Thunder and All

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This image is untouched. It looks like a software ‘painting’ but it is a photo.

“Every person needs to take one day away.  A day in which one consciously separates the past from the future.  Jobs, family, employers, and friends can exist one day without any one of us, and if our egos permit us to confess, they could exist eternally in our absence.  Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for.  Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us.”   ~  Maya Angelou, Won’t Take Nothing for my Journey Now

“After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.”  ~  Kenneth Grahame, Wind in the Willows

“Of all the things a man may do, sleep probably contributes most to keeping him sane. It puts brackets about each day. If you do something foolish or painful today, you get irritated if somebody mentions it, today. If it happened yesterday, though, you can nod or chuckle, as the case may be. You’ve crossed through nothingness or dream to another island in Time.”  ~  Roger Zelazny, Isle of the Dead

There was no conscious memory of the first one, but the second roar of thunder rocked everything. I heard that one. And I woke up happy. I looked at the time on the iPad and thought I was late in waking up before work. It took me a minute to realize that it was nearly sunset, not sunrise. I love waking up like that, not knowing what time or day it is, or sometimes even not knowing where I am. Self-consciousness disengaged, if only for a while. I started chatting at the cat, which makes her visibly content. Good thing, that (Insert smiley face here). Yesterday was a good day for me. In the morning I had the uncommon idea to treat myself to breakfast out, so I drove down to the Taos Diner, which is actually in El Prado, but Taos is often described as a state of mind, so there ya have it, right? Breakfast at the diner is a Taos tradition for many. The place was friggin packed! At 10 AM. That is so often the case. I ordered my breakfast burrito, added a few words to the manuscript for my novel, then proceeded to watched the waitress at work, dancing between tables, with some 30-35 people in attendance. Breakfast there is a treat to experience and the food is excellent. Down home beauty, lovely eyes, young, slim, buff, but that’s not the point. Watching a good waitress at work is a treat for me, having spent a good part of my life in the food and beverage industry. Handling a crowd of purely animated diners is no small task, but I am certain the tips are worth the effort. Now . . . beans, hash browns, eggs, cheese, green chile sauce, and, of course, the tortilla wrapped around just right, served on a very hot pale white ceramic plate. Half-pound coffee mug. Just right. When I was finished and went to the counter to pay, I found myself standing next to a friend of many years, sitting on one of the stools at the counter. We fell easily into happy chit chat. The guy is a treat. He’s Swiss in origin, still has the accent. Good lookin’ guy. The conversation started out with current work status, then my retirement and his fast-approaching retirement, then drifted on to his favorite band when he was still in Europe in the late 60s; an American band made good over there; top notch, even played the Royal Albert Hall, holes and all. Turns out two members of that band now live here in Taos. Go figure. One works in a wine shop and the other in a hardware store. Small world. We both knew both of them. Small town. It was delightful for me to have the conversation, to treat myself so well, because I am somewhat of a recluse the past few years. Leaving there I went to the supermarket, then home. It was not even two hours later that I settled for a nap, which ended up lasting 4.5 hours, and it ended with a rumble of thunder, quite uncomfortably close to the house.

Oddly enough I woke this morning without the persistent visceral anxiety that usually colors my mornings darkly, almost every day. Yeh, I can see why this was, but that was not even in question until I even noticed the serenity a couple of hours later. I can feel it fading in as I write. The anxiety is like an old . . . no, not friend, a teacher. For two decades, since reading Elizabeth Wertzel’s Prozac Nation I have been searching for a purpose for the two mental disorders I endure. She gave me the idea of purpose. She too wanted to find purpose in the ordeal. As far as I know the only way to dig up purpose in the issue is to allow the conditions to be teachers. So, what did I learn yesterday? Go out to eat once in a while, knucklehead! Breakfast was nice, but lunch comes next. I hope for some sweet company at my table, not on the way out the door. And here’s a little riddle-esque thing for you: you know how they say “it’s all good”? Well, I can’t really say that at this point in my life. I can, to that aphorism, only reply “not yet”. Good is not good enough for me, I want better. Yesterday was a start. Okay, okay, a good start, thunder and all.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

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Lacking in Content but High on Optics

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“Then he was sorry for the great fish. How many people will he feed? But are they worthy to eat him? No, of course, not. There is no one worthy of eating him from the manner of his behavior and his great dignity.”  ~  Ernest Hemingway

