Goodness and Rightness

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“Everyone has gods. You just don’t think they’re gods.”  ~  Sir Terry Pratchett

“Forgive but do not forget, or you will be hurt again. Forgiving changes the perspectives. Forgetting loses the lesson.”  ~  Paulo Coelho

As I did my usual morning reading and perusing I found several topics to write about, and several more that were simply amusing to think about. None came to fruition, although I really enjoyed some of the insights I gained through consideration. That’s always fun; the world needs more consideration. Consideration and courtesy are a powerful combination. I hope you have seen that in action. I have. I really like it. These are lingering thoughts that are slipping out through my fingers this morning. Without going through well masticated details I’ll just put out there that Trump has indeed gone too far this time, with his game about having to question the need to concede in the likely chance that he loses the election. Yeh, yeh, yeh, WTF and all that. The game will get uglier from here, and if it comes to a few misguided monsters spilling blood in his name I will not do the I told y’all so  thing. He came into the race promising a shake up, now it looks clearly like the shake down that it is. Let’s hope I am wrong, but I feel there will be blood. Let’s hope I am wrong. And, ummmm, on that note, moving forward, there is some kind of  .  .  .  never mind. Now, the fine fellow in our opening photo is Took, the youngster I was sitting with yesterday. It was a good day and he was a good part of it. Good, right? Sigh, I have such a taste for goodness and rightness. It’s a work day. I’ll go out there and do what I can to make it so. That big Orange Demon just pissed me off, that’s all. I just had a sweet deja vu while writing the previous sentence. Ha! Magic is yet again afoot in the land. Onward.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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Missing Only a Philosopher

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“Guarding your heart and protecting your dignity are a little bit more important than clarifying the emotions of someone who’s only texting you back three words. I’ve learned that from trying to figure out people who don’t deserve to be figured out.”  ~  Taylor Swift

“He was stupid, yes, in the particular way that very clever people can be stupid.”  ~  Sir Terry Pratchett

Space heater pumping out noisy heat, coffee thoroughly gone, and I have a headache. The air temperature is hovering just above freezing. That’s not dramatic enough for me so I wave it all off as just another day. I’m tired of this Indian Summer stuff. For me the world will be right when there is some lasting snow on the high peaks of our truly majestic mountains. The opening photograph shows some perspective as to how stunning the beauty of Taos Valley can be. Late afternoon light slips in under a cloud cover of shadowy intensity. For my out of state readers I will again mention that the mountain you see here is right around one mile from valley floor to summit. Most of the bright area of land is Pueblo land. The patches of light up on the slopes are huge, but they betray the scope of the mountain range quite nicely by looking not so huge. Seems I may be lost in a sense of place this morning. Besides the majestic landscape here I am also delighted by the truly tri-cultural realm. I love that I can hear, in the course of my day at work, three different languages: Spanish, English, and Tewa. Of course, after a full day of work, as an introvert I am well pleased to come home and shake it all off; and I am highly sensitive as well, so there is a certain amount of spiritual detox to be done. Lately I find myself feeling nostalgic for the days when I didn’t care if I knew what I was doing or not. Although I am not yet old I am at a point in life where I must begin to seriously lay out some support system foundation for the journey from here on out. And I have a couple of physical concerns that need clarification. That’s why I am going to “the doctor” today, to find out what’s going on inside. I love my provider. As with the other healers I deal with my Principle Care Provider is a woman. I strongly prefer it that way. It’s the nurturing dynamic I feel must be in play; play being the operative word. Not feeling playful today. I do feel depressed but I have it fully managed right now. Depression, of the clinical type, can be brutal if not managed. If I can get a rein on it, and hitch up a cart, I can cruise through most any headspace that comes along. The cart is a safety feature. Getting on the back of that beast called depression is a little too adventurous for my tastes. I prefer my steed to be of a happier nature. Just sayin. Moving forward, I have a casual pet sitting job today: young cat, young dog. The dog is a female wild child; the cat, a male sweetie, who though outsized holds his own against the dog. I’ll have use of satellite TV so I can watch MSNBC; I like that network. And there is a picture window, looking out over the sage fields, out toward the mountains. Good gig. So that’s where I am headed now. Shower, feed and medicate the cat, feed and water the chickens and the glorious turkey, then on over to sit with the pets, then on to my PCP, then on to my psychotherapist, then back to the pets for the afternoon. I wish there was a philosopher on today’s schedule, but, alas, there is not. Should be a good day anyway.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Socks of the Soul

