Songs of Freedom


“The fire. The odor of burning juniper is the sweetest fragrance on the face of the earth, in my honest judgment; I doubt if all the smoking censers of Dante’s paradise could equal it. One breath of juniper smoke, like the perfume of sagebrush after rain, evokes in magical catalysis, like certain music, the space and light and clarity and piercing strangeness of the American West. Long may it burn.”  ~  Edward Abbey 

The sky is slate gray, dark, with the faint hue of fresh blueberries. Fresh, pre-dawn air. Roundabout 37º. Earlier the songs of coyotes, long silent, returned to the neighborhood. I’ve missed them. It was nothing bold, or brash, or loud. It was a simple, faint musical sound; indefinite and demure. Some of the local dogs were having none of it, but they did not have their way. These were songs of freedom. I’ve got the cat on my lap right now. She tried to hold my left arm down, so that the motions of typing did not disturb her rest, but typing is what I am doing and she can bloody well get back up on the bed if she doesn’t like it. She stays, and she is purring. All is right with the world. My mind is humming, chock full of thoughts about human relations, and the way that we have no other choice than to deal with it as it is dealt. People are strange. In my current circles these unavoidable relations are running in a harmonious way. Lucky me, right? As an introvert I get ruffled, inwardly, when harmony falters. I am the middle child of three brothers. The middle child is all too often the peacekeeper. I say the world would be a better place if the older and younger try that on occasion. Just sayin’. It must have been something from my dreams last night, something that walked right in to my waking consciousness. Bear in mind that waking consciousness is not my favorite, but it is the form of consciousness that is most effective when you are awake. The world needs more dreamers and less analysts. Can dreams be expressed through analysis? I wouldn’t recommend you try it at home. Dreams need to be open-ended and expansive. Otherwise alls ya get is fantasy. For good fantasy go watch “Game of Thrones” or a Donald Trump speech. I quit watching “Game of Thrones”right after the “Red Wedding” scene. Too violent and bloody. Trump I am keeping an eye on. Speaking of bloody , I also woke up remembering the cat named Tessie, who remained in the cattery at the animal shelter for over one year, until I took the initiative and sparked an incentive that got Tessie and her ten long-timer companions adopted. But that is not the thing about Tessie that is with me this morning. I am remembering the bite she gave me, which far exceeded, pain-wise, any other physical insult my corporeal self has ever experienced. That friggin cat chomped me a good one! Ouch. That bite happened coming up on two years ago now. The whole scene in which it happened was chaotic and impassioned, but it was also a clear example of Nature playing out the interrelations of a group of mammals, caught up in a situation where the one seeking freedom failed to achieve that goal. Tessie had escaped from her cage. I don’t know who got her back in there, but it wasn’t me. I was too busy bleeding and cursing. Those were also the days when the internal revolution that ended with two good people going down was just beginning to rise. They too got bit, but the situational parameters of that particular situation had nothing to do with freedom. It was something altogether different. And that bite was metaphorical in nature. The deep bone ache of sadness for those two good peeps remains with me to this day. And my fingernail, of the right index finger where Tessie impressed her statement, remains fucked up to this day. It serves me as a badge of sorts, as a reminder to avoid getting bit by mammals. I love that cat and I always will. Sounds kinda Buddhist, right? I see it more as Taoist. Can you see the difference? I can.

On that obscure and mysterious note I will commence to wrap up this blog post, which BTW I have enjoyed crafting. I don’t always craft these posts. Sometimes they just squirt out like toothpaste. But not today. Today I can finally feel the clearness that has been so painfully absent from my mental faculties for about two weeks now. It probably makes no difference but I have that one comment in mind, the only comment left on this blog in a very very very long time: that unidentified person, commenter, whatever, suggested that my bipolar disorder type two had changed to type one; a statement that seemed to be questioning whether or not the mental illness is real at all. What actually was happening was that a hypomanic episode was riding in confluence with a long low depressive cycle. If it had been manic instead of hypomanic I would have felt euphoric about it, whereas I disliked it very much. Some peeps get their buttons pushed and they spout off without doing their homework. Bless you, my friend. I know you didn’t know what you were saying, but I also know that you were free to say it.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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