“Politeness a sign of dignity, not subservience.”  ~  Theodore Roosevelt

There’s no putting it off any longer, I’ve been futzing around for the most part since being softly prodded awake by the cat at 4 AM. Internet stuff. But I have watched and read enough stuff with good content to keep my brain from going all tapioca and stuff. What’s with “content” anyway? What if someone asks me how things are going lately, and I tell them that my life is pretty much lacking in content but high on optics? I mean, really, WTF? Now, my mind seems to be in pretty good shape this morning. I can tell because I can feel the strong undercurrent of pluckiness somewhere down deep within this seriously aching body. Shoulders and neck, poor me. It rained a good part of the night, a nice soaker of a rain, one that seeps down into the ground at a modest rate; full of nitrogen, giving the vegetation a good start on winterizing. I say “winterizing” because I work in a hardware store. The activity itself is essentially a matter of choice for us humans, but for the rest of the natural world it is commonly necessary, no choice is needed. I woke up with dignity on my mind. Musta come from a dream because I didn’t know it was an issue in my life of late. I don’t remember any of the content of last night’s dreams, nor do I remember any of the optics. The part that does linger and shall guide me through this second day off in a row is the feelings, the underlying emotional and spiritual foundation. That’s one endearing characteristic of the Dreamtime, there is nothing certain nor tangible. It’s all flow. At the moment it is sunrise break, so I’ll be back in a few, k? Bisy backson.

Excellent show, this sunrise. I’m not a good enough photographer to have caught some of the good shots. So be it. I did get to see a couple of ravens, flying, croaking as they flew, on into town for a day of scavenging. I have not seen many of these smart as a whip birds lately. I guess they have been busy winterizing. This is a short post today. But it feels right, this brevity, and it rather suits my mood. Smiles here.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Happy Slump Day

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“All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.”  ~  Kenneth Grahame

“We have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that the savage has, because we know how it is made. We have lost as much as we gained by prying into that matter.”   ~  Mark Twain

“Then suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground. It was no panic terror – indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and happy – but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august presence was very, very near.”   Kenneth Grahame

Weirder and wyrder. I’ve reached the point where the word surreal has become inadequate. It almost makes me believe that the devil is real. There have been reports, here in the southern tip of the San Luis Valley, of the devil hitchhiking in a red chiffon dress, and another in a bar down in Española. Read Christopher O’Brien’s very entertaining The Mysterious Valley if you want to know the details. I love his books! I’m reading his book about The Trickster right now. I’ve been into UFOs since age twelve. I was surprised when a highly respectable researcher named Jacque Vallee connected the phenomenon with the Faerie Kingdom. This is serious stuff. Don’t scoff. We can learn a lot about the nature of of our mentality by looking into this stuff. Whitley Streiber too. Don’t scoff at him either. I sometimes write about the Imaginal world. This is what I am talking about here. Please note that Vallee was a prime consultant for Stephen Spielberg’s “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”. And Whitley has actually had a Third Kind and Fourth Kind experience. The movie about Whitley’s first experience is “Communion”. It is a great, scary, and compelling story, and if you are not a believer it is worth watching Christopher Walken play Whitley. I love the story. The guy had a rough go of it, and he still is in close contact with whatever or whoever it is that does that spooky stuff. Now, hey, I gotta take a break and go out to watch the sunrise, and see how much more snow there is up on the peaks.

More snow indeed. As I sat looking at the mountains a soft rain began to fall. As the density of the rain slowly increased the mountains seriously faded into a light gray silhouette. Nice! Now, moving forward . . . I am exhausted this morning. It is hard working trying to improve my physical posture, and to manage the depressive low cycle, but I persevere, thus the exhaustion. Yet I came up with a remedy. Yesterday was Wednesday, hump day. For me today is slump day. Forget the posture work. Give it a rest for the day. As in physical therapy I will from here on out use repetitions in a tighten up loosen up pattern. Today is slump day. I have today and tomorrow off, psychotherapy at noon, then whatever; likely the chair and lap cat thing. Self-care of the third kind. Yes.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

As the Old God Dies

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“Good people turn to love, courage and kindness in times of crisis, not hate, fear and cruelty.”  ~  Laurence Overmire