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“I’m too old to know everything”  ~  Oscar Wilde

“You see, until then I’d been driven. I’d had a true quest, a purpose beyond my function – and then suddenly, the quest was over. I felt… drained. Disappointed. Let down. Does that make sense? I had been sure that as soon as I had everything back I’d feel good. But inside I felt worse than when I started.”   ~  Neil Gaiman, The Sandman

Yesterday morning there came a point in my preparations for work that was very odd. I pawed through the bag of clean laundry to get some socks. Surely self-defeating in some arcane way, I couldn’t find two socks that matched. I tried a rational approach but that did not work. At one point I became literally misty-eyed with frustration, because I knew that spiritual surrender is a bit too large a force to be applied to finding socks for work. This morning I know better; I see what was happening. It was the barefoot thing. I’m a barefoot boy. I even walk barefoot in fresh snow at times. My feet hate shoes. Period. And that snarky little voice that gets cocky when I have not been creative for a time said to me: So you are wearing shoes today, Mr. Ebert? You’ll need socks as well, and there are certain requirements involved, you surely must know by now. The socks must match, good sir. One cannot rise up further along your leg than the other. Someone might find out, and then what? This is only in your best interest, Mr. Ebert, we all want the best for youEven though I know that the voice is my own creation, designed to amuse me, to raise a smile in a tense situation, I’m like all angry and stuff. I’m like all who the heck is this ‘we’ peeps speak of when they are encouraging you to rest assured that things are really okay? Some days it seems that we all know except for me. This morning, mildly dreading the task of locating appropriate socks, I am reaching to my soul, not just because of the socks, it is mostly because I have been prone to fits of anger born of frustration lately. Day three of 62-ness is upon me and I feel as if my life lacks direction; no goals other than waiting for more money to come in. That’s locked in. Nine weeks from now, k? I comfort myself, knowing full well that the lessons of the soul don’t give a fig about comfort, in fact comfort might be a fooler that gets in the way of spiritual growth. All of this because of socks. Now I am definitely amusing myself. The point is that I rarely allow my feet the respect they deserve by allowing them to touch the earth. Creature comforts sometimes betray the needs of innate creaturehood. And just what am I to do with these opposable thumbs we all take for granted? I mean, I use them all day long in my job, and I never once stop and take the time to wonder at their help in getting through the day. If I did that my coworkers might take note of my odd behavior as I stood there and held my thumbs out for inspection, flexing them here and there as their function and motion become my focus for a few brief moments. And next thing you know they’d be checking my socks! Today I am tempted to wear mismatched socks, and if anyone should discover my ploy, and confront me about the sock thing, I can just point my thumbs at the ceiling in a gesture of optimism, hoping all the time that they get + it. Yes, all of this nonsense here this morning, all of this silly writing, blogging, whatever, just to distract me from the soul ache that has me down lately. This mood feels more existential than clinical, for whatever good that knowledge does. I’m not a Christian but I must make note here that Jesus used to wash peoples’ feet. I doubt he ever offered them a pair of socks. Sigh. Moving forward, I just heard a ripple of coyote yips just up the hill, yonder on the mesa, and they remind me that the Trickster is afoot in the land. In the Lore and stuff Coyote is a magical being, a Light bearer who also feels free to sling a fair amount of shadow into the mix. So, and yet, I note as well that there is also magick afoot in the land. And love, and socks. If you see me today ask me about my socks. I’m feeling down and I could use a good smile. Thanks, yer a pal.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Sirius Black and a Sage Forest

