Day of the Buzzards

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Rosie the cat being mysterious

“All of us, whether or not we are warriors, have a cubic centimeter of chance that pops out in front of our eyes from time to time. The difference between an average man and a warrior is that the warrior is aware of this, and one of his tasks is to be alert, deliberately waiting, so that when his cubic centimeter pops out he has the necessary speed, the prowess, to pick it up.”  ~  Carlos Castaneda

“There is no rule that is true under all circumstances, for this is the real and not a statistical world. Because the statistical method shows only the average aspects, it creates an artificial and predominantly conceptual picture of reality.”  ~  C. G. Jung

There certainly seems to be a lot of magic in the air these days, at least there was yesterday, for me anyway. The Autumnal Equinox is only two days away, so I guess that explains everything, right? Not! Today I could so easily write about the political world, which seems to me to be nearly totally conceptual. I am alluding to the Jung quote that opens today’s post. See, as I progress through my life, which has been eerie since 1984, I am more and more taken aside by Jung’s work, and it feels right. Got it? Yesterday was about synchronicity, and sweetly so. But before I get to that I hafta mention one important event that determines that the arrival of Autumn has indeed occurred here in Taos, New Mexico. We don’t need no stinkin’ weatherman, or woman, to tell us, because we have a more reliable source. I knew the change had happened when I looked out the picture window at work yesterday, only to behold the magickal sight of a huge kettle of buzzards, elegantly circling over McDonald’s. “Kettle” is the accepted term for a group of buzzards in flight. And the “Donald” in McDonald’s does not refer to Trump, although it looks likely that he will be seeing symbolic political buzzards before too long. Good journey dude, and don’t trip over yer tongue, child. Get thee elsewhere. What I was getting at before the TV president distracted me is that when the buzzards in Taos gather, then head south, Autumn is here. I know I’m ready. Now, moving forward, I had two powerful synchronicities yesterday. The first was when a man came into the store, wearing a Key West t-shirt. Since the Keys were my home for 23 years I took the liberty to comment on his shirt. Turns out the guy is from Key West. We got to chatting about it and I mentioned that I graduated from high school down there. Well, what a coincidence, he did too. My high school was Coral Shores, in Tavernier. His was in Marathon. Marathon and Coral Shores are arch rivals. I remember, as a member to the CHS band, going to play at a football game between out two schools. They won that one, but the striking and memorable part of that trip was when a group of us kids were kinda hanging out on a grassy spot by the ocean, one of the kids happened to have a guitar, and he played “Wooden Ships”, by Crosby, Stills, & Nash . . .

“Wooden ships on the water very free and easy
Easy, you know the way it’s supposed to be
Silver people on the shoreline let us be
Talkin’ ’bout very free and easy” ~  Crosby, Stills, & Nash

. . . the year was 1972, when the music was still fresh. Don’t give me any of that ‘oldies nostalgia’ stuff. Some music is timeless, k? Get over it. And yes, I am mildly cranky this morning, in a very playful way. I mean, who gets Spring fever in Autumn, right? But that is just me. Now . . . the other synchronicity was related to my book, Theater of Clouds. Click on the title if you want to buy a copy. Just sayin. I’m not above shameless self-promotion. Anyway . . . a guy comes into the store. I have known him casually for years, from my previous job in then the natural foods supermarket in town. He told me he had found a copy of my book among the used books at the Habitat for Humanity re:Store in El Prado, where I live. The guy bought the book and read it; said he loved it. We then got to talking about NDEs, which is the topic of my book. Turns out the guy is friends with my friend who was nearly murdered in a robbery at a convenience store where I worked for three years. He was working the same shift I used to work. I left that job because I felt threatened and worried about getting hurt or killed there. My friend was shot seven times during the robbery, the last shot being to the back of the head, execution style. He survived and is doing quite well today. For a year after that numerous people thought that it was me who had been shot. It was really eerie to see those faces turn white when they saw me. Some thought I had died. Just weird. I played a part in my friend’s initial healing journey by talking with him about my NDE, and having crossed over to the Other Side. He told me, last time I saw him, a few weeks ago, that he still gets chills each time he sees me. Yeh bro, me too. All of this happened after my awakening from a dream yesterday morning, which had a romantic undertone; as reported in yesterday’s post, here at EyeYotee. Yesterday’s theme, in this real world, was Death and Love, and it was beautiful.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Life Could Be a Dream