“Nuclear weapons and TV have simply intensified the consequences of our tendencies.”   ~  David Foster Wallace

“No culture on earth is as heavily narcotized as the industrial West in terms of being inured to the consequences of maladaptive behavior. We pursue a business-as-usual attitude in a surreal atmosphere of mounting crises and irreconcilable contradictions.”   ~  Terence McKenna

It’s complicated, they say. Well, yeh. And . . . I’ve been reading quite a bit of news this morning and I realize now that I need to do this, because if I stop reading this and go to reading happier things, I will still have to deal with news unspoken when I go into town; my point being that this affects us all, even in ways that we cannot see, but there is no way out of feeling it. This affects us all. Is the NFL issue . . . shit, this just pisses me off. I have numerous loved ones who are staunch conservatives, in the way that the term “conservative” is generally used at this point in American history. Looking back I see that my father was one of them, although he seemed to be drifting toward the other side as his life grew short, then ended. So, how did I turn out this way, a liberal, maybe even a progressive liberal? Watergate, Viet Nam, MKL, JFK, RFK. OK? I cried when Reagan was elected. By the time his terms ran out I knew exactly why. And now there is this bullshit about peeps, NFL millionaires, putting a knee to the ground and suddenly . . . dammit. They have every right to do so, just as the people of Puerto Rico have every right to prompt, comprehensive Federal aid for the devastation they have endured . . . because they are American citizens. Them football fellas should be grateful to the country that allows them to . . . again, dammit. I finally got relief from some valid worries last night. On Facebook I found a post from my dear friend in Puerto Rico. She is safe. Her husband is safe. I thank the goddess for that. She is the one, in the guise of Mother nature, who slathered Puerto Rico with despair. She is the one who will nurture the island back into the modern world, if the patriarchs don’t muck up the works. Ooops, if I get into the patriarchal mindset thingy that . . . sigh. I have a fine imagination. Let’s leave it at that. This is the longest political commentary I have ever made in this blog. I haven’t been this passionately angry since I was freshly graduated from high school; the same year that Watergate proceeded to begin crushing Nixon, and the draft for the Viet Nam was ended. See, I was high on the list to go. I never would have made it through boot camp. Trust me . . . mental health issues, don’tcha know. The depression thing was situational back then. Now it is clinical. For some strange and mysterious reason the latter is easier to bear, and it ain’t because of the meds. I don’t know, do you? Now, I have fewer years to have to endure the illness. Back then I had a whole lifetime ahead of me. I still do, but it’s a shorter one now. It’s complicated. I read this morning that now some people are saying that depression is caused by inflammation in the gut, which spreads throughout the body, and turns on the immune system so strongly that it will not stop. I stopped reading the article when it took up the vaccination controversy and how we shouldn’t oughtta do that. I think depression is essentially a societal and cultural disorder. But for now, moving forward, whatever . . . it rained last night. The forecast says the next two days will be wet ones. There are already leaves turning, now, down here in the valley. The cottonwoods are already shedding a few. I find it to be comforting. In the pagan tradition this means that the old god is dying, and shall be reborn come Christmastime, and that Christmastime thing ain’t got nothin to do with the Christians. It was going on long before they got here. Sigh. It’s been kinda nice to spill some tension here today in this EyeYote blog. Thanks for reading. This depressed pagan dude is going to get an early start on getting ready for work now. See, I gotta go into town today . . . geez mom, pleeeaaase, can’t I just stay home today? I don’t feel good. Smiling here.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Belgian and Puerto Rican Women

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“Deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. When you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place. But if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place, and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope”   ~  Elizabeth Gilbert

“Accroches-toi a ton reve
Accroches-toi a ton reve
Quand tu vois ton bateau partir
Quand tu sents — ton coeur se briser
Accroches-toi a ton rêve.”  ~  Jeff Lynn, ELO