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“Our lives are not as limited as we think they are; the world is a wonderfully weird place; consensual reality is significantly flawed; no institution can be trusted, but love does work; all things are possible; and we all could be happy and fulfilled if we only had the guts to be truly free and the wisdom to shrink our egos and quit taking ourselves so damn seriously.”  ~  Tom Robbins

“When two people meet and fall in love, there’s a sudden rush of magic. Magic is just naturally present then. We tend to feed on that gratuitous magic without striving to make any more. One day we wake up and find that the magic is gone. We hustle to get it back, but by then it’s usually too late, we’ve used it up. What we have to do is work like hell at making additional magic right from the start. It’s hard work, but if we can remember to do it, we greatly improve our chances of making love stay.”   ~  Tom Robbins

Hey, I’m opting for the weird and magickal today. For the media savvy that opening word “hey” is to be read as Trevor Noah might speak it. I love that guy. The storyteller in him shines. Why anyone would have sought to compare him to Jon Stewart is so far beyond me that it might as well be beyond my talent to come up with a clever quip to describe it. That’s what is happening here. Please don’t take it as a failing on my part; some things just nest in their own time and their own way. Now, what I have really come to comment upon today is indeed the magick in, of, whatever, life. Don’t expect some long quasi-formal essay, k? Just don’t. I’ve just entered the tween time parenthesized by my 62nd birthday and the Celtic year’s end, spiritually speaking, which is the neopagan Sabbat of Autumn, Samhain (pronounced sow-en), as well. The day signals the Death of the God. The God is reborn come Yule, Winter Solstice, whatever; which is when my first SS benefit payment digitally, silently slips into my checking account. Winter Solstice is also know as Birth of Light. Think Christian then think pagan. Birth of Light? You do the math, and ask yourself who had it first? But all I will ask myself is how long will it take me to slow the fuck down, to breath again (I do far too little of that), to let my natural humor unfurl, and to realize that my life at this time is not to be questioned, and I’m like all dude is this like not the best thing since legal weed dude? It’s legal yonder ‘cross the border to the north dude. Jest sayin, don’t be such a friggin stodge, k?

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CDB rich, low THC, is all I was talking about there. PTSD. Moving forward. I’m thinking about magick, about whispers from the Other Side, about prods from my protective spirits (a lot there, don’t even think about it), about those recent blue eyes (wow, the lights), about music that comes from an ethereal source (think Wolfie Mozart), about Faerie beings, about my dad. He’s the one who taught me, unintentionally, how to hold my breath much of the time. Yeh, yeh, yeh  .  .  .  I know it’s not good for me. Now, when I first moved after waking this morning I got a flash of pain that jerked me some; quite a lot, truth be told. Ouch. Poor me, right? It was sourced in my hips, but also and mostly from my spine, just behind my heart. Yeh, it’s all about heart for this lad as Summer rambles to an end. This nation has done something sinister with the love we’uns all share.  It’s been packed away with grandma’s good china, and grandpa’s stash of shinysilver quarters and steel pennies. That vile spirit Trump daily throws fire retardant on the flames of love and napalm on hate. Voldemort should be so effective. Where is our Harry Potter, mi compas? Our Hermione, our Ron Weasley? Our blessed Hagrid? I know who Sirius Black is but I ain’t tellin. He is my fav in the Hogwarts Chronicles. This is my first day back to work after my official retirement. Suffice it to say that I have been paying in to this my whole working life; ever since I tended bar at an oceanfront outdoor bar by the beach in the outlaw islands know by some as The Conch Republic (the underlined portion is a link; fun read). I was there for the revolution. I was already a Mangrove Marauder and a Truly Tropical Troubadour, but I became a patriotic expatriate when I passed through the INS roadblock and presented my drivers license to the officer there (this is not a metaphor!). Sigh. I am a barefoot island hippie boy who now gazes out over the vast sea of knee-deep sage forest to the west. I am now 62 whereas I was 36 when I experienced Unity Consciousness, and I was 18 when I first wondered why peeps self-medicate themselves unto oblivion. There is also love in the world (this is a quote from Stephen R. Donaldson’s astounding The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant). I write of those blue eyes, but love should be more pervasive and of a broader energy, vibration, whatever.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

We Spotted the Ocean . . .

