nice thing to know.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Doctor Howard, Doctor Fine, Doctor Howard

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“No folly is more costly than the folly of intolerant idealism.” ~ Winston Churchill

For you readers who may be new to EyeYotee I maybe should oughtta explain that I sometimes start with a quirk. I’m prone to being somewhat narcissistic in rising to startling revelations while starting from scratch. But it never works out that way. I rarely get my way, and that, my friends, is one of the most endearing things about writing: it don’t matter none if I get my way or not. Now . . .

When I first started working at Stray Hearts of Taos, an animal shelter, I was assigned to work with dogs. Before long I was sent to train with the big and troublesome dogs in “the pods”. Pod #5 was the worst. Them doggies out there had issues, they were strong unruly animals who might be dangerous, and it all came down to composure. Ya jest had to get all alpha at times. Show em who’s boss, stuff like that. I remember one incident in particular, involving one dog in particular, and his name is Mitch. He’s a pit bull mix, buff in both color and stature. Big fella and young, 60+ pounds on the hoof. Mitch just wants to play. Bites and scratches may occur, but he don’t mean nothin’ by it all. It’s all a game to him. Cleaning the cages in a kennel requires first removing the dogs, transferring them to ‘cleaning kennels’ so that you can then remove the residue from their being there. I was fixin’ to remove Mitch from his cage, one day, and I was being none the wiser about it all. My bad. Instead of opening the door and slipping intentionally into the cage, where I could put the slip lead around his neck without incident, I attempted to secure him at the door, “attempt” being the operative word. Mitch came out like a rocket. My reflexes were good but not that good. I got his collar with my right index finger, but the hold was tenuous and I lost the grip. Again I grabbed at Mitch and again I got the same finger, and another, under his collar. This time my determination took me right down to the floor, a slick cement floor that knew nothing of my need for soft landings. Ouch. Mitch was free and he was launching into a running spree but I was friggin pissed off by then and that dog was not going to get away. Floundering on the floor my instincts were suddenly sparked up and ready. I lunged at the dog and tackled him by wrapping my arms firmly around his torso and clasping my hands, hands to wrists. I took him down, and we achieved communion, lounging there in the dirt, locked in a comfy hug. My coworker came and secured the son of a bitch with her slip lead. Friggin dog! He got what was coming to him. My only forte when I was playing junior varsity football, 4.5 decades ago, was my ability to take other guys down. Some talents never totally fade. That dog pissed me off. I’m not so good at anger management. Case closed. But after that incident I worked up a little mantra to use, to calm my fears, when handling Mitch: “Mitch, Mitch, you son of a bitch. Mitch, Mitch, you son of a bitch”. The mantra, when repeated just like mantras are supposed to be, helped me to cope. Of course I attained Nirvana, but I always got the dog as well. Also after that I realized that I was cursing at the dog, verbal abuse that may be dangerous to my employment should some spy take this politically incorrect behavior to court. Trust me, there are spies in animal shelters; no moles, just spies. What them there spies think they are doing is beyond me, and hopefully beyond them.

I’ve left the dogs behind and I now work with cats. Taking a cat down is not a good idea. Cat bites not only hurt like the ninth level of hell, they also can kill. No, really! Ask your doctor. You’ll see. And cursing at cats has no more deleterious effect than it does with dogs. Animals go by intent, not lexicon. Cursing is a human thing, except when the curse lands you down yonder in hell. For that you need a demon. If you can’t find one you can invent one. It’s all good, k? Also, since that time with the dogs, legal actions have sent our staff doctor packing. That guy simply did not want to work under fire. Who can blame him. Personally, I miss the doctor. He is my friend. It shall always be so. But my sadness goes further than that. It also stems from the fact that having no doctor on staff makes the necessary goals, of sanitation and keeping the animals in good health, that much more difficult to achieve. Oh, don’t get me wrong, we make it happen. Youse spies can just friggin chill. You’ve had your fun, now wait alongside the lawyers, but remember: lawyers also sometimes bite.  Hear tell that one of the considerations driving the efforts of the spies, in their legal quest, is the welfare of the animals. Doing that by applying further stress to the animal’s lives just don’t seem smart to me. But maybe that’s just me. I’m still employed. They, however are not, “they” meaning the spies. BTW, I call them spies because I lack any other appropriate and politically correct word for it. It baffles me. Political correctness and appropriateness don’t usually hang together. That would be what we writers would likely call ‘nonsensical’. What’s the sense it that? Tell me. Go on, tell me.

