On This Peaceful Sunday Morning

IMG_1987 - 2014-10-18 at 15-40-25His name is Cumin, an American short-haired tabby, color – orange. He is one of the few cats I have had to capture with a net, a process I hate to do. But he has clearly forgiven me. That’s enough.

On this peaceful Sunday morning I am hard-pressed to squeeze some words out from my weary mind. The sunrise is underway. A thick and cold looking cloud ceiling crosses the mountains at about the 9000 foot mark. I can see how it creeps closer to the ground, to the north, simply because of the rise in the land.

It’s just that kind of morning it seems. A photo of a sweet kitty is enough.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

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Down At the Sunrise Grill

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Sunrise: 10/17/2014

“Wisdom comes with winters”  ~ Oscar Wilde

I was starting to think that today’s post was going to have to be about the quality and comfort that the first cup of coffee in the morning brings. This is part of the heaven I know. I cherish it. Now, you’re probably wondering how somebody could cherish coffee. It seems this cherishing business should be saved for higher things. Whatever. It works for me. It’s all good. A warm velvet blanket of October air lies in close to my morning moods. Boy howdy, yesterday’s flash of chasmic depression didn’t shove me over me so much as it it simply and exquisitely yanked me down. I shared slightly, as much as was possible, with a friend who has known depression as well. Then I pulled off a method actor’s deployment to launch a full on assault against the ginormous presence that was dark gray despair, despondency, whatever. My strategy paid off generously as the dark gray mass began to disperse. The only problem with dispersing depression is that the energy, high that it is, must go somewhere, high or low, in the momentum demanded by the law of conservation of energy. Thusly I got body slammed by an exacting law of physics. Ugh. I became flushed with the florid torrent of growing pains. Of all the damned things! Growing pains at 60? Ain’t it supposta be the wisdom of creakiness, wherein arthritis pals around with sporadic and random senior moments, and the two go out drinking, down at the White Horse Tavern in the west Village, where Dylan Thomas slammed whisky in his quest to conquer the dark night. I once had grilled cheese sandwich, with a side of fries, and a pint of Bass Ale, while resting at the outdoor seating area of the tavern . Here you had a barefoot island hippie boy exploring the grand spectacle of Manhattan. I had no idea that it was the tavern where Thomas drank. It was happenstance, plain and simple. The sandwich was grilled just right. Goodbye darkness.

Second cup of coffee at my side, after a simple cocktail of the meds that give me a semblance of balance throughout the day. I must face the day. There is the possibility of encountering that blue-eyed smile toward the end of the day. I’d like that. The last time I shared a silent smile with her I was lifted gently into the realm of the Dreamtime, where time fails, and age fails because of it. It is the minstrel in me that does it. M’lady, I bow to your beauty. Don’t forget to smile again. Please.

Peace out, y’all Goof gloriously.

 

 

 

If I Ever Lose My Faith

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“Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.”  ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Good morning. Wow. This is very cool indeed. Got yer internet right here, and I love what it is as well as what it can provide. Wish me a happy birthday; it is here that I stand, after six decades of taking it all in, and somewhat surprised at what I have  given back, and in love with the whole process, only to find that this life is a kickass adventure of proportions that come nicely packaged in dreams. Says me. Now excuse me while I step outside for a few minutes. There’s a sky full of stars out there. They call, I go, simple as that.

I have to go to work in two and a half hours. After I finish this post and publish it I shall have a bath in water emboldened with Epsom salts and cypress oil.

I work in the local animal shelter here in Taos, New Mexico, as a caregiver to cats. Let me tell you right now, spending the day tending to multiple dozens of cats is both a challenge and a joy. But there are also other fine people on the job. I must acknowledge the skill, patience, and love they give to the animals. The conversations around the break table, the faithful glances in passing, the worldly grit – it’s all good and all beautiful. Lucky I am.

I will spend my evening with Sky, the Rat terrier. President Teddy Roosevelt had only rat terriers They are that good. President Teddy Roosevelt also did much to help the workers of the world. They too are that good. President Roosevelt also met with his Rough Riders, in reunion, at the Castenada Hotel in Las Vegas, New Mexico, about 80 miles from here. The drive from here to Las Vegas is one of the most beautiful I have seen. I’m just thinking here. I live in a wonderful place. I am grateful. Sweet.