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“Your soul knows the geography of your destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey.”  ~  John O’Donohue

Who are these children
Who scheme and run wild
Who speak with their wings
And the way that they smile
What are the secrets
They trace in the sky
And why do you tremble
Each time they ride by  ~  Steely Dan, Gold Teeth II

“A kindness of rhythm in your journey” – How’s that for a start to the day. I will most definitely, and certainly, and indubitably, contemplate that while I do my laundry this morning, down at the laundromat on the Pueblo. I love that rustic place. Moving forward  . .  .  I made an error in starting this post; the cat was sleeping right through her feeding time, but that only went so far. Busy backson.

“Owners of dogs will have noticed that, if you provide them with food and water and shelter and affection, they will think you are god. Whereas owners of cats are compelled to realize that, if you provide them with food and water and shelter and affection, they draw the conclusion that they are gods.”  Christopher Hitchens

Awesome sunrise here for my birthday. All gray and stuff. I love a cloudy morning, that’s all. Anxiety level is high this morning. Not sure why, or maybe its just a high cycle in The Illness. Living with The Illness is not fun some days. Some a challenge, and some simply dark. There is always light, of course, and I have many tools in my toolbox to bring it forth. I shall do so today. Nine weeks until my first SS benefit funds arrive. That’s the main thing. I am officially retired now. As of today. And on my birthday, with all of these blessings, I am allowed to indulge: an excerpt from my book, a snippet concerning my soulmate, who passed on in 1995. I have missed her sorely. Perhaps today, with this invocation, she might come to visit in spirit. I’d like that.

Once again I had entered the labyrinth of the Dreamtime. Fear and pain, at the prospect of viewing her dying body, were pummeling me in a way that made Hurricane Andrew’s fierceness look like a kitten’s scratch. I wore my brave face. And it turned out that Martha was excellent company. Some of the details of that trip to the mainland, to the hospital, remain sharp. The remaining feelings have a sharpness as well. 

Martha had heard a tape of my songs, which I had given to Lori. After the accident Vivian gave me a tape of two of her favorite bands: The Romantics and Toad the Wet Sprocket. She explained that she had heard my music, and her tape was a sharing in return. The music was a point of connection that allowed us forget why we were traveling to Miami together, so a lot of our conversation revolved around music.

During most of that trip I was seemingly as oblivious as I had been the night I had been given the same ride in the back of an ambulance. But somewhere near the hospital the memories came back to me. In response to something I said, Martha  replied, “It’s like true love: very rare, and very mysterious”. We were approaching the ramp leading up and into the parking garage for Jackson Memorial Hospital. The remark about true love had snapped me back into the present moment in a way that, somehow, I remember as being like Wiley Coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons, regaining his awareness after one of his schemes goes awry. Vivian looked straight ahead as we ascended the ramp. She said, all hushed, “Life looks very large at times”. 

Lori’s mom was already there at the hospital. I have no idea whether the concurrence of our meeting there was planned or not. But I remember her being in the ICU. It was a room of shadows.

My memory is of seven beds in there, but there may have been more. They were not like beds at all, more like highly specialized tables, spaced far enough apart that I could not truly determine whether or not they were all occupied at the time, but I sensed that they were. Each table had a large array of machinery at its head. Flashing multicolored lights, soft electronic sounds, cables, tubes, meters, and who knows what else. To me it was pure science fiction imagery, yet it was real. The feelings I had were well beyond description, even now. Seven damaged people, hanging onto life, there in the shadows, in a room that seemed more high tech showcase than healing unit – and I was there to see a woman with whom I felt true love. The air itself was chilled and dry. She was strapped firmly onto her own table. Various cables and tubes attended her. She looked huge! She looked titanic. And I . . . I felt uncomfortably small, the audience of eternal life.

