The Chairman and the Firehouse


“So don’t be frightened, dear friend, if a sadness confronts you larger than any you have ever known, casting its shadow over all you do. You must think that something is happening within you, and remember that life has not forgotten you; it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why would you want to exclude from your life any uneasiness, any pain, any depression, since you don’t know what work they are accomplishing within you?”  ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

“What men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul.”  ~ Oscar Wilde

“He was cold, standing in a wood, talking to a big black bird who was currently brunching on Bambi.”  ~ Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Such an uneventful morning, and so grateful that it is this way. Hmmm, I should say “I” am so grateful? Whatever. My central nervous system is on edge. I’m sure there are psychological undercurrents that if recognized would pull back a few onion layers, or veils. I don’t remember who it was . . . someone fairly well known . . . was it Dawkins? Anyway, the question is are we really meant to understand the Universe? No is the answer. But can we understand it? I think that is a fine question, and I am inclined to say yes, but that understanding would have to come at wordless, silent times. I could well be in one of those times right now were it not for the incessant annoyance from tinnitus. Poor me, right? Tinnitus. They say that they don’t know where it comes from, unless, that is, you want to go the spiritual New Agey route and consider the ringing and hissing to be sound bleeding through from the astral world. But it is not that kind of silence. Not really. Like Ram Dass’ apartment over the Firehouse garage, you never know when that siren will shout. And will you take it in stride, with equanimity, with peaceful grace? My take on that scenario is that you can in startled reflex feel your spine lock up and your adrenals roar asunder, and still have an enlightened moment. Ram Dass pretty much said the same thing, but when I read about that I got the feeling that he maybe would rather not have to deal with the sound at all. Can’t blame him, really. And, hey, I love that man. For now, my mind is rambling and my inner chairman is getting a little too bossy. Chairman? Yeh, the guy who sits in the chair, on the chair, whatever. That’s where I want to be for the day, and the chairman is threatening to enforce his childish will. Ain’t gonna happen. Calling in to work, playing hooky, is not an option today. The chair can wait until after work. Sigh. Tired. Laundry tomorrow, and maybe the chair. I have thoughts of heading out for a walk along the West Rim Trail but I have no idea if the impetus to do so will occur in realtime. No matter. I feel ‘off’ this morning, but I’m okay with that.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Watching the Wheels


“Imagination is the golden-eyed monster that never sleeps. It must be fed; it cannot be ignored.” ~ Patricia A. McKillip

“It’s strange how dreams get under your skin and give your heart a test for what’s real and what’s imaginary.” ~ Jason Mraz

“The basis of action is lack of imagination. It is the last resource of those who know not how to dream.” ~ Oscar Wilde

“Those who fear the imagination condemn it: something childish, they say, something monsterish, misbegotten. Not all of us dream awake. But those of us who do have no choice.” ~ Patricia A. McKillip

All of Nature, all of material reality is music. All of it. Yes, I can and will call it the Music of the Spheres. It’s the Druid in me, which has remained active through perhaps a complete Millennium, using DNA as a conduit. It’s in my genes. Get used to it, k? And . . . say, was Merlin real? Is he still around? Does he dwell in the realm of Synchronicity, where matter and psyche work together to create something altogether different, through the application and use of imagination? I’m talking about the Imaginal Realm, about the Dreamtime, the Collective Unconscious; about the Faerie Realm . . . about time, which is not at all what it seems to be. But back to the music. It was coyotes who got me going this morning, back around . . . well, never mind the time. I got up earlier than usual. Thats’s what I’m sayin’. And my first step outside after a dream-saturated sleep was greeted within a minute by a grand chorus of coyotes, who were coming down off of the mesa, traveling along Camino Ovejeros, which is indeed a rocky road, to some degree. So I’ve got me kind of a Trickster vibe going, to add the the goddess vibe that fires me lately. Tis indeed a good fire.

Writing time is short today; at least if I want accomplish a few little things before I go to my day job. I missed writing yesterday, in spite of a strong directive from my conscience, because I came to the realization that I simply wasn’t into it. The whole of the morning was one nice piece of spacing out while watching the emotional, spiritual, analytical, and mythos-rich, wheels spin round and round. Maybe that was what John Lennon was on to in that one song? Yeh, probly. I was just sittin’ there watching the wheels go round and round. That morning was capped-off with a psychotherapy session which meandered a bit before settling into Jung’s protégé, the goddess Brighid, synchronicity, and what the heck I’ve gotten myself into by seeking personal evolution and plain old spiritual growth for the first time in six years. No, I don’t reckon I did so good with that there first transformation, but it served its purpose. Whew, that was one intense therapy session. Anyway, I am into mythos and imagination and what they do when they settle down and play nicely together. That’s what I am dealing with today. Gotta get to it. There’s a time clock to punch as well.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Merry Prankster Says So


“As long as you keep secrets and suppress information, you are fundamentally at war with yourself. The critical issue is allowing yourself to know what you know. That takes an enormous amount of courage.” ~ Bessel A. van der Kolk, M.D.