Why French? Well, it is an accurate excerpt from a song by Electric Light Orchestra. What’s it mean? You’ll have to look it up yourself. Hint: it’s the same as the opening lyrics to the song “Hold on Tight to Your Dreams”. BTW, Jeff Lynn is a genius. Just sayin. And he rocks! So, why am I being like this this morning? I’ve just spent a half hour on youtube, watching old Monty Python sketches. Can you blame me. Things in this country are gettin mighty serious. If I don’t laugh I’m gonna cry. I’m sure you know what I mean. Anyway, what the French is really about is a middle-aged Belgian woman I met the other day. She was a customer at work. As we did the transaction I detected a slight, lovely accent, so I asked her if she was French. Nope. Turns out she was actually born in Belgium. She went on to explain that in Belgium students are required to learn four languages: French, English, German, and Dutch. She let the German and Dutch slide, just as I let French slide, even though I was fluent in the language at age 15. My loss, I’m sure. But I told her that if I was exposed to French in context I’d likely pick it up again, however slowly. She smiled, and I was dazzled, and she said, “Maybe I should speak French to you each time I come into this store”. She is quite beautiful, don’tcha know, round face, brunette pixie cut, soothing deep blue eyes. I said “yes I would”, as I glanced down and noted a wedding ring with a healthy-sized diamond. Yes I would anyway – you have no idea how much I’d like that. Sigh. And then she said something to me in French. I had no idea what she said, and I was too enchanted to pull a reply out of the rusty bin of my memory; there are few words still sittin pretty in there. She turned to leave and as she was right at the front door she turned once more to smile at me (sigh) and said bon jour. I said it too in return, and my accent is still pretty darned good. So where does that leave me? Yes, I will be happy to see her again. I had another customer with an accent later in the day. Younger, 30-something, blond hair, deep blue eyes, fairly tall, slim appealing body, and another one of those smiles. Again, I detected a slight accent. I asked her if she was from Boston because that is what I thought I heard. Nope. She said she has been all over but she was born in Puerto Rico, and she pronounced it like the native she is, properly, in Spanish, not the Americanized Porter Eco. Hurricane Marie had not yet made landfall there, but she explained that “we are different there” and that terror is not a reaction you’d likely see there. No, she was not wearing a wedding ring. Hey, just wait one darned minute, k? It’s in the DNA of the human male of our species, and likely in the DNA of all of us higher primates: Chimps, Gorillas, Bonobos, whatever. I was once married to a radical feminist, way back when, so don’t call me a sexist, k?. I’ve yet to recover from the training that the wife and her mother not so gently etched into my heart. It’s still got an ouch to it, it always will. The metaphorical chisel was sharp, and always pointed. I once told my mother-in-law that some rude expression she’d just said to me was “just like my father”, whom she was inclined to scorn openly and directly, and quite often. She burst into tears and ran to her bedroom. Wait, did I say something wrong?! Yeh, maybe, but it was accurate. Soooo, moving forward, I cultivate what I call “observer mode” as a way to keep myself steady in a world that at the best of times scares the bejeezes outta me. That’s the PTSD talkin. I watch myself in action most of the time. Even traumas like my three years with those two otherwise sweet and respectable women gets frozen in stone and put in the arsenal that serves the PTSD, even though it happened before the disorder came to be when my face was torn partly off in a bicycle accident. I am a smooth sincere talker when I talk to women that I am attracted to, but I am also quite timid. So the thing is that I still need to find the purpose in my timidity. And then there is that other woman I know . . .oh never mind, I gotta get ready from work. I’m still “in illness” from that last panic attack. It ain’t so strong, but I’ve got a neck tremor that really makes me self-conscious so . . . whatever. It’s gonna be a lovely day at work today.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Rumpelstiltskin and Habenero Sauce

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“The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom.”  ~  Isaac Asimov

“Your conscience is the measure of the honesty of your selfishness. Listen to it carefully.” ~  Richard Bach

“Hide not your talents, they for use were made. What’s a sundial in the shade?”  ~  Benjamin Franklin