I had a prepared letter to give to her, but the most important thing was that I had also brought the second wingtip feather from the osprey I’d found dead. The other feather had gone to Jeffrey, medicine for his broken neck. Jeffrey and Lori both shattered their C5 vertebrae. Overwhelmed by the immensity of what I was facing there in that room of shadows, I bowed to fear. I could not speak, nor approach Lori at all. So I handed the letter and the feather to Martha, and I stood at the foot of the table. Martha stood at Lori’s right hand, Lori’s mom stood to her left. There was no sign of life from her until one of them touched her hand. They each said a few things to her. Finally Lori started tapping her hand on the bed, quite adamantly. Martha figured out what Lori wanted and offered her own hand.

It was truly beautiful to watch as Lori began to spell out words, a single letter at a time, on Martha’s palm. Martha would speak each letter aloud at first, to verify the communicated information. Then she would respond. They conversed with few words, as only the truest of friends can. 

Lori asked for was more medication. I couldn’t imagine the pain she must have been feeling. “You want more drugs?”, Martha asked. Lori signal a ‘yes’, but Martha was quick to respond, “Sure! You have your own little party and we are not invited!”. Lori raised her middle finger. The three of us who could, laughed. Laughter in the shadows.

After a short conversation Martha told Lori, “Ken is here”. Lori sobbed. Her whole body moved with the sob. I watched as her sob was swallowed and arrested by the intense pain and breakage in her body. It was heart-wrenching for me to see this. I was getting a glimpse of how badly she’d been damaged. Also I was getting a glimpse of the powerful feelings she still had. It was a sure sign of life, an affirmation. She would have been furious with me for being there. I was sure of this. But I was glad to be there.

Martha read my letter to her friend in a clear and caring voice. It was an optimistic appeal for high speed healing, complete with a gentle pep talk, all interlaced in a metaphor which came straight from the pinball table. She then laid the feather, briefly and gently in the palm of Lori’s hand. My attitude, fear and all, sublimated as the feather touched her hand. All I felt was the magic of the moment. The feather returns to the story later on. The magic never left. It is still with me, here today.

In many ways, that visit to the ICU stands in my memory in much the same way as my near death vision does: vividly dreamlike yet more real than daily life, more fluid than imagination itself. I remember none of the return trip to the islands. But the words of Toad the Wet Sprocket burrowed into my heart on that day. Even now, when I hear the song, tears rise in my eyes and I choke just a tad. Imagine a steady 6/8 beat with a sea shanty feel: “we spotted the ocean, at the head of the trail, where are we going, so far away”.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

Normal Things

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“It’s regrets that make painful memories. When I was crazy I did everything just right.”  ~ Mark Vonnegut

“The materialist is sure that history has been simply and solely a chain of causation, just as the [lunatic] is quite sure that he is simply and solely a chicken. Materialists and madmen never have doubts.”  ~  G. K. Chesterton

Perhaps it’s just the Full Moon but my mind seems to be somewhat plugged up this morning. It’s not far from sunrise so I will find out soon. I expect a peaceful day. It’s doable, especially the nap upon which I shall insist. Maybe some laundry. Mom once suggested that I “do normal things for a change”. I think I finally, after all these years, know what she meant by that. It’s a chop wood carry water sort of thing. I had some crazy idea that I would write about sanity today. Donald Trump has so many people thinking that the world has gone crazy. I’m not sure how we would know. I think he will meltdown before the election. I feel emotional exhaustion in this regard; friggin guy, he’s not normal. But I am fascinated enough to keep on watching and reading. This is after all history. We should always be wary of history, granted. And on that note I think I shall wrap it up for today.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Tree Beside a Mighty River