“The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”   ~  Hunter S. Thompson

“Scraps of memory: this is not how a climax should be written. A climax should surge towards its Himalayan peak; but I am left with shreds, and must jerk towards my crisis like a puppet with broken strings. This is not what I had planned; but perhaps the story you finish is never the one you begin.”  ~ Salman Rushdie

It’s 4:30 AM, do you know where your coffee is? That was me about an hour ago. I was awake early, foiling the cat by waking ten minutes before her customary ‘tap, tap, tap’ on the head or shoulder. Upon realizing I had been awake for 90 minutes without coffee I playfully recoiled, while simultaneously assuring myself that real anger was not appropriate for the situation. See, the real stuff began and I caught it and repurposed the emotional energy into – ummmm, whatever. I’m getting pretty good at this management stuff. With a mental and/or emotional disorder you might find it best to learn to manage the stuff. Soooo, my immediate reaction was, verbatim, “Ohhhh, coffee! For chrissakes”. That exclamation sounded just like my father, and I was like all dude is that you or a memory? I am a firm believer in After Death Communications. Been there, done that, won’t stop now. Ever. Right this moment I can ‘see’ the look on Lori’s face. She was the love of my life. Her passing in 1995 perhaps was the impetus that led to my belief. I already had the makings of the belief, having experienced an NDE back in 1984. Yeh, I crossed over and came back. Please note, all you Christians: I was not reborn, I just stepped out for a few minutes, and now I am back. That’s all. But, moving forward, I did not intend to write about life and death and stuff, but now that I think of it I really have no choice. I mean, what else is there? And I’m like dude haven’t you got anything better to do? Yes, I call myself dude on occasion. I call the cat that much more than I do myself. I think the reference to my father, back in the 9th sentence here, was the first time I ever called my father dude. We must all grow, growth is good. Anyway, back to the look on Lori’s face. Because I found her face to be so beautiful I always found myself smiling when she got all skeptical on me. She was soooo cute when she did that! Her mom was a pretty good friend of mine before I met Lori, and mom was into the Edgar Cayce A.R.E. stuff, which made her a believer as well. So, the skepticism? What’s up with that? Woo woo stuff, she thought all Star Trek fans were freaks (her word, not mine), and she was firm in expressing her belief that marijuana would never ever become legal. On that last point, my dear, you were wrong, mistaken, whatever. I’ve been inside a marijuana dispensary yonder, just north of the border, in Colorado. I wish you could be there to see it with me. Hey, were you there? Just askin. And no, I did not go yesterday, because I felt like shit, physically, that is. I slept on and off all day. Were you in my dreams? No, it was some other woman, and that woman said that she and I should go get a bite to eat, almost like an invitation for a casual, spontaneous date, and yes that woman is alive and well outside of my dream world, unless, of course, you cotton to the ideas that it is ALL a dream, illusion, whatever. I can see you there with your imaginary arms crossed across your chest, that skeptical look on your face, your right foot tapping a mile a minute. Hey, yer askin me what took me so long, ain’tcha. Don’t be wry with me, k? I know what yer up to – I think. Uh hmmmm, didn’t mean to leave you readers hangin while I talked to a ghost. I just do that sometimes. Ain’t no thang. So, did I have a prophetic dream last night? Not really. I made the first move months ago. The . . . oh, never mind. I do tend to cotton to the notion that it is all a dream, so what ever happened last night in that dream happened and I am just going to have to live with it. It is what is is. What happens happens. Que sera sera. Thanks for the encouragement, Lori. Shaboom shaboom.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Trans-Dimensional Restaurant and Trauma Relief