It just occurred to me that I checked the solar weather a couple of hours ago, then just now checked the weather forecast down here on Earth, for my specific location. Okay, it’s not really my location, as such. Just don’t start the ego thing with me this morning, I . . . oh, never mind. Grouchy, yes, but not too bad. It ain’t so bad anyway. I’ve got a sweet animal at my side, and she doesn’t snore. That should be enough. And good coffee. What about that? And it’s laundry day. What about that? Yeh, I’ll go with the gratitude thing and leave the ego thing to whoever’s musings need to go there. I don’t. I’m not sure you can get over your ego by thinking about it anyway. It’s coming up on dawn. It’s cold, about 40º. I had a full eight hours of sleep. Should be caught up by now, ya think? Another thing I noticed this morning, besides the solar winds that are caressing the planet, is that I have been waiting for life to be over for pert near six years now, give or take. I’ve been tired of it, and waiting for it to end. I still am. It’s not a sad thing really. Not really. Last week my psychotherapist pointed out to me that perhaps the major stressor that lurks, that waits to trigger a PTSD attack, is my termination from the natural foods supermarket. I hadn’t thought of that. And why not? Well, rationality and mental disorder are not exactly good bedfellows. In fact they don’t seem to get along much at any particular moment. I like to turn to rationality when the going gets gnarly. It got me through the most recent panic attack. I handled it, managed it, with skills I have worked hard to refine, then I spent the next week recovering from the part of me that could give a rat sass about rationality. PTSD is a body thing. It’s a snapshot lodged in the muscles and endocrine system, a hard and fast image/feeling of the moment when fear and helplessness overwhelmed all else. When the trigger gets tripped it all comes back. ALL of it. Now and then becomes here and now, one big wad of excruciating pain, drizzled copiously with the too-salty sauce made of metaphorical habenero panic. Wow, that last analogy was a bit of a stretch, ya think? Yeh, me too, but one essential function of this blog is for me to experiment and/or play with words and phrases, so I don’t come across as a pedant or something in my formal writing. Sometimes this is only a test.

Just stepped out to witness yet another magnificent sunrise. There is a nice glistening of dew this morning, turning even the brown parts of the dying weeds to gold, as if Rumpelstiltskin has been running amok with a mist sprayer. Nice. Maybe he has? It’s getting near time to feed and medicate the cat. Gotta take a rinse in the shower as well. Groom what needs groomin’. Best get to it.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Legend of Juan Valdez

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“Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves”   ~  Abraham Lincoln

“No man has the right to dictate what other men should perceive, create or produce, but all should be encouraged to reveal themselves, their perceptions and emotions, and to build confidence in the creative spirit.”  ~  Ansel Adams

“The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.”  ~  Joseph Heller

Twas a rude awakening indeed this morning. Well, maybe not rude; I don’t think cats can be rude. I’d been sleeping, in two periods, for nearly eleven hours, which for me is remarkable. I don’t believe I am “coming down with something”. What does that even mean anyway? Anyway, she was tearing all around the place, calling out as she flew. She sounded pissed, so I too woke up tossing sleepy, maybe too loud, grumbles her way; I too was pissed, as if eleven hours of sleep was not enough. It was nearly 6 AM, not quite her feeding time, which must be regulated due to diabetes. But I gave her a few nuggets of kibble to calm her down, then started a pot of coffee, Starbucks, Italian Roast, mmmm. I didn’t do it at the time, but I am doing it now, conjuring the image in my head of Juan Valdez and his donkey, standing down at the far end of an aisle in the supermarket in one of them old Folgers commercials on TV. Yeh buddy, I really loved that guy and those commercials. I still do. His brand of coffee I can merely tolerate. That’s not the point. Señor Valdez and his donkey have become imaginal for me. The difference between imaginary and imaginal, in cases like these, is that imaginary does not pack as much punch, whereas imaginal is when imaginary acquires the ‘as if’ factor, which means that Juan Valdez came to conjure an effect in my imagination. My affection for some guy that ain’t real, so to speak, made him real for me, over time; he affected my life as much as some flesh and blood person might. He has become legendary. That was a difficult sentence to read but I explained myself as well as possible for me at the moment. I love that guy and I love his donkey. That’s what I mean: he has earned a place in my personal archetypal pantheon. Just Like Foghorn Leghorn, or Bullwinkle J. Moose. Wow. Now, moving forward . . . I’m just about out of words for the time being. I’m feeling profoundly sad this morning, and it’s the president that did it. He hardly seems human to me. His ugliness, that seething cauldron of guck in his raisin heart, is profoundly disturbing, at least it is for me. But I feel the smile inside that has nothing to do with such things. Ob la di ob la da.