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“I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.”  ~  Galileo Galilei

“Perhaps he knew, there in the grass by the waters, that he had before him an immense journey.”  ~  Loren Eiseley

“But of course there are all kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying.”  ~  David Foster Wallace

Brilliant moon with a soft, high overcast. No stars. The gentle roar of the space heater feels comforting, although it often annoys me. Not this morning. The air temperature, at 44º, is far from cold. I don’t know, I just feel chilled. Rosie is asleep on the bed to my left, curled up in that meatloaf pose cats do. Weird little beasties. Our opening photograph for today’s post here at EyeYotee blog is of my lunch companion last Wednesday. We had a good time together. There were dragonflies as well, red ones and blue ones. We were all gathered there by the frog pond at the end of the Wetlands Nature Trail at Fred Baca Park. I was on lunch break from the hardware store where I work collecting money for goods and services; a very American thing to do. Listen, I’m at a point in my life where I am alternating between struggle and spiritual surrender, daily, hourly, whatever. Two days away from official retirement, mostly copacetic with this mental illness that may or may not go away in the remainder of my life, which at this point and place in time seems to be no longer than eight years. I could be wrong; I haven’t signed a contract or anything. As for the butterfly, I am well aware that this may be an archetypal, symbolic metaphor for my life, found lazing about on a mud patch on the bank of the pond. I pine for personal evolution. Right here, right now. As a former member of the Institute of Noetic Sciences I know full well that personal evolution is not always detectable in its early stages. Boy howdy them latter stages ain’t none too easy to spot neither. Makes me want to hop on a raft with Huckleberry Finn and Jim and float on down the Mississippi, adopting their manner of speech as a courtesy. Huck and Jim started out yonder in Hannibal, Missouri, about fifty or so miles from where I was born and raised, northward. I was raised in Clayton, Missouri, but I grew up (so to speak) in the Florida Keys. Mom’s side of the family came from across the river, eastward, in Baldwin, Illinois, where there is a family burial grounds that has been there since at least 1776. Our family were pioneers, westward from the revolution that forged this land. I just learned this from my first cousin, Cathy. Thanks, Cathy, this gives me some much needed perspective. Before Illinois the family goes back to 12th century Ireland, and likely Wales as well. Celtic blood runs thick in my veins, which well accounts for my direct relationship with the Mother Goddess of that culture. I can’t emphasize enough that this, she, whatever, is an actual intelligent being who lives in a different dimension which sidles up, or is nested next door in a nested hierarchy of the quantum physics Multiple Universe Theory type. There be Faery. Doubt if you must, it don’t change none what you can’t see. Anyway  .  .  .  I just stepped outside. The cloud cover has dissipated, or moved on. There are a few pale stars, and the moon has retired behind the mesa. Was I a caterpillar alongside that butterfly? Learning the ropes from a pro, there on the bank of a pond in the high dessert mountains of Nuevo Mexico del Norte. Or was it the banks of the Mighty Mississippi? Mom told a story, as I sat in a half lotus alongside her death bed, of her propped in the branches of a tree on the banks of that magnificent river, with her younger sister below, playing with friends. Mom was no saint, but she was kind and nurturing, however reserved and withdrawn she was from life. I learned that from her. The real world can scare ya back some. I’ve been way back since my early teens, and The Illness scooches me back a notch more. No worries. It works. Here in the high desert I must now get ready for work, feed and medicate the cat, and hoist my philosophical baggage up onto my shoulders, where it does more good than I know. The Goddess will walk with me; she always does. What comes next? Evolution? Chrysalis? Fresh romance. I have seen her smile already. What do I know, I’m going anyway, what dreams may come. Life is good, although I find it to be quite scary, most of the time.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Raven, Coyote, and The Goddess

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 “If you think this Universe is bad, you should see some of the others.”  ~  Philip K. Dick

“One day you’re waiting for the sky to fall
The next you’re dazzled by the beauty of it all”  ~  Bruce Cockburn, Grim Travelers