I could write at length about faith right now. I ain’t got the time, trust me. That lack of time won’t and can’t diminish faith, not for me anyway. It is true that I almost want to call in sick then spend the day on the front porch here and moan, all alone, to myself, for no specific reason. This is a big almost, and giving in to this silly desire is about as zany as watching reruns of “The Beverly Hillbillies” all day long. Or Bill Murray movies. You do the math. I want to be around cats. In saying that I will get on to my day.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

 

Whither the Haunted House

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“My voice speaking is a monkey’s mouth making little mouth noises that are carrying agreed-upon meaning, and it is meaning that matters. Without the meaning one has only little mouth noises ” Terence McKenna, The Archaic Revival

Alas and forsooth, I bear no ill will toward archaic language. Perish the thought. It’s just that I friggin ain’t in the mood, k? I’m like all dreams and jitters and ale-ridden and everything, and I am furious to realize, after all these years, that you cannot get a thought to perish. They ain’t got it in ’em to die. They just float away when you are through with them. You see, my friends, there is a cloud server that allows thoughts to be elsewhere until they get snagged in your mind. Don’t get me wrong, you do have original thoughts! Some rather delightful ones at that. Those that don’t go with you, into the gleaming halls of the aged human being, go into the cloud. Hear tell Steve Jobs is there waiting for you. Perhaps I shall endeavor to have a pint or a spliff with Steve some fine day and laugh at old times. I’ll get there some day. No hurry, I like it here, despite the friggin BS ya gotta bear iffin you want to bear witness to the full monty of being here and now. Don’t try this at home. Take your business out into the market place where it might do some good. We need all the help we can get.

These are but a few of the notions I have come by in this haunted house. It is the house where I spent seven years of my life, in relationship, and with a rat terrier as well. Hear tell I blew it. Hear tell I was the bad guy. Not really. There came a point where truth went by the wayside and things went on without it. Can we get it back, now that the damage has been done? I’ve been observing my feelings here. I hold that question in abeyance, where it hangs poised upon some shaky wind. Now there’s an image for ya, huh?! Boy howdy I am going to reach 60 years old tomorrow. I’m looking forward into a fog that is a pea soup sorta stuff and gray as all get out. I gotta love that murky haze, simply because it so deliciously extends from that which is my own mind. Take a look at the countless sessions of suicidal ideation since the hammer came down and I was cast elsewhere into a place that has never felt to be more than temporary. The nice thing is that once ya get hold of the lexical shining term ‘suicidal ideation’ you purely have shoved it snuggly into the abstract realms. I was discussing this with a Native American friend the other day. There’s a bunch of us humans that feel friggin bad almost every day, even when we feel good the bad is in hot pursuit, so ya jest gotta turn round and wrestle that beast to the ground. Think I’ll do just that today. I sorely miss this haunted house. What that means in the grand scheme and theme of things is anybody’s guess. I will listen to the coyotes one more time before the sun rises. They’ve been at it out there for hours. Tricksters, one and all. And once again I say boy howdy because I love the thrill of this life. The thrill is the source of my anxiety. It is the life force with no governor. Ya can’t hold it down? Nonsense. I’m house sitting, k? I don’t hafta kneel before the wind that changes thing, but perhaps I could fly up with them wily ravens.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

There Ain’t So Much Dark in the Dark

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“Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.”  ~ Mark Twain

Okay, now what? Coyotes and coffee. Autumn and shelter animals. Puffy eyes and purity of being. Don’t think that I have run out of things to write about. When I cease to breathe that shall occur. You can take that to the bank. If the bank is still there. It might happen that the bank shall simply, at some point, be called “mine”, at which time any amount of depositors shall issue a collective WTF. Don’t laugh. The world is about packed full of comedy at this point. Don’t laugh; we have no more room for jocularity. Move along.

That’s me in a nutshell. In our opening photo here at EyeYotee blog we have the lovely Anastasia sizzling in the latest fashion for cats: rest. Because she is jet black she is also hard to photograph when the predominant lighting is behind her. My bad. It was late in my shift at the animal shelter and I happened to make a minute to snap a photo. No, she didn’t sign a consent form. How could she?

The storm, day before last, clearly signified the shift from summer weather to winter weather. It’s 25F as I write, and I have the heater on in the room, because I just couldn’t bear to go without letting some fresh air into the room. I’ll have to get over that indulgence before too long, reckon? I’m a big fan of winter. After 23 years of life in extreme South Florida it’s nice to see and feel the change of seasons, and that requires that one also accepts that which lies between each and every change. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Bear with me here, I am at a passage in my life. Luckily I have no complaints with which to lubricate said passage. You keep your chin up and your self to yourself. That said, I am feeling sad, feeling in the dark, and feeling that there ain’t so much dark in the dark as is commonly assumed. I’ve noted before, as a depressive person with rather unruly anxiety to boot, that depression is not sadness, thus my sadness is not related to the depression I bear, other than the fact that the same friggin guy has to deal with them both. Go figure.