“Psychological theories of illness are a powerful means of placing the blame on the ill. Patients who are instructed that they have, unwittingly, caused their disease are also being made to feel that they have deserved it.”  ~  Susan Sontag

Well, I’m going to write a few words then go back to sleep, until the cat’s feeding time, at which point I shall fulfill that responsibility. There was that time last week, when . . . I had a panic attack last week, the most powerful in recent memory. Knocked the crap out of me. It was in a social situation, and there was no attribution to be made. It was nobody’s fault, it was a medical episode, an existential sort of thing, which all means that it just happened, nobody was at fault, including myself, me, whatever. Yeh, there were stresses that may have looked like a cause, but to say those stresses were actually the cause is kind of like trying to put hiking booties on the cat; those claws they have will go right through Kevlar if the so chose, so don’t even try it, foolish human. And I’ll take my own hikes, when I say so, k? Good boy, good human. I still feel like shit today, partially from the physical after effects, and partially from the depressive dive that is not, and should not be, a surprise. Poor me, right? Right. I am now back home from the four night housesitting gig. It went quite well considering the conditions I note here. And now I simply feel dark and exhausted. The cat is relieved to have me back home. I can’t say she is excited though. Truth be told I am tempted to take a day trip up to Colorado for some lunch at the trans-dimensional restaurant (It’s in Fort Garland, and the story of why I call it that shall not be told. Weird place, good food. No – it has weird vibes is what I mean), and to the Medical Dispensary for some trauma relief. But I won’t do that, even though the Social Security deposit oughtta be coming in any time now. Must rest and assure the cat that I ain’t leaving her again. Anyway, I am surprised to have written as much here as I just did, even plugged in a cute and meaningful wordplay thingy. So now the nap. Day off today, word day tomorrow. PTSD says ‘don’t go into town tomorrow. Friggin place is a city during a the day. That doesn’t help’. So I’ll find some mind-distracting stuff to watch and eat some grounding food, and . . . oh yeh . . . lots of water. Say, do you remember the days when you very rarely saw peeps carrying a bottle of water with them?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Smack Up Against the Ego Thing


“The abstract intelligence produces a fatigue that’s the worst of all fatigues. It doesn’t weigh on us like bodily fatigue, nor disconcert like the fatigue of emotional experience. It’s the weight of our consciousness of the world, a shortness of breath in our soul.”   ~  Fernando Pessoa

“In a sense, one could speak of the secret life of colour. Despite its outward beckoning, like true beauty, colour is immensely hesitant in giving away its secrets. Painters learn to respect the hesitancy of colour and endeavour to refine their skill to become worthy of its revelations. A painter learns the language of colour slowly. As with any language, you struggle for a long time outside the language. There is a willed deliberateness to how you sequence the strange words to make a sentence.Then one day the language lets you in to where the words dance to your thoughts with ease and fluency. Perhaps for the painter there is a day when colour lets him in, when his palette sings with synergy and delight.”   ~  John O’Donohue

All things seem normal here in my room. Clock ticking, cat sleeping the deep sleep they do so well, coffee made, the stainless steel mug sits here steaming. It’s 5 AM. No traffic noise from the highway. For all practical purposes there is no wind to speak of. The landlady’s little dog barked a few times about an hour ago. There have been no other animal sounds at all. I have no idea what he was barking about. I don’t feel as playful as I often am when I write each morning, but that never stopped me before. Regardless of the various mental and emotional maladies that haunt my days, and nights, there is also that not infrequent glimpse of the inner self that is not ever visibly affected by the maladies, and I’m all like “always good to see you, sir”. Self-respect is good. People say don’t complain, it doesn’t do any good, and nobody listens anyway, right? I dunno, a doctor gets paid to listen to your complaints, and to examine them toward a possible solution. Why I mention this here is that in sharing my perceptions on life, here in EyeYotee blog, it may seem like complaints when it is only observation. Sometimes I really am complaining, but those times are relatively rare. I don’t think we as a people share enough about ourselves, and when we do, through word or action, it is so often a false front designed, intended, whatever, to relay a preferred impression. But I’ll not elaborate further, simply because it is about time to start getting ready for work. I do realize, from considering so many of my posts from the past few months, that I am smack up against the ego thing. Wish me luck. My interest in enlightenment is abstract at best. It doesn’t hold much interest for me. Except maybe if some enlightened being comes into my presence, in which case I’d simply say ‘right on’ then invite them to lunch. That would be fun. This may just be this chronic ennui speaking. It’s been at me for years now. Oh yeh . . . and I’ve got a stomach ache. And I feel anger as well, but let’s not go there today. So much to do, so little time. Yeh, it’s gonna be a beautiful day. I mean it too.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Trust Your Story