Peace

Tumultuous Change and Snow on the Mountain

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“I don’t like either the word [hike] or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains – not ‘hike!’ Do you know the origin of that word saunter? It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the middle ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going they would reply, ‘A la sainte terre’, ‘To the Holy Land.’ And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.”  ~  John Muir

“What are men to rocks and mountains?”  ~  Jane Austen

The planet seems to be a weird place these days. Or is it me? I know I’ve had one of the weirdest mornings I’ve experienced in a long time. At least I have the luxury of passing it off to mental disorder. Lucky me. I am, of course, being both truthful and ironic when I say lucky. And if I seem to be breaking the taboo against even mentioning a personal mental health issue I can only say WTF it is only truth doing what it does. I mean, one in four Americans, k? Let that sink in. Does it make any kind of sense at all to treat that fact like you would if your dog was taking a dump in the park, and you look away, to make it look like it isn’t your dog at the end of the leash, or at least you didn’t notice, and the dog is being a bad boy behind your back. BTW, bag that stuff up and toss it, and nobody cares if you saw it or not. You’re just being silly, that’s all, and the dog is a dog, park or not. You can thank my father for that analogy. I don’t know why he told me that. I don’t even have a dog, and I am in no mood to speculate, because, as I said, it is a weird morning. There is lightning to the east, up over the mountains. Flat gray sky. There will be snow on the high summits any day now. That’s Autumn in the valley for ya. Beautiful. Today is a workday, and I have to scoot pretty soon. Now that I think of it, it has been a weird week for me, ever since that panic attack on Thursday of last week. That attack was a doozy. I am still not fully recovered, or maybe I just felt a tumultuous change, a metaphorical earthquake, occur my life, and the spiritual transformation that has been going on for months now was simply giving me a swift kick in the ass to remind me to friggin pay attention. My best friend, last February, told me that life is now in session so jump in and hold on. She’s a smart one alright, and beautiful, inside and out. She was speaking of romantic aspirations, but it seems to apply in general. For now, alas, I am out of time to write any more today. Gotta go. I’m gonna make it a good day, no matter how weird it gets.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

The Necessity of Happiness

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“Trauma is hell on earth. Trauma resolved is a gift from the gods.”   ~  Peter A. Levine

“For fast acting relief, try slowing down.”  ~  Lily Tomlin

A scattered band of coyotes set my mood for the morning, calling out in what sounded to be the thrill of the hunt. They sound so manic when they do that, and they probably are. To be a rabbit at such times must be terrifying. I think wild animals are much better at moving on than we are. I’ve seen many traumatized animals, during my days working at the animal shelter. It is awful to behold; gut-wrenching. One of these poor souls, named Babu, had been a bait dog for dogs fights. Dude was chewed up and disfigured in a big way. And on top of that he had cancer of the penis as well. That was even more awful to behold. Dr. Aversa performed two surgeries, one to remove Babu’s tumor, then another to reroute his urethra to where he could pee like a female. When he still had to pee like a male it was more spray nozzle than stream. Sorry for the disturbing image there. What Dr. Gene did there was near-miraculous in that it worked. Yet Babu was a very loving dog, and happy. I think he had passed through all of the retained trauma, on and into true acceptance. Our caregivers and volunteers at the shelter gave him impeccable care and copious love as well. How could we not? I don’t think wild animals have it that bad. I don’t think they suffer in the same way that we do, nor as much. They pretty much have to keep going, and they don’t have to deal with judgement from their peers. All of these musings pretty much come from my day yesterday, specifically, and my past week more generally. That panic attack last week took me to that place where I’m all like dude you really gotta get a grip dude. If you go with the flow during a panic attack it can take you to some distinctly ugly places. You gotta learn to rein in the inner implosion. You just have to. Remain aware and hold on, that’s what I say – manage it and don’t let go. Really. Don’t. Yesterday I had back to back therapy, psycho then massage. The masseuse explained to me, with details included, how the cortisol release during an attack ravages the body. My body concurred. I was a mess. And the bodywork she did really stirred up a lot of pain, some of it severe and tear-making. The nice thing is that she has children, so she makes little mom sounds when I moan or exclaim. Thank you, m’am. Healing, to be at all effective, demands a woman’s touch. It requires copious feminine energy, nurturance and love and stuff. I am certain that this is one reason why the goddess Brighid came to me when I had the bicycle accident 33 years ago. That is when the PTSD was born. Brighid, in one of her three faces, is the goddess of healing. That I give her such a hard time with my persistent resistance, the why of it, will likely remain a mystery; which is saying that I have grown in regards to my acceptance of the pain. This is good, this is proactive, this is why I fight. PTSD is a physiological condition, with an emotional and mental one-two punch. My masseuse channels Brighid, whether she knows it or not. I think she does. My psychotherapist leads me through the archetypal stuff that underlies my struggle; the mythos, the inner landscape. Yet she also encourages me to not struggle; and I listen, and I do that thing, most of the time. Listen, you can still fight without struggling. Just ask your nearest Aikido dude. All said, I still hurt all over this morning. What my cherished massage therapist does is to reconfigure the pain, so to speak. She gives me more freedom of movement. On that note it’s time to go out and gaze at the pre-dawn mountains for a minutes before I shower and groom and stuff. In other ways I feel fine this morning. Struggle plays hell with happiness. But you can fix it. I don’t really agree that happiness is a choice. It is more of a necessity. It really don’t matter none where reality comes from. You can choose if ya want, but the effect is what we’re after here. I am happy because I am supposta be happy. Think about that.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Anger, Retrocausality, and Intent