“We see in order to move; we move in order to see.” ~ William Gibson

I’m lacking in clarity these days. Not enough so that I can’t rally a semblance of functionality, yet enough so that I can whoop on myself for not being a better person. This too shall pass. I can justify sitting here and tapping out a somewhat obscure blog post yet I cannot justify change? Trust me on this – if you can think about changing you are changing. At least that’s the way it is for me. So far it’s working, it’s just not fast enough. I’d rather do it all in one day and have it over with. Case in point, I’ve noticed that writing without using conjunctions sounds clunky and crude, so I have to sometimes go back and remedy the results, yet I wonder what people did before conjunctions, or even if there ever was such a time. I guess that’s why they have editors.

Let’s wrap this up before I go too far and lead my friends to think that I am in crisis. I’m close to it but am highly unlikely to enter it completely. There is a lot of power in living on the edge, yet it can grow beyond functionality, at which point boredom sets in. I mean, I’d complain but nobody will listen. Now there’s an ironic aphorism if I ever heard one. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Seinfeld wasn’t the first to say that, BTW. But he said it well. I think I’ll have something to eat now, then go to work.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Balm for Wounded Hope

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“Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

You will find light frost all along the scalloped top edge of the wooden fence, chickens in the coup and a turkey on the roof, a thickness to the frigid air that seems to hug your morning haze of a mind, and all of this welcomes you to the road toward winter. I am good with it. A change of season is for me a delight because it is so ephemeral in its parts yet emphatically precise at the same time. An illusive arrival, give it time, it means no harm, and you may dwell in wonder as it completes its task. I kneel in honor of this climactic grace. Bring it on.

This morning has been long already, and lazy, as it should be on a day off from work. The feeling of nearby magic, that I have been experiencing the past few days, lingers today. If it should continue for a few mores days, or months, it would gratify me. My 60th birthday is only days away. Thoughts of this major arrival have faded into a spectral form. It seems to be a ghost of sorts, but its haunting ways will be met with a mild smile. Its kind of cute, this ghost. There is nothing too serious about the whole affair. It’s just another day, right? Another day within this dream of a life. The ghost is kind of puppy-like in its gregariousness, calling softly”come celebrate”. My answer is a simple no. I celebrate each and every day. None go unnoticed so I am already there. Thankfully.

The fine fellow in today’s opening photo is Cumin, an American  orange short-hair tabby. He’d been out in the playroom, right before I snapped this photo, where the cats get to romp and tumble, and since he is still technically still a kitten he tired himself out because of seemingly boundless exuberance. His playmates, all male, were Tango, Tomcat, and Titus; two more orange fellows and one black long-hair beauty. That would be Tango. His fur is is amazingly soft. I love that cat dearly, and I also gave him his name. We have a soul connection. Yes, I have been walking in the Dreamtime lately. This spiritual realm whips up a balm and lays it thick upon my reluctant sense of hope. What shall heal is now ready to do so. I walk on and smile. All is well.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously,k?

Mysterious Questions On a Sunday Morn

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“And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.”  ~ David Foster Wallace

I am questioning Sunday. How does that work, and what’s the point of the exercise? I basically grew up in the resort industry, came of age, whatever, and one of the underlying tenants of the resort industry is that you work when everyone else is playing, which means that, for me, weekends were just another day, and Sunday, in all of its implications and traditions, had nothing to do with church, or the Sunday Boston Globe, New York Times, whatever. Case in point, the animal shelter is closed to the public on Sundays. I don’t know why this issue is niggling at me this fine morning. Surely it in part comes from the big boy howdy of a philosophical juggernaut that is looming over me like some ginormous laughing Buddha, and that laugher is in place to keep the issue of turning 60 years old up front and center. And when I say boy howdy I mean boy howdy! But why Buddha, why not Mala Laith? Did I run ya up against the wall on that one? Let’s have a look, k?

