“The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart.” ~ James Joyce
“But we are living in a skeptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age; and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humor which belonged to an older day.” ~ James Joyce
Irony. I really don’t need that right now, but I am in a Taoist inclination this morning, so I am pretty much stuck with it; running late with the writing of a blog post; almost forgetting that a fresh pot of coffee is sitting on the warming plate; I’m a mess, and everything is erie mon. No worries bro. Everything is everything. Yet I keep tensing up. Don’t know why. I started doing that so long ago that the beginning has faded far into the past, so far back as if to signify that this whole life has been as such. Food for thought, right? That kind of mental food is high fructose candy for the soul. It is most certainly, all things considered, possible to heal those past versions of my self. I’m on that today. All the way. All day. And tensing up will just have to do. Odd – when I was with the physical therapist the other day the tension shapeshifted for an hour, thanks to the lovely therapist and her flirty double entendres. I always forget about shapeshifting. I learned it’s value from an old book by John Perkins: Shapeshifting. Maybe I’ll do that today. Fly with a raven, shuffle with an old man, be a smile that momentarily makes an old woman feel young again. I could have been the meadowlark’s song just before sunrise this morning but I totally spaced it out. Dude, what do you want from me dude? My life is a prayer dude, and I walk all funny and stuff just to keep it that way. Dude. I friggin do not like Sundays. Too many implied tears. Twas a mere two decades ago that I last attended church, at St. James, a Catholic joint on Plantation Key, nearby the veterinary clinic that had a statue of St. Francis out front in the garden. I remember sitting in a rear pew, watching a little sort of procession, and wondering if all of these parishioners could see what I saw, those lights in the air, and could they hear the smiling whispers that advised the altar to get some rest. I did like the part where everybody shook hands with, or hugged, everyone around them and nearby. They would say “peace be with you” and I would almost say “Blessed Be” but I knew better. In the recent RCIA class Father John had notified us that tarot cards are the work of the Devil. I don’t have a Devil in my world, but some people do get pretty dark and clever at times. I never went back to the RCIA class, but I did continue to do Sunday Mass for a while. It served as a good buffer, in the computer science respect, for me to lean on while I got used to my serotonin levels being tweaked by Prozac. All right peeps, I know all about the greed and deception of the Pharma dark lords, and I know all about the mind control thingy, and I also know a thing or two about how the psychiatric profession ain’t good for no one; no way, no how; BUT, my friends, the Prozac worked for me! It worked. That’s all I’m saying. And BTW, why was I in church and RCIA? I was chasing a woman; an articulate and very hot woman from a better neighborhood in Atlanta. Awe, dude. What was I thinking? What was I thinking? And speaking of messed up minds, I saw a former psychotherapist of mine, in the hardware store, just as I was leaving from work yesterday. She apologized to me for the abrupt cessation of our sessions together. She’d been an intern at the time, and I felt a great vibe with her. Turns out they up and fired her, and forbid her from contacting her regular patients to let them know she was gone. I was traumatized by her vanishing act, and by the fact that the clinic, our local mental health clinic, kinda fumbled, bumbled, whatever, around for a few weeks, failing at hooking me up with a new therapist, even though they said they would, and nearly exasperated I finally complained to my psychiatrist, who was top of the chain of command round there, and she picked up the phone right away, kinda yanked it off the hook, and got the ball rolling in the right direction. There was a lot of mismanagement at the clinic back then, and it was odd because the dynamics of the growing crisis there, the crisis that sent the intern packing, were eerily congruent with the crisis that was growing at the animal shelter where I worked at the time. Both crises reached their denouement at nearly the same time. And the two orgs were in the same neighborhood, not even a quarter mile apart. Weird. So, not long after I lost my job my psychiatrist said bueno bye after fulfilling her given notice. I say all of this because I still at times have to bat down the trauma I incurred from the shelter crisis. I fought a good fight. I loved on the cats as long as they let me. And I knew in my heart that there are seemingly misguided boneheads everywhere these days. My anger rode shotgun with my sadness. The anger has since dismounted the coach. Ain’t no shootin’ or falutin needed no more. There’s a kinda sorta harmonic of serenity by this time. A resonance that moderates, at some level, my righteousness. Whatever, right? Gotta go now. Today’s Sunday, laundry day. Bueno bye.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.