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“The wounding becomes sacred when we are willing to release our old stories and to become the vehicles through which the new story may emerge into time.”  ~  Jean Houston

“Transformation literally means going beyond your form.”  ~  Wayne Dyer

“The Augusteum warns me not to get attached to any obsolete ideas about who I am, what I represent, whom I belong to, or what function I may once have intended to serve.”  ~  Elizabeth Gilbert

Tis coming up on sunrise on this final full day of Summer. Camera in hand I will be going out to view the sky show in a few minutes. Yesterday’s sunrise was a gem. I expect more such beauty as Autumn comes in smiling, comes in singing, comes in as serious as a looming presence. Say what? Looming? WTF. Yeh, looming. The Earth is riddled with ferocious storms of challenging magnitude, and quakes of a similar nature. Is Mother Nature threatening to shake off a bothersome scourge of some kind, like a dog annoyed with some living thing on her back? Yeh, maybe.Watch and listen. Hey, it’s time to go out and witness the beauty of another day arriving.  Bisy backson.

“Sun’s up, uh huh, looks okay
The world survives into another day
And I’m thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

I had another dream about lions at the door
They weren’t half as frightening as they were before
But I’m thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me”  Bruce Cockburn

Have you ever noticed how the bromide “it is what it is” is synonymaticaly ambiguous? I just made up that longest word. What do I mean by that? It can mean anything. Besides – compared to what? The Urban Dictionary defines it’s meaning as “fuck it”. I won’t go that far, but I know exactly what they mean by that. What brought this on is my disappointment in finding there were no clouds at all for sunrise. I almost felt offended, then I remembered that one of my new ambitions, intentions, whatever, is to repurpose my anger. Let’s go with intention. In Castaneda’s teachings intent is crucial for a warrior. My anger can stay. Maybe it is what it is, but I ain’t leaving it that way. The power of anger can be rerouted to intention. There is a lot of power in anger. Why waste it by repressing it, or tossing it aside like some lucky penny gone bad, in your efforts to bring more Light to the world? Look to the Ancestors: how did they deal with it? Anyway . . . ummmm . . . oh yeh, the Equinox. The Veil is parted bigly. Bigly? Yeh, friggin Trump, don’t get me started. When the Veil is parted this much there is a lot more access than normal to the realm of Faerie, the Ancestors, The Side, whatever ya wanna call it. Castaneda called it “the Nagual”. Whatever. For me it is the goddess Brighid I welcome and call. And the love of my life, Lori. At the moment she is smiling as bright as can be, which is infinitely bright, my friends, for she has been encouraging me to repurpose her love for me by opening my horizons a tad by refusing to hold on to her and get on with it. Yeah buddy. Boy howdy I could say it’s about time – but not even. Not even close. I mean, the time is right at any given time, but time is not what we think it is, and since I believe in retrocausality the love that she and I shared was maybe the effect and what is happening now the cause. I’ve been called backward numerous times in my life. That choice of words is somewhat pejorative, but now I see the word as a validation of my retrocausality. And on that note I think I’ll go medicate the cat. It’s the darnedest thing! She actually asks for the injection now, whereas I used to feel trepidation because a few times she has tried to reject it, which ended up with me giving blood and her with insulin in her blood. That kind of success happens only through intent.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.