Giving Way to Astonishment

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“Moments of magic will glow in the night
All fears of the forest are gone
But when the morning breaks they’re swept away by
golden drops of dawn, of changes.”  ~  Phil Ochs

“Do not give way to astonishment”  ~  Terence McKenna

“Do not give way to astonishment”. Wow. Granted – this is going to sound weird but bear with me – that phrase was not actually from Terence McKenna. It was, is, whatever, from one of his “fractal elves” in hyperspace. See, I told ya. But that phrase is with me, in my mind, this morning, and it arose as I perused the morning’s news, all about Trump. Pardon my language here, but I want to be as concise and incisive as possible in expressing where I stand in regards to the Great Pretender, Donald John Trump. It boils down to this: fuck him. There, I got that out, now I can move on, but first I must step outside the garden fence to have a look at the majestic sight of the Sacred Mountain occulting the morning Sun as it rises. All sounds so metaphorical and stuff, don’t it? I’m giggling here to think of it. Listen, it’s just the place that I live. But I really gotta step out for a few, then come back to this post. Bisy. Gon out. Bisy backson.

Cloudless sky this morning. Nice low-40s chill in the air. I’m just not running with the crowd these days. I am not too psyched about Summer’s arrival. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the beauty of the season. I do. Very much so. The thing about Summer that is bugging me so much is that Summer is the time of the season when you are supposed to get out and do stuff, after the harsh Winter doth wither away into history. And I don’t want to, k? I’m settled into this lengthy “hermit” phase in my life, and I don’t seem too keen on ending it right now. There are no real obligations that can make me get out of this room, except to go to work each day I am scheduled to work. For one thing there is the novel to write, and the beginnings already written please me greatly. I know that some writers say stuff like yer s’posta be ruthless and critical of your writing, to squeeze your best work out of the marrow of . . . ummm, I don’t really like where I was going with that sentence. It was conjuring the image of Ernest Hemingway, brow furrowed, hanging over an actual typewriter, a bead of sweat dripping down into his rum and coke, glancing off of the chunk of lime floating in the drink, and spreading out in a swirl. But I ain’t here to talk about process. Suffice it to say that Hemingway was the one who introduced me to the rhythm of lexicon and literary thrift. Years later it was David Foster Wallace who showed me you don’t really need the thrift part, because it can rein in a vast field of rhythm, and keep it from running free. Run-on sentences as well. But I wasn’t going to go into process, now was I? Whatever.

I’ve got a side job today, yard work for a friend. I need the sun and sweat. The money, not so much, but I will use the pay for something fun and/or nurturing. It’s been four days in a row, working at the hardware store over the holiday weekend, so I am distinctly tired. One more day won’t hurt. Besides, tomorrow is massage day. I need it. And the therapist is not only skilled and intuitive, she is also good company. I enjoy those visits, and the work we are doing there is slowly releasing years of layered tension and memory. Nice stuff. But for now I’d best give myself a swift metaphorical kick in the ass to get myself moving toward the day. Bueno bye.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

 

 

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