“Oh life, it’s bigger
It’s bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I’ve said enough”  ~  REM

Yeah, maybe I have said too much, but I haven’t said enough. It’s like that sometimes. Live with it. In writing about the controversy I try so friggin hard to be fair. I’ve been told to investigate the facts. I work smack in the middle of the facts by cleaning cat litter boxes and feeding those strange and wily animals! You can take that to the bank. I do. But, hear me now, all ye who ply condescension upon we who don’t need the friggin headache, it all comes out in the wash. Dirt is dirt and shit is shit. Come clean some cages. You’ll see. And about the stooges to which I alluded in the title of today’s blog post here at EyeYotee? There are two common usages of the word “stooge”. One refers to the straight man in a comedy team, think Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, or Rush Limbaugh and Jon Stewart. The second definition is: “One who allows oneself to be used for another’s profit or advantage; a puppet.”. Trust me, I ain’t goin’ there, I’ll stick with the comedy. Son of a bitch, I want my doctor back! But on the lighter side, we sent five cats out the door, and to their new homes, yesterday. All five were healthy animals who only escaped incarceration because of the efforts of the staff. Believe you me, cats have staff, and I ain’t talking Staphylococcus aureus, nor am I even certain that cats can even get that. Now . . . it is with a deep sadness that I write today’s post. Yesterday we had what can be called, although I greatly hesitate to do so because someone might wring that into a cause, a day from hell. If the old doc had been there it would have been easier by degrees. Don’t get me wrong, we make it right, we make it work, we who cannot buckle under stress simply because it is all about the animals. It’s not about us. We don’t take it personal like unless we take it on the hoof, paw, whatever, at which point we stop to make some considerations that might otherwise be lost in the reactionary realm of existence. It doesn’t take long to step back, breathe, and put the hurt on reactionary stuff. I ain’t sayin’ nothing more than that, and not about no one else, so don’t even try it, there are better ways of doing things, if you only take the time to seek them, and then you don’t have to go chasing doctors, or shit shovelers, or peace peddlers, unless you need to go all antsy and stuff, all grimacing and stuff, in which case, more power to you, my friend, and, if I may offer advice, pay no heed to the copious mutterings of WTF, for they will not bode well on your path, for your path is more serious than that, your path is . . . . . . Dang! That’s the problem with trying to write legitimate David Foster Wallace-like run-on sentences, you can get lost if you’re not careful, at which point legitimacy high-tails it out the window. Bueno bye. I came here to write about the animals. The rest of what I offered in this post was all varnish and/or oxidation, all of which needs to be removed so that the animals can breathe easy once again. Friggin tally ho. Let’s go. We can do it. Ya with me or what?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k? Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.

 

 

Coyote Within the Pink Noise

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“All mass is interaction.” ~ Richard Feynman

Nature fulfilled my desires, or maybe just one of them, this morning, coyotes rising up in song, their presence having been announced by dogs, some nervous and some just a little angry, and me taking it in like the dreamer that I sometimes am. It’s like ya know most all the time dude, the dreamer thing runs deep in trust and free to roam in its proximity of someone, c’est moi. My task is to be there when the veil goes thin enough to let me in, if I step through I’m there. That’s me this morning. I’m in and ready to go. What lies in store for me is a mystery. This I love, and love is what drives me today.