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“There was a narrow path beside the stream, which led from a village-little more than a cluster of herdsmen’s dwellings – at the foot of the valley to a half-ruined shrine near the glacier at its head, a place where faded silken flags streamed out in the Perpetual winds from the high mountains, and offerings of barley cakes and dried tea were placed by pious villagers. An odd effect of the light, the ice, and the vapor enveloped the head of the valley in perpetual rainbows.”   ~  Philip Pullman

“Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found. Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn. Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story.”  ~  Neil Gaiman

This morning has been somewhat dominated by a low-level power struggle with the cat, played out in the seemingly passive aggressive way that cats do business, all of which turned into a lesson in patience and anger management for me. I need work on both so I should be grateful. Right? Right. I was, and I am, but that did not detract from the sheer pain in the ass factor. Yeh, the cat was just expressing her needs. And as far as I can tell she ultimately is satisfied. It’s not about me. Yeh, I understand that, k? But what about me? It’s a circular thing. On a deeper level – well, cats are manipulative animals by nature. It’s just the way they are. It’s not so easy to look at my fellow humans that way, and have it last. Now and here, it’s just a matter of it’s gettin late, see, and I really really need to get one last gaze session with the stars, and the rest of the dark side of morning. It’s just the way I am. Bisy backson.

“This time you’ve got nothing to lose
You can take it, you can leave it, whatever you choose
I won’t hold back anything
And I’ll walk away a fool or a king”  ~  Billy Joel

Sunday was almost like being beaten up. First thing in the morning I was reading scant accounts of how my old home town of 23 years was hunkered down in the face of a hurricane of historic proportions and power. The news is still scant this morning. The islands are closed off, a pulsing mass of precautions and trauma. I know the upper part of that island chain quite well. I graduated from high school there, back in 1973. Lived there for most of 20 years after that. I can visualize what happened. I mean I have seen many storms there. Here is where I state that my heart goes out to the island residents. We are supposed to do that in this new world. And so I do. But there is a deeper truth here. My heart goes out whether I say so or not. But the two word phrase “goes out” doesn’t even come close to describing what I feel. See, my heart goes in, because that is where memories of island life are stored, in my heart. Yeh, I got beat up on Sunday. To have kept myself away from the hurricane news was unthinkable. The memories of being hunkered down and boxed up as Hurricane Andrew approached back in 1992 are timeless in both mind and heart, a PTSD-saturated fever dream, acquired while awake, while immersed in a natural force that y’all probably don’t want to experience. And Irma is much worse. The story will get worse again before it gets better. I did my best to be with the islanders in spirit. That’s how I got beat up, that’s why. I slept on and off throughout the day. I still feel like shit. I keep reminding myself it’s not about me. Yeh, I did my best to be with them. Empathy can be a harsh mistress.

So, what can I look forward to today? I dunno. A day of work, a day of fun. My job is fun, and the service aspect of it is so pervasive as to be total. Clunky sentence, I know. But being of service to others is one foundational spiritual principle I totally grok. Caring for myself . . . well, I put that one on the “needs work” list. It’s a matter of trust in that while PTSD is shouting “no fucking way!” my heart is whispering “there is no other way”. Ya gotta walk through it or around it. Your choice, yes, but don’t forget it is just a matter of trust. It is and it ain’t about me. I need to remember that, right or wrong. And why not, right? Smiling here, gently. I trust my story.