Have I gone gump or is every single Full Moon now a Super Moon? Astronomers got PR? Jest sayin’, right? “Right, right. Yer bloody well right” (Supertramp). There, I got that out of the way. Moving forward, it’s a new day, right? Hey!! Wait just a darned minute now. What’s with all the questions already? Have I lost the finer touches of pedantic expression? Listen, nothing has been the same since the Dark Lord called out the Storm Troopers and the Flying Monkeys over the weekend. And Alice looked over at the Cheshire Cat and was like all dude. These are trying times. Now. No wait, NOW. Friggin moment won’t stand still. Sigh.

Time passes. The nearly full Moon has dropped below the horizon. It has already been at the stars, dimming them from our view. When I first went out this morning I heard a raven croaking in the dark, and after a few croaks I heard the croaks then fading into the distance as the raven flew away in the dark. Curious indeed. Of course I went straight into the totemic story of Raven going deep into the darkness to steal the Sun from the rich man who was hoarding the Sun and refusing to share it with the world. Don’t forget: Raven brought light back to the world. We owe him one. If you are a Light-Chaser, with your back turned toward Shadow, please take note. Thanks, yer a pal. And in some legends, myths, whatever, the Great Mystery sent Coyote down to Earth to watch over our corner of Creation; in which Coyote is God’s Dog”. By this time in History Coyote must be all WTF and stuff. Who can blame him, right? I am steeped in the lore of the American Southwest because I live here now, for 22 years, come Day of the Dead. I got off the Greyhound bus on Day of the Dead, after fleeing the Florida Keys, after a rich lawyer, and Congressionally aspiring, dude threatened to kill me; gun pointed and pressed against my Third Eye. He used his finger to illustrate his point, but I did not doubt his aggression. My parents had just retired to Taos. I took a jetliner to New York, then a local flight to Worcester, MA, and spent ten days with my best friend in Spencer, MA, all the time trying to calm the major tremors in my legs. I spent most of my time there gazing out over Browning Pond, looking for the Lady of the Lake. I saw her one night, after my friend had held me while I cried (PTSD), then she went back into the house while I lingered on the bridge that spanned a neck in the pond. That is when I saw the Lady of the Lake. It was not a vision, my friends. This world is richer then we know. Then I went back into the house for a cold Bud Light, and a few tokes on the couch, with a 110 pound female Rottweiler’s head on my lap, which shook from the tremors. The dog would growl softly once in a while, but my friend assured me this was an expression of affection. The Lady of the Lake? My matrilineal side is British and Irish, with the scales tipped toward the Irish. My maternal grandfather was a Preston, a name that goes back to 13th century Ireland. There are some striking similarities between Native American and Celtic spirituality. I am fortunate to have Brighid as a spirit guide and protector. The Mother Goddess in the Celtic pantheon. We are in dire need of the Goddess in this American age. Mister friggin Donald friggin J. friggin Trump is sliming our country with the ooze from the dark side of patriarchy. You may be offended by Hillary Clinton but she is clearly playing the archetypal roll of the Goddess surrogate in this huge, I mean HUGE(!), archetypal struggle that is in the guise of a Presidential contest. The world is changing underneath our very metaphorical feet, me hearties. That distant rumble you hear is not thunder. It is the tectonic frustration of the Goddess as she tries to knock some friggin patriarchal sense into her tainted counterpart, who has for some crazy reason chosen Trump as his theophanic representative. It’s gonna be a helluva a ride.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Transcending a Headspace

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“The world is not determined by initial conditions, once and for all. Every event of measurement is potentially creative and may open new possibilities.”  ~  Amit Goswami