Its almost as if someone slipped a bit of ayahuasca into my coffee. I’m ready to heal and I’m ready to grow. I trust any spirit that might arrive, trust it until my trust is betrayed, or I step beyond the trust into a field of dreams if said trust brings edification in its bag of tricks. I’m psyched, and love in the form of romantic possibilities feeds me in a timeless fashion. Ayahuasca is a natural brew containing DMT, which also is produced endogenously in all of us. I’ve been thinking of DMT, anxious for the release of Rick Strassman’s new bookDMT and the Soul of Prophecy. I know Rick and I feel honored to call him my friend. What does Rick’s book have to do with romantic love. Nothing that I know of, but DMT is a trippy chemical which can open the doors of perception and let in the Dreamtime for any one of us at any time. I feel my favorite goddess, Brighid, calling me, telling me to prepare for something both mysterious and realer than real (click on the link, highlighted in green, the previous phrase). Last week I felt the spontaneous whispers of love in an untenable situation, but the manifestation was real; a gift toward healing and growth. Somethings gotta friggin wake me up and shake me up so that this world becomes a place with clearer expressions of the Light.  I saw the Light at the end of the tunnel when I had my NDE. Brighid was there, for the NDE was within the cusp of her Holy day: Imbolc. She siphoned away my anxiety, and I lived within that absence of anxiety for a few months. It was a heavenly experience. I wish I could do it again, and maybe I can, no? Sure I can.

Unexpected morning rain is like Nature’s own pink noise outside my window. Sweet! A feeling of balance is carried within the sound of the rain. Maybe that balance will like ya know slip into my world today. I’ll let ya know, k?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Gift of Wondrous Proportions

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This morning’s night sky gave me a lift, with the stars lingering longer than they have in recent days. I don’t know if it is high clouds, or moisty  ground-hugging air, but by the time I make my second trip out of my room into the dark morning the stars are usually gone, overruled by gray. Yet now, with my third trip outside I find that those stars are still in sight. This pleases me. During the first trip I began to feel wonder at the beauty of it all, considering how much the modern discoveries of science have given a new chance at finding new meaning, newness meaning novelty, and novelty is , deep down, a luscious breeding ground for exaltation. It sometimes seems that news of the discoveries come daily in our digital age of media swiftness. I was an astronomy buff as a kid. That kid never left. I still have to feed him, for one to keep him happy and enriched with a feeling a security, but also to keep him from becoming a holy terror. Ignore him at my own peril? Not so much. I’ve learned. He needs me. This image of carrying my young self inside is drawn from a great book by the great Richard Bach. Richard describes what it was like in his own first encounter with his inner child. Adult Richard is an urbane writer of books that reveal the often unseen magic in our world. I love his stuff. But back to his backlogged boy – Richard went to open the closet where the boy was hiding, expecting to have a happy reunion of sorts, but the boy came out boldly, brandishing a flame thrower. Oops. I don’t know what weapon mine might choose, and I hope to never find out, but I feed him fresh perceptions every single day. He seems happy enough but he worries about me, stooped over in my posture, a demeanor adopted from the heaviness I have been carrying, much too long, born of a great loss I endured not even one year ago. A sweet friend of mine, a beautiful young woman, asked me yesterday about the odd way I hang my head so loosely, even when standing up, and it is a spirit of resignation that does it. But I didn’t reveal the cause to her. It is only lately that I have wrestled with alarm at the hanging head. I don’t like it. It will take some diligent efforts to make it right. Part of me believes that rightness will never come. That ponderous doubt must be worked into the equation if integration is ever to be achieved. Trust me, I am working on it. Meanwhile the stars still shine.