Peace out, y’all. Good gloriously.


Drape Dreams Upon Words


“If you spend enough time reading or writing, you find a voice, but you also find certain tastes. You find certain writers who when they write, it makes your own brain voice like a tuning fork, and you just resonate with them. And when that happens, reading those writers—not all of whom are modern . . . I mean, if you are willing to make allowances for the way English has changed, you can go way, way back with this— becomes a source of unbelievable joy. It’s like eating candy for the soul. So probably the smart thing to say is that lucky people develop a relationship with a certain kind of art that becomes spiritual, almost religious, and doesn’t mean, you know, church stuff, but it means you’re just never the same.”  ~  David Foster Wallace

“What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.”  ~  Carl Sagan

Tis the season of yellow flowers; extensive fields of yellow flowers. It’s not just sunflowers, though they play a starring role in the wildness of Summer’s end. Some of the wildflowers I don’t even try to identify, and that makes me think of physicist Richard Feynman, and his advice in suggesting that once a child is told the species of the bird the child can no longer see the bird. Language and words and stuff are magical. It is obvious Mr. Feynman knew that about as well as he knew how to harness nuclear power . . . and magick. Matthew Broderick made a bio-pic film taken from his writings. The film does get draggy at times. Reviews were not too good, but I enjoyed the movie and Matthew’s portrayal of a slice of Northern New Mexican history in Los Alamos, when he and his buds tinkered with the very fabric of the space/time continuum. Well, maybe not really. Feynman was an amazing and unusual fellow. Good writer as well.

Now, ummmm, before I randomly move on to the apology in this slapdash post I want to say hey to the reader from Great Britain, who has been here for a couple of days now. Thanks, my friend. I hope you get something out of my writing. There are nearly 1200 posts in the archives of Eyeyotee.

As for yesterday’s post, or lack thereof, this is where the apology comes in: I missed it on purpose, as vegging out just felt to be the more productive and proactive course to take, regardless of whatever capricious tack may catch the sail and take the ship yon whence it hath been hither. I know – WTF? I feel like playing with words today; it doesn’t have to make sense, nor for that matter it actually don’t matter none if the syntactical, lexical framework I construct is to the liking of conventionality and the likes. At the moment I am really liking the concept, image, whatever, of language and words viewed as a framework upon which meaning and dreaming are draped to the reader’s own discretion. Back some 33 years ago while thick into a gnarly recovery from a head and face injury I saw it just the other way around: that words were draped upon a different kind of framework. Were I to be wise enough I would adopt both possibilities and stack them on the shelf of rhetoric, side by side, so that when I look to one I still get both. It’s a spiritual ‘attention trap’, a trap which seems to be a gift of a puzzle from Trickster Coyote, wherein one either gets it or not, but the folly is just as important as the wisdom.

My occasional house/petsitting gig starts on Wednesday evening. I’m not sure how this will affect, effect, whatever, my postings here, but remember: I do not like composing on the iPad. We shall see. All shall be revealed. It is what it is. This too shall pass. Wait, what? Was that a string of aphorisms? Four in a row? Sometimes I surprise myself. Note how an individual aphorism is altered in meaning through it’s placement among or alongside the others. Wow. Something new to explore: synergetic aphorisms. Talk about reverse engineering, or whatever. Should be fun. And on that note, until tomorrow, I shall drape dreams upon words today.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Articulation and Sunspots


“Morality is temporary, wisdom is permanent.”   ~  Hunter S. Thompson

“Those who possess wisdom cannot just ladle it out to every wantwit and jackanapes who comes along and asks for it. A person must be prepared to receive wisdom, or else it will do him more harm than good. Moreover, a lout thrashing about in the clear waters of wisdom will dirty those waters for everyone else.”  ~  Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