Mala Laith, the Gray One

“Mala Laith’s themes are justice, community, peace, wisdom, knowledge, forgiveness, maturity and unity. Her symbols are the color gray, pigs, deer, the horse and birds.  Known often simply by the designation ‘Gray One’, Mala Laith is the ancient Celtic crone Goddess. Mala Laith is said to have made the mountains and formed many stone circles, alluding to Her age and power. She travels in the company of birds, pigs, deer or a gray horse, carrying wisdom, knowledge, understanding, sensibility and preparation to us as gifts that come with maturity.”

It’s my Celtic lineage showing. I love the Celtic pantheon of goddesses and gods. Brighid’s my favorite, of course. She saved my life, way back when, and that saving grace is timeless, so it is happening every moment of my life. Did I tell you that she giggles? Yup.

Today’s opening photo is of my favorite shelter cat, Tango. I named the rascal when he first came to us as a tiny black fuzzball. He has grown into a simply gorgeous teenager, and his fur is preternaturally soft. This kid’s an angel! I love him like family.

I’d better hit the shower and skedaddle to work. Work is cool because it gets me out of this maze of boundaries, borders, and enclosures that can still breath, and I call these airy cages my mind.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

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Imagine

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“I believe in everything until it’s disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind. Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?” ~ John Lennon

From the kitchen window of the apartment on Plum Street in Worcester, Massachusetts I could see the freight containers being loaded onto the flat cars of the trains at 3 AM. The apartment was on the third floor of a triple-decker; an old house that had been converted into six apartments. Sodium vapor lamps for security lit the scene for the loading in a haze of orange that gave it all a dreamlike appearance. The train tracks lay just beyond the apartment building next door, which was owned by the Moonies. In the wee hours of the morning the sight of the giant hydraulic contraptions, lifting containers off of trucks and onto flat cars, struck me as being symbolic of something that hovered right around the fringes of my naïve cultural sensibilities. Why I was so often awake at 3 AM, to watch the trains, was directly connected to these sensibilities, although I couldn’t explain it then, and now I can only guess. Also worth noting is that the scene looked exponentially more compelling when the hard, deep winter lay upon the city. That part was easy to understand.

I had uprooted myself from the islands, quite abruptly, and had resettled in New England. The place was alien to me and I loved it for that. Right away I saw that there were forces at work that arose from a structured way of being which was totally new to me. It was these forces that seemed to corral me into the realm of the blue collar workers. I took the first job that came along, working in the shipping department of a warehouse for The Casual Male, men’s clothing.

Because I had retained the quality of unspoken empathy, which was still a functional element of the status quo in the islands at the time (1987), I got drawn in to the blue collar mindset before I knew what was happening. I might as well have been on another planet. But the culture shock was not only bearable, it was stimulating as well. It was a comfort to be in a situation where I hadn’t the slightest idea of what was going on. The flip side of that comfort was restlessness, which often had me up in the wee hours of the morning. Up watching trains.

One other point of interest about waking at 3 AM is that in the worldview of some witches it is considered to be the time of day at which the veil between the worlds is the thinnest. The two worlds in question here are the world of waking life and the world of the Dreamtime, where the spirits and the ancestors dwell. I mention this because, in a way, my waking at that time showed an interest in bringing dreams and the waking world together in some kind of bonded interaction. I still, to this day, sometimes wake at 3 AM.

From the Italian neighborhood, where the apartment was, it was only a fifteen minute walk to town center. Most of what I needed was available in the neighborhood so I seldom walked into the heart of the city. There were three authentic Italian grocers within a minute from my front door. And even though I was a newcomer, an outsider, the closeness of that little community prevailed and the people took me in to create a safe, homey feel.

The closest movie theater was on the far side of town center, so when “Imagine: John Lennon” came out in October of 1988 I found a good reason to walk into the city. The opening was on a Friday night, after a week of hard work and the angst that went with it. That angst could always go easily into an attitude or some sort of posture, and I was definitely in the mood for that, so I dressed all in denims – shirt, jeans, and jacket – and laced up my well-used work boots for the debut. The attitude engulfed me and took over as I started into town, a “working class hero” affirming his existence by going to a movie about a man who had made a deep impression on a transplanted barefoot island hippie boy, a sort of backhanded theophanic trance. It was not John’s music that had made the deep impression. The music was simply ingrained during the course of most of a lifetime. It was John’s death that had struck deep into my heart, yet not the death so much as the magic that swirled around me at the time. John had become a true hero of mythic proportions because magical things had happened, tickling structures of meaning and emotion in me that tingle to this very day. So my mission that night, as I walked through the shadowy streets, was as sacred as it gets.