Wonder embraces me this morning. This physical body has little interest in the mind/body problem, but I will remedy that soon. I want to finally reach 60 with that little boy that is me riding piggyback on my shoulder, where can rise above the crowd and boggle at the view. I am admittedly swayed by the shamanic view that the world is a dream, with many other dreams possible. But the intense beauty of the material world comes first. I am lodged deep into this dream of a world. I want the boy to know that so that he can understand my frailties and he can give me some pointers on how it feels to be young. His input is a gift of wondrous proportions. I shall not waste it. Not in this lifetime, not in this dream. Other dreams must be allowed some elbow room or its curtains for me.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Thinking and Listening

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“When inspiration is silent reason tires quickly.”  ~ Roger Zelazny

The later sunrises please me. I’m just ready for fall; that’s what it is. I’m running late this morning, as far as this blog writing stuff is concerned. The coffee is brewing and I am hosting a dreamy mood. A mood like this, whether born of fantasy or reality, is  a good thing to have. You can go places with it. New things can begin here because dreams are the underlying currency of hope. This is the depressive in me speaking. A change of season spiked with thick remnants of dreams is rich with promise. That’s what I’m sayin’.

Today’s opening photo is not of a shelter cat. She’s mine. Rosie the cat. Eight and a half years old. She’s a mellow girl except at 3 AM. Then, not so much. But I like to get up early anyway. Problem solved. The usual bleary eyes this morning, the brain is not so far behind, and something about these hints of fatigue makes me smile. Being fatigued and not knowing it seems kind of foolish to me. I was recently called a fool by a rather snarly woman who posted a reply on this blog a ways back. My first thought was that she may have been dancing with martinis as she wrote. That seemed a tad unkind of me but kindness is not usually my first reaction to hateful stuff. Besides, who uses the word “fool” anyway. It’s not really in common usage anymore. This scares me quite a bit. With all of the self-empowerment trends in the past three decades I can see how the word may have been cast aside rather cavalierly. Yet maybe I should have gone to some of them seminars, no? I’m kind of your basic off the shelf unit. I have mostly, throughout my life, reckoned that we all have unlimited access to the universe. How could we not? This attitude has landed me, at age 60, working in an animal shelter for low wages. I mean, like, ya know, what if I were to find myself in the presence of a rich heiress who was attracted to me, and the question would come down to a matter of hiding my peasantry or just going with the flow? My choice would be the latter of course. It always seemed to me that the phrase “go with the flow” was pretty much redundant, because I just ain’t, and never was, sure that we have much say in the matter. We are just not that big. But I could be wrong about that. It is said, quite often anymore, that we create our own reality. K, maybe we do. I’d like that. Maybe I can do that soon? I don’t think that anyone would mind, except maybe for the woman who called me a fool, and maybe some of her cadre of folks who created a situation of their own, which led rather surreptitiously to my being called a fool. Damn it! Don’tcha jest love them kind of folks. Anyway, back to the heiress. It was a thought experiment for my own edification. There is no such woman. I made her up. I created her. If she were to walk through the door of the cattery at the animal shelter I would have to break out my best confused smile and say, “How did you get here? I thought you were all in my head.”. I like what the late great Terence McKenna, who I feel was one of the great minds of the 20th Century, said about thinking: half the time when you think you are thinking you are actually just listening. Paraphrased, of course.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

Magic and Dreams

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“There is a transcendental dimension beyond language… It’s just hard as hell to talk about!” ~ Terence McKenna