There was quite a bit of talk about the End Times and the Apocalypse yesterday, at least in my circles. Makes me want to stay home today and sweat it out. Of course there are numerous days when I want to stay home. Just sayin. But there has also been talk about how lucky we are to live where we do – here is the high desert of Northern New Mexico – because it is safe: no fires, no earthquakes, no hurricanes, no sunspots. No, wait! We all have to deal with the sunspots. Solar flares, Coronal Mass Ejections? Pretty much have to roll with that one. On that cosmic scale, with the Sun, and other things, we get put in our place alright. Unless you subscribe to the notion that it is consciousness that drives us all we are pretty much relegated unto insignificance when it comes to being part of the Universe: humans on Earth might be seen as analogous to mold on an orange. Florida’s gonna have a surplus of moldy oranges in a very short period of time. Some people are sayin . . . ummmm, wait just a minute. Have you noticed a couple of Trumpian nonsense phrases sneak into my prose this morning? Well, I have, and I’m not going to stand for it. Goddess help us all if he should ever become literate. Imagine him sounding like he knows what he is talking about instead of merely ladling out WTF stew wherever he goes. It would be, simply speaking, nerve-wracking. Articulation doesn’t seem likely. I’ve heard of a couple of cases where people say he is after all the president so why not give him a chance, you know, like support him. I give him one chance: it’s not too late to resign, bro. You know you can’t finish it. Even you are not dense enough to think you can. Vámonos. 23 skidoo. Just beat it. Seriously – git. I mean, it’s going to happen so why not now? Oh well, enough politics, right? It’s shower time for me. Kinda dazed this morning, and I am sure that there is some PTSD kicked up seein’s how I saw Hurricane Andrew up close, and now Irma is fixin to scrub along the west Florida coast. It is disturbing, to say the least. But I have a workday today, then tomorrow I can . . . well, there’s a lot I could do. It’s too far away right now.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Giggle of a Smiling Goddess

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“Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence.”  ~  Robert Frost

“And her deepest enjoyment was to feel the continuity between the movements of her own soul and the agitations of the world.”  ~  Henry James

For the first time since late Spring I have my plush gray fleece robe on. It’s a sign. The morning chills are intensifying. Or is it just me? Yeh, could be. My health is a little on the funky side these days. Whatever. The robe feels good. The main feature of the morning so far is looseness from yesterday’s massage. It was much needed and well-received. It was the second time I have had a massage in the afternoon after a psychotherapy session. Mind, body, Spirit. I have these two therapists, two facilitators, who help me with the mind and body stuff while I take the Spirit stuff upon myself. Spirit is where the action is these days . . . and there is movement. I can’t stress enough just how important that is: movement. My mood is not sufficient for taking it a little further and friggin explaining what that means. Not wordy today. And I feel playfully grumpy. And I’ve got a feeling that it is going to be a fun day at work. Me thinks that is enough, since I am in the mood where if I happened to reach a state of being totally in the moment I would be worried about what happened to all of that time now that it doesn’t exist anymore. Weird. Just weird. Soooo . . . with an ongoing melody to whistle, and the giggle of a smiling goddess on my shoulders I set off into the day.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Magpies and Bromo-Seltzer


“Generally the thunder-storms came in the afternoon, but once I saw one at sunrise, driving down the high mountain valleys toward us. It was a very beautiful and almost terrible sight; for the sun rose behind the storm, and shone through the gusty rifts, lighting the mountain-crests here and there, while the plain below lay shrouded in the lingering night. The angry, level rays edged the dark clouds with crimson, and turned the downpour into sheets of golden rain; in the valleys the glimmering mists were tinted every wild hue; and the remotest heavens were lit with flaming glory.”  ~  Theodore Roosevelt, Rough Riders 

“I never see a ship sailing out of the channel, or a gull soaring over the sand-bar, without wishing I were on board the ship or had wings, not like a dove ‘to fly away and be at rest,’ but like a gull, to sweep out into the very heart of the storm.”  ~  L. M. Montgomery