It was the oddest thing I have heard lately – outside of Donald J. Trump quotes. “How long ago was never?” I don’t know. Maybe I never will. I’m sitting here with the space heater on. Dawn is coming right up. Still not feeling well. Soooo, another day of rest is at hand. I was gazing at the stars about an hour ago and the thought came to me that there is indeed a way of transcending my feeling of stuckness in my life situation. I just don’t know what it is, yet. It’s the nature of creativity. Albert Einstein said, and I paraphrase, no problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness as it was created. Wise words. It is already begun. Countdown, ten weeks until my first SS payment goes into the bank. It’s not that financial stuff is at the base of my problems, but money sure will help. I’m feeling impatient. It’s not much more than that, this, whatever. I’m finding as I write that I’m not in a blogging headspace this morning. Let’s leave it at that for today. Smiles, k?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

The Mule Reaches Toward the Sky

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“I don’t know what’s the matter with people: they don’t learn by understanding, they learn by some other way — by rote or something. Their knowledge is so fragile!”  ~  Richard Feynman

“It doesn’t seem to me that this fantastically marvelous universe, this tremendous range of time and space and different kinds of animals, and all the different planets, and all these atoms with all their motions, and so on, all this complicated thing can merely be a stage so that God can watch human beings struggle for good and evil – which is the view that religion has. The stage is too big for the drama.”  ~  Richard Feynman

Wow. Yesterday’s missing post was due to the internet connection having gone bye bye. It’s back today. I rely on this iMac and the internet perhaps too much. But I did quite enjoy reading from the Kindle app; Whitley Streiber’s newest book, with Jeffrey J. Kripal: Super Natural.  Excellent stuff! Whitley is largely known as an out there guy who was abducted by aliens and stuff like that. His views of what actually happened to him are quite different from what has been said about him. This book talks about our souls, our evolution, and our relationship to myth, archetype, and our powerful reliance on stories. This is the good stuff, says me. This morning feels otherworldly for me. I am not feeling well, neither physically or psychologically. I’ll see my general provider next week; I love her, knew her for fifteen years before I came under her medical care. Gotta get healthy again. It’s only five days until I become officially retired. The SS payments start in ten weeks. Life is changing and I am getting on track to make the most of this tremendous mystery of life, and consciousness, and general boy howdy this is beautiful kind of stuff. I’ve been here on this tiny planet we call Earth for over six decades. I’ve kept my nose away from the grindstone perhaps more than most; 10,000+ of bicycling, that kind of thing. Oh! And timeless primal hours back in Florida Bay in a canoe. Time to start looking at more of that stuff. That new pretty sparkling smile I’ve been captivated by, and those cups of good coffee. Soaring hawks and falcons; and the spectacular scene of the jet black mule who is the newbie in the donkey pasture across from the house. I saw it, him, her, whatever, stand on her hind legs, forelegs slightly curled, reaching, head back, for a not quite low branch of the Russian olive tree. Reaching toward the sky she tore it off and brought it to the ground just in time for teatime. Soooo  .  .  .  what will the day bring? Workday, no expectations. It’s been fun lately. I’m gonna get to it, my friends. More later.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

“I have a friend who’s an artist and has sometimes taken a view which I don’t agree with very well. He’ll hold up a flower and say “look how beautiful it is,” and I’ll agree. Then he says “I as an artist can see how beautiful this is but you as a scientist take this all apart and it becomes a dull thing,” and I think that he’s kind of nutty. First of all, the beauty that he sees is available to other people and to me too, I believe. Although I may not be quite as refined aesthetically as he is … I can appreciate the beauty of a flower. At the same time, I see much more about the flower than he sees. I could imagine the cells in there, the complicated actions inside, which also have a beauty. I mean it’s not just beauty at this dimension, at one centimeter; there’s also beauty at smaller dimensions, the inner structure, also the processes. The fact that the colors in the flower evolved in order to attract insects to pollinate it is interesting; it means that insects can see the color. It adds a question: does this aesthetic sense also exist in the lower forms? Why is it aesthetic? All kinds of interesting questions which the science knowledge only adds to the excitement, the mystery and the awe of a flower. It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts.”  ~  Richard Feynman