The night sky in Northern New Mexico, up here in the high desert mountain realm, is a testament to clarity. My early morning visit to the outside world, having just arisen from a well-needed bout of sleep, almost needed a nice, full orchestral Brahms chorus, to rejoice unto the vivid star fields above. There was the wheel of the Milky Way, our most generous benefactor, and there was a silence that washed away the mundane neighborhood sounds from my perception, leaving only wonder for a time. I hunkered down against the wall of the house, under the eaves, and watched the starry starry night do it’s thing, hopefully tossing a little edification dance my way. I feel magic in the air this morning. Don’t you? Before we get to the magic, however, I need to comment on the opening photo. That fella in the front is named Henri, and the huge fella behind him is Lautrec. Henri kind of looks like some manner of feline lawyer to me. The look on his face, a strong and confident shelter cat expression, seems to be saying, “Are you honestly dissing my caregivers? Really? Really? Look, whatcha got needs shredding. I’ll help ya. My pals here will be glad to help, see, because . . I’m not sayin’ we’re gangster cats. We just have concerns need addressing.”. Put Clint Eastwood’s voice along with Henri’s brief soliloquy and ya got a fine bit of humor. And Henri weighs in at 18 pounds. Eighteen pounds of shelter cat should stir up some primal “Holy shit” feelings in even the most unfeeling person. Primal runs deep and under our world of words and pretentiousness. Mystery is mystery but the formidable power of an 18 lb. tomcat oughtta give, at least, pause to reflect. If Nature has soldiers Henri is one of them. He’s really a sweetie of a kitty lawyer. Bow in his presence. I do. Honor is way cool.

Second cup of coffee? Check. On more trip outside to vibe in to the world’s current dream? Check. I take a shamanic view of the world. That’s where yer magic comes in. As a professed pagan is allow for many gods and goddesses, some traditional and some, well . . . not so much. I might as well put some shameless self-promotion into the mix here at this point. I had, 30 years ago, an NDE, a Near Death Experience. While on the Other Side I was counseled by a Light Being who seemed to be the Celtic goddess Brighid. I think it was her. She gave me the options of either returning to this life, or staying over yonder. And the one condition of returning was that I must write a book about the NDE visionary journey. I chose to return, and I eventually wrote the book, which you can purchase from Amazon, by clicking here. Also available in a Kindle edition, at a special low price. I ain’t in it for the money. I just want and need to share, k? This is where the Terence McKenna quote comes in. He was one of the integral providers in my learning to put the visionary journey into words. I spent 25 years learning to do so, because it is simply beyond words yet it is “realer than real”, as the lovely and intelligent Dr. Penny Sartori, of Wales, UK so eloquently put it. Penny has a PhD in NDE studies. She included a snippet from me, which explained the electromagnetic side effect phenomena I experienced, in her best selling book, The Wisdom of the Near Death Experience. We traded books, both autographed by the author. I treasure mine. It is intensely beautiful to read. Another integral provider in my quest to gain articulation, where none seemed possible, was Christian de Quincey, a philosopher who’s book, Radical Nature, blew me away. Christian taught me how to use rationality as a tool, Both he and McK know language well. I’m still learning.

So, about magic. Magic is all around us, not hyperbolic magic, I mean the real kind. But magic also gets encapsulated by the worn out dreams we all carry about as we drink coffee, drink Red Bull, and go about our business. I say the dreams are worn out because they were instilled in us as children. Old things get worn out. It happens. As Mark Twain, in his novella, The Mysterious Stranger (free Kindle edition), so eloquently put it, “Find other dreams, and better”. That’s me this morning. I am still in that dreamy space from a conversation with a beautiful woman, yesterday, as we leaned on a cage full of cats, and chatted about things. Yeah, I shoulda been working, I was on the clock. There was a lot of gazing going on as well, a lot of firm eye contact, complete with some of those sidelong glances that are so beautiful to behold in a woman when interrelationship is in full gear; I did some of those too, as I was kinda overwhelmed by the intensity afoot. Never downshift when that happens. Trust me, you’ll lose the friggin magic. You don’t wanna go there. Blue eyes, relaxed and secure demeanor. Blond hair highlighted with silver This became visceral for me. Magic. And boss? We talked some about cats, k? Don’t bust me on this. You want your workers to feel good at work. I felt really good. Lucky, in fact. Honor is way cool, remember?

Time for me to psych up for work. Them kitties deserve my best service and attention. Our work is therapeutic for me. And ya never know who you might run into.

Peace out, y’all. Goof glorious, k?