One of those mornings is underway. I’ve had the darnedest time getting started with this post. The dynamic of the disturbance in my fatigued Central Nervous System is multifactorial. My brain feels to be encased in teflon, snug within a low-friction safe box. I really love that sentence. It beats “suspended in jello” hands down. Seems to me that the jello thing is somewhat trite at this time in history. Other factors? Yeh, I’m fully into some serious visceral sensations born of a spell of active PTSD triggered by Hurricane Irma. I saw Andrew in 1992. Irma is Andrew’s bigger, stronger, faster niece. It takes my breath away, and I’ve had notable tears this morning. I exposed my skin to that storm. The life energy flowing was tremendous. It felt to have some manner of alien intelligence. Sounds like Infowars, right? Friggin nitwits. Along the same lines of madness, Rush Limbaugh said that Hurricanes Harvey and Irma are a hoax by the liberals, staged to discredit Trump by suggesting that climate change is actually real. Talk about yer nefarious plots! Wow. Not to go all ad hominem and stuff but hear tell Old Boy Rush usta be addicted to Oxycontin. Maybe he still is, but seems ta me he may have already broken something. I mean, who talks like that!? Yeh, the president does too. Boy howdy the fringe of the Far Right are fully willing to deny the death and suffering of millions of people just to justify their own twisted ideas. Who does that?!!! If it is you, just knock it off, k? It doesn’t look good. In fact . . . It. Is. Not. Good.

I just went out to the side yard to check out the sunrise. It’s a mild show today. As I sat there a flock of eleven (yes, I counted them) magpies flew directly overhead, chattering away like friggin nitwits. They did a slow descent into the donkey pasture, probably aiming to harass the four-leggeds. Why they gotta be so mean? Little corvid bullies. They remind me of Republicans. No other birds in sight; no turtledoves, no kestrels, no ravens; and I haven’t heard the meadowlark in weeks. Now, the pollen count remains unknown, because my weather site doesn’t have the data. Or so they say. But something is up. I don’t have the data either, but my money is on the blooming sage. I had one histamine rush out there that had my eyes burning like roasted chile. And the tears? I’ve been having quite a few of those lately. It’s quite refreshing. BTW, the reference to roasted chile is literal. The roasters are at it all around town. Get some. We in New Mexico are proud of our roasted green chile. The aroma may not be pervasive but it is not hard to find. It will make you smile and go aaahhhh. No, really. It’s that good. And on that note I am going to put the wrap on this and publish it. It is going to be a busy day. I have to do laundry this morning. Psychotherapy at noon. Massage at 2:45 PM. I just love my massage therapist. I look forward to her hands and conversation. It is rare for me to have a schedule all day on a day off from work, but it worked out that way for today. I mean, my afternoon on a day off usually consists of reading news, quaffing a couple of pints, and a sweet nap, preferably 2+ hours. I get up about 3 AM so the afternoon ale fits close enough to the old bromide of not starting drinking til five. Since I get up three hours earlier than the median my five o’clock comes at 2 PM. I just love the word bromide. It reminds me of Bromo-Seltzer. And a bromide is also a platitude, right? The use of a platitude in public can sometimes make me queasy. So the Bromo-Seltzer is just right. Words are fun, don’tcha know.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Songs of Coyotes and Cuckoos


“Integrity’s a neutral value. Hyenas have integrity, too. They’re pure hyena.”  ~  Jonathan Franzen

“And meanwhile the sad truth was that not everyone could be extraordinary, not everyone could be extremely cool; because whom would this leave to be ordinary?”   ~  Jonathan Franzen

“Obviously, a rigid, blinkered, absolutist world view is the easiest to keep hold of, whereas the fluid, uncertain, metamorphic picture I’ve always carried about is rather more vulnerable. Yet I must cling with all my might to … my own soul; must hold on to its mischievous, iconoclastic, out-of-step clown-instincts, no matter how great the storm. And if that plunges me into contradiction and paradox, so be it; I’ve lived in that messy ocean all my life. I’ve fished in it for my art. This turbulent sea was the sea outside my bedroom window in Bombay. It is the sea by which I was born, and which I carry within me wherever I go.”  ~  Salman Rushdie