The walk took me to a circle drive, a roundabout, that curved to the right to pass around the downtown shopping mall. This path took me past the Centrum, an arena that sometimes sported hockey and sometimes concerts. Something big was going on that night at the Centrum, but I walked on by, paying little attention to the goings-on, more taken in by my passionate mission for the night. On past the little plaza area at town center I crossed the street to the theater, stopped to purchase my ticket at the kiosk, and entered, just about as proud and puffed up as a guy could be.

I found the movie to be deeply moving; a glaringly honest documentary portrayal of Lennon‘s career. The crowd was scant, especially for a Friday night. It was hard to see, but the crowd appeared to be mostly younger people. As the film went on I noticed, almost feeling embarrassed, that I was the only one singing along with the songs and tapping my feet to the music. At first this riled me some, but eventually the feeling became enfolded into my mission and the passion returned, in a vision where I was some kind of flame-bearer, there to keep a dream alive, and hopefully to carry it high into the future. It was a good vision, a noble vision.

What I did not know was that a major challenge to that vision would appear shortly, and I would come to see my vision shattered for a moment in time. Only when I came to reincorporate disparate elements of that vision would I rekindle its lovely flame. I’d already invested too much to let it pass easily from my heart. I would have to see it through, regardless of the embarrassing level of seriousness it aroused in me. For I came to feel damned near pretentious in my mission, and I cringed many more times than I could count, to even think of myself as such a serious fellow.

Leaving the theater I stepped into the cold night air with a bit of apprehension. After such an inspiring film the reality of the city streets at night held a harsh edge, an invitation to trepidation, which I took on easily. But it wasn’t long before those edgy feelings were whisked away by the sight of lights and activity in front of the Centrum. Whatever had been going on in that arena was over. People were moving thickly through the lights.

A row of various limousines of many colors was stretched along the curb. All of the people in sight were dressed in finery; tuxedos, evening gowns, fur coats, dapper hats, and any number of other outfits to mark this event as something above the pale of the street life in the city on a Friday night. Frankly, I was astonished by the sight, enchanted by the glamour I saw oozing from every feature of that tableau. And here I was in my faded denim outfit.

The contrast didn’t leave me feeling out of context, for I suddenly remembered what it is I was seeing. The show at the Centrum was a gala performance featuring Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and Liza Minnelli. I’d been watching Lennon, but here was the epitome of American money and power. I must have appeared to be gawking, maybe a little slack-jawed as well. Here was an event that perfectly highlighted my plucky blue collar attitude by sheer contrast. No more fitting tribute to my imagined importance could have been presented. This was nearly surreal for me to be seeing this display of wealth and ostentation, almost as if the movie had left the screen and followed me out onto the streets of Worcester. As I stood looking across the street I felt more inspired than ever.

So with a feeling of exaltation I strutted on home upon the rhythm of work boots against the concrete sidewalks. I’d left the radio on in the apartment and as I entered I heard them singing. The Beatles. “Let it Be”. No problem. It was late Friday night and I was exhausted. I’d have the whole weekend to digest the rich sustenance of feelings: befuddlement at the incongruities, enthrallment, joyful rebelliousness, self-importance, altruistic adamancy, and other feelings, more elusive.

 

October’s Romantic Dreams

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“All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.” ~ Thomas Wolfe

Coffee’s on, my friends. The cold rain has stopped, and the cat is asleep on top of the carry bag that I use for my iPad. Her sleep is a boon for me in that she blames me for the rain, each and every time. You see, she doesn’t care for walking in the rain. I hear about it. It’s my fault it is raining. My bad. But the big news is that snow on the high mountains is coming in tonight. We’ll have some fine snowcaps to grace the high summits and ridges of the Sangre de Cristos. Beauty lifts me like nothing else can. As a bipolar depressive person I look for any lift I can find. The down cycle of the disorder sometimes clamps down hard enough that no amount of lifting can break its spell. But that doesn’t stop me in my quest for beauty. The difference is that when the heavy hand of the deep downs is upon me it is more of a pining for beauty that reminds me that the depression will lift by and by. But I’m doing pretty good right now. I ain’t been pining too much.

I had another one of these sweet encounters with a beautiful woman, while I was at work in the cattery. We were both adoring a new cat and we knelt down simultaneously, just around the corner from each other, I could see her through two sheets of cage bars. The cat, named Heart, had just had some cat treats and I commented that it seemed she wanted more. The woman looked over at me, through the bars, and said, “I think she does”. She was gazing, I knew it because I felt that sweet connection kick in. Eyes blue, no smile, just observation. Hey, I’ll take what I can. It was sweet. That’s enough for me.

