Riding A Coyote Song


“Take your broken heart, make it into art.”  ~  Carrie Fischer

“In a way, it’s the poets who have failed us. Because they have not provided 
a song or sung a vision that we could all move in concert to. So now we are in the 
absurd position of being able to do anything, and what we are doing is fouling our 
own nest and pushing ourselves toward planetary toxification and extinction. 
This is because the poets, the artists have not articulated a moral vision. The 
moral vision must come from the unconscious. It doesn’t have to do, I believe, 
with, you know, these post-meaning movements in art: deconstructionism, and 
this sort of thing. But that art’s task is to save the soul of mankind. And that 
anything less is a dithering while Rome burns. Because if the artists, who are 
self-selected for being able to journey into the Other… if the artists cannot find 
the way, then the way cannot be found.”  ~  Terence McKenna

At 32º, it feels balmy this morning. The Moon has just set behind the rise leading up to the mesa. About a half hour ago, I think it was. I do remember that when I first saw its light receding at the hill top a tiny meteor cut the sky for about a nanosecond or two, just enough time to make itself known to me as it burned up from the friction of the atmosphere we all take for granted, much too often. I hunkered down with my back against the wall, feet flat against the wet deck. Then came the bark from a small dog. I remember worrying, judgmentally, that it seemed irresponsible to let a little dog run loose in the night. Too many coyotes. The barks continued, and I continued to worry. I love them doggies. I can’t help it. But for some reason one of the barks cut through my magpie mind chatter, and my intuition kicked in. I whispered out loud, quite spontaneously, “That’s a coyote”. The barks continued a short while longer. Then came the bark that stretched out into a wail. Yup, coyote. Another began to howl like a wolf. Several more joined the wailing crew. The whole canine chorale had my heart. Not the physical muscle behind my sternum. It was the electromagnetic field of my heart, and the poet’s throbbing love that enveloped it all. I need that this morning, to put in perspective the fairly intense body pain I woke up with. So weary am I. The massage therapy session is only two days away. Ouch, moan. It hurts like hell this morning. Poor me, right? But back to the poet. He’s got to live with the fact that his only voice will be relegated to occasionally express through that there prose stuff I tend to use as my creative outlet. Live with it dude. Your efforts and presence are appreciated more than you may know dude. Dude it’s like all gnarly and stuff dude. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. I promise. Moving forward, I did my laundry yesterday. I got to the laundromat later than usual and the place was abuzz with others. It was predominantly Pueblo folks, but there were a fair number of Mesa Rats as well. For y’all that don’t know Taos much, the Mesa Rats live out on the mesa. Duh. Mostly off-grid. This time of year, when a temporary thaw arrives, they live behind fields of mud, which stand between them and us on-grid folks. They get out when they can. Seems a number of them had some dirty laundry to attend to. One young Native man stopped and shook my hand before we fell into a bit of friendly chatting. He acted as if we already knew each other. Which in a way I suppose we do. We are both people living on this beautiful planet together. His folks live more intimate with the Earth than mine do. But that makes little difference in the long run. The current political upheaval, earthquake, whatever, kinda sorta has my inner poet all stirred up; the guy who thrills at the sound of a opportunistic master predator singing in the dark. The guy who rides that eerily beautiful song on into the ‘place between the worlds’, the Imaginal Realm. That’s where I will travel today, but I gotta be careful because I handle money as I commune with my fellow humans all day. As long as I keep that straight all is well. That done I can indulge my Inner Poet, I can throw my Inner Troubadour out into the world and let him search for his True Love. Then there is the Inner Child. The Cynic. The Comedian. I’ve got a lot of Inner stuff goin on. Listen, there are dark forces afoot in the land. A suppressed Collective Unconscious gives rise to these Dark Ones. And yet the Trickster is also afoot in the land this morning. I heard him with my own ears. The Trickster dances upon the edge when things go all teetering off balance and stuff. Chaos, and other dire sounding stuff like that. Stoats and weasels in hand-tailored suit. We live in incredibly interesting times. But my neck and shoulders hurt like hell this morning. I can’t wait for that therapists to get her hands on me. It will be good. See ya.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


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