One recurrent topic of seemingly casual chat with Baby Boomers, who are not at all uncommon in the checkout line at the store where I work, is our digital interconnectivity and nearly instant information access. The consensus is overwhelming: these kids today don’t know what they have, with their smartphones and pads and stuff. Stuff is magic, and they don’t know it. Stuff is exemplary of the hive mind, with all that implies, and they don’t know it. Yeh, yeh, I’m generalizing here. Of course some of them do. In any group, however large, of people who are married to some social concept or device, there are going to be a few who can see beyond the glamor, beyond the spell that is continuously cast. Now, let me choke the realism right out of what I am saying here; not “some of them”, say “some of us“. Yes, we are all in this together. Listen, we have a president who tweets a lot, and he’s not some chirpy bird, he’s a raptor that acts like a cuckoo. A cuckoo lays eggs in a fellow bird’s nest, then leaving the other to deal with the consequences. He does it all the time. When it comes to birds the president is a cuckoo. Just sayin. Geez, sometimes I feel all catawampus from reading the daily news. And to do it online, at such speed? I can take in so much, so soon, and . . . what the heck is happening to me? I’ve frequently noticed that I take this speed and info-hunger out into the daily meatspace world. Then what? My sense of consensus time is what’s all catawampus. The world and life and stuff moves fast enough as it is, yet augmented reality moves even faster. The speed makes me edgy; I really should go cold turkey and slow the fuck down. And I know that true reality, the deep and broad stuff, is timeless, which leaves an awful lot of space for folks to stuff in as much time as they can get their hands on. Sometimes it seems to me that we are actually greedy for life experience, not usually noticing that life experience is ubiquitous. It happens all the time. Now, I’m not going to drift off here, into perennial philosophy or pop science or both. I haven’t the time. Soooo . . . moving forward . . . about ten minutes ago a lone coyote offered up a soprano musical soliloquy. He or she was right up the hill. The song could easily have been perceived as mournful or plaintive, but what I heard was a call out to the prairie wolf’s people. They’re out hunting under the full moon. They do that. It’s in their nature. And they kinda sorta spread out quite a ways when they hunt. They have to have, due to this widespread pack behavior, a way to effectively communicate, and since they don’t have smartphones they can’t send a text. Yes, they have to rely on the songs they sing, the refrains they broadcast up into the sky-at-large, and the sky takes in the songs, then gives them back as stories, maybe told through the stars, ready to use again as needed, yet the song is slightly changed each time the story advances to the next level; as in peeling an onion, the next level progresses inward, not out. The point here is that I love their songs. Each time I hear one, or several, I smile, and remember the animal, the primate, within me. Them coyotes are good like that. As I journey inward I eventually will come into contact with the inner animal, and there will have to be a reconciliation, a reckoning of difference and sameness, and what lies beyond, on the next level. Animals have exquisite integrity; impeccable behavior. Maybe I will learn. I’d best chill and get to know the beast. Then I can get on to the eternity stuff, this cosmic stuff. And only then. Listen, I’ve been through a depressive cycle for several weeks now. Let’s just say that it is in the ‘moderate’ portion of the spectrum. I’ve effectively managed it the whole time. Good on me. Such deep down cycles usually nudge me toward metaphysics or philosophy, or whatever, and with enough nudging I eventually start to go all intellectual and stuff, which in turn serves to lift me up from the dark place. That and my bare feet on the ground, against the ground. Then my heart flows freely again. Then I am prompted to offer up a song of my own. I’m a writer, so I am always eager to hear the story that comes back to me as I sing to the stars, along with my canid neighbors. The cuckoo sings to startle, whereas them coyotes and I play a different melody. We sing in the dark. And it is good.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.