So, now the light of the sun is peeking around Earth’s corner and casting a dream of pale silver, which suffuses a morning like this in a way that defies description. That don’t stop me none. I am here to write so attempting hard stuff is no better or worse than taking the easy way out. That reminds me of one of the perfect things about romantic dreaming, the kind that maybe precedes romantic encounter and maybe not. Romantic dreaming, and encounters, always defy description. Always. That makes for a heap of fun for a wordsmith like myself. I can crank out as many or as few words as I like and it’s like all good and stuff. I used to do it through songwriting. Now I don’t. Now – no, actually – I tend to not want to do it at all, I prefer, oddly enough, to keep it to myself, which is way silly, so I at least let it out through this blog. Do I expect results? No. There are always results. Results are one of the integral strands that make up the web of life as it rides down the river of time. Try to be in the moment and you will miss the strands, maybe altogether. I see the strands as strings, and strings mean guitars to me. Boy howdy I do love me a good guitar. But back to that infinite moment, I know I am out of style with this attitude and perceptual preference but I like to see where the music is coming from. One of the coolest things about guitars is the production of harmonics, where octaves are transcended for octaves. Oh, never mind. I’m having trouble describing this as well. Maybe I should just oughtta get my sorry sass into the moment like them wise folk. Couldn’t hurt me none, reckon?

As for the romance, I don’t need a princess or a goddess, nor even a movie star. A nice pair of walking shoes and a slightly off kilter sense of humor would be just the thing. One thing I ain’t is greedy. Another thing I ain’t is impatient. And then there is insistence and what ever the heck it breeds. I ain’t that neither. There’s a lot of things I ain’t. Kinda reminds me of the Michelangelo thing about removing every bit of marble that gets in the way of the pure form within. And I’m like dude yer all gnarly and stuff! I’d best get on to work before I get in any deeper here.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

 

 

 

Putting the Steel-Toed Boots to the Test

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“Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business.”  ~ Tom Robbins

There’s been some light rain overnight. Clouds are dispersing the brilliant moonlight from a recently full moon. The feel of the morning is peaceful. The feeling in my heart is peaceful. So many things lately could have, individually or collectively, driven me over the edge. Or not. I just don’t like to go over that metaphorical edge. It defeats the purpose of life. Oh? Life has a purpose? Who knew. I find my purposeful life in magic. The poetic kind. This is why I use a doctored photo of Coyote as the intro photo of today’s post. Coyote is the Trickster. I love Coyote for doing that, being that. The Trickster is kinda sorta what helps me to hone in on my urge to write. I was born with writing in my blood, so I had better do it or I am throwing away a part of my true self. Deny your birthright and you risk becoming a nitwit. Or worse, a sad case. It is all peril at that point. This doesn’t mean that I don’t feel the depression that haunts me even when it is not active. I feel it, for sure. It does not threaten me with peril. It threatens me with thoughts of peril, but I am used to that by now.

Obscure stuff, that. Let’s start a new paragraph, k? I got a pdf last night, an attachment to an email from my brother. It is a book proposal written by his late wife, Debra. I read the first few pages and it made me want to jump right in to my gifted love of writing. Writing is magic, reading allows magic, and the whole idea of using words to alter the palpability of the mundane world is the very essence of what magic can bring. Where does writing end and reading begin? I love that question! The answer should be left as an inviting sort of mystery. Writing ends when the reader begins to read what came of the writing. Ideas and concepts, and maybe even dreams and hope, are passed along from one person to another, via intentional words. Intention is a strange thing, when I think about it.

Gosh, it seems I have gone all obscure and stuff again. Maybe I am just riled at the comment someone tried to post on one of my blog posts. This comment told me about a way to use Google to generate text for posting so I would not have to waste my time actually writing the posts myself, and I was like huh. I repeat: huh? The concept of allowing a machine, or a digital systemic daemon, to serve as proxy for my very humanity? Forgive my vulgarity here but – why the fuck would I want to do that?!

Now, I am going to love this day. Autumn, early morning rain, and a reassurance that my soul is still intact, these are good ingredients for a love potion. I will drink it for my love of humanity. If romantic love happens along the way, it is all good. I want to step lightly today. Even if my steel toed work boots hamper the lightness they cannot defeat it. I realized just yesterday that I haven’t had a spring in my step for quite some time. Today’s the day. Let’s see how it goes.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?