“You can’t really be strong until you can see a funny side to things.”  ~ Ken Kesey

“Beyond the very extremity of fatigue distress, amounts of ease and power that we never dreamed ourselves to own, sources of strength habitually not taxed at all, because habitually we never push through the obstruction” ~ William James

The best part of the show is past. I awoke into a mystical world, that is if you consider the sight of a plump waxing moon among Winter storm clouds to be all that’s necessary to make the world all mystical and stuff. I know it’s not Winter; I was speaking of the appearance of the clouds. But the thing is that sometimes the sight itself sets the tone, which opens the Veil, then the mystic steps forth. Mysticism is an inner type of thing. When it shows up unannounced grab hold of your hat, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Or that’s been my experience. If you hit all Love and Light on the first try then I offer you a grand huzzah. A huzzah is much better than a hooray, BTW. Just sayin. I open today’s post with quotes about strength, because I simply ain’t feelin’ too strong these past few days. I’ve run it through my filters of rationality and I realize that strong I am. Likely too strong, reckon? In my personal growth process I have run up smack against a seemingly immovable object. Trust me, it is a real pain in the ass. And it’s not really even an object at all. And I made it myself. I created it. I designed it exquisitely to accomplish a desire for suppression of Self. It’s like you’re walking along your inner path and you suddenly find the going getting pretty rough, up until the point where ya just kinda stop in your tracks for a moment before you decide to push through it, to just keep going. Then something grabs you by the scruff of the neck and says, “Hey, dude, not so fast. You ain’t goin’ nowhere, dude”. And I’m like all yeh okay I’ll stop. That’s me this morning. I actually got nearly eight hours of sleep, in two sessions divided by a lap cat. See, I’ve been feeling fatigued and I’m all about figuring out why, without whining. So I started getting more rest, and also started sending out little WTF drone probes, none of which has yet to report back. My intention is to push through the barrier and emerge stronger, taking to heart the advice of Merry Prankster, Mr. Kesey, who’s quote I used today. Humor is an elemental force of the Universe. Yes, it is.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



Not Knowing Now


“It’s strange how dreams get under your skin and give your heart a test for what’s real and what’s imaginary.” ~ Jason Mraz

“The truth may be puzzling. It may take some work to grapple with. It may be counterintuitive. It may contradict deeply held prejudices. It may not be consonant with what we desperately want to be true. But our preferences do not determine what’s true.” ~ Carl Sagan

“When two opposite points of view are expressed with equal intensity, the truth does not necessarily lie exactly halfway between them. It is possible for one side to be simply wrong.” ~ Richard Dawkins

Yesterday I wrote a bit about being half asleep. Today I am living the dream. Can’t seem to shake it. Maybe don’t want to. The minutes before Moonset were magical. The view was amazing, of course, and I was reminded that the Moon is coming up on full. We’ll just have to wait and see what that might mean. I’ll settle for not knowing, especially not knowing now. Later? We’ll see. At the moment I could quite easily go back to sleep. Nope. Workday. No can do. As sometimes happens, the minutes have passed on their way out. I’ve run out of time for the writing, but it was worth it, I got a little harmless rest by just sitting. Well . . . there were a coupla Rachel Maddow video clips, and I did read a coupla articles, so I wasn’t just sitting. Whatever. Shower time.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Dreaming With the Other Half


“One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.” ~ James Joyce

“As often as we made love I remembered what my poet told me, that this man was born of a goddess, the force that moves the stars and the waves of the sea and couples the animals in the fields in spring, the power of passion, the light of the evening star.”  Ursula K. Le Guin

“Good story’ means something worth telling that the world wants to hear. Finding this is your lonely task. But the love of a good story, of terrific characters and a world driven by your passion, courage, and creative gifts is still not enough. Your goal must be a good story well told.” ~ Robert McKee

This peaceful morning is at hand, at last. Sometimes I just hold back on expectations for the day, especially on days when the anxiety and paranoia are running a tad high. During these early morning hours I feel comfortable in letting any forward thinking stuff  linger instead in a somewhat amorphous state. As the time for work, at my job,  approaches I allow things to fall into place. The day begins to take shape, and I am loathe to forget that I can also do some shaping by my own hands, even if only metaphorical. I mean, people are going to see what they want to see and hear what they want to hear, and the level of freedom this provides is nothing less than a miracle. People give you a gift with their blinkered, blundered, whatever, existence. Don’t ever forget that receiving people as a gift, and treasuring their presence, goes a long way toward actually feeling the moments of interaction rather than simply letting them run around in your mind like paparazzi on Adderall. As the Nobel Prize winning physicist, Richard Feynman, said, “What do you care what other people think?”. I try to remember this. It’s important. Say, is that too philosophical for this time of day? Earlier, philosophy is pretty easy to come by, because I am still half-asleep. Lack of clarity contains some clarity as well. It’s a yin yang thing. When you are half-asleep you are pretty much still dreaming with the other half. Hypnopompic: that’s what they call this half-awake state. A lot can be gained in this state, if you only remember that you are infinitely more than just a coffee sponge. Sigh, I seem to be pretty high-minded today. What the heck did I dream anyway? I woke up feeling good; no signs of flailing in my dreams. I don’t know, there seems to be a fair amount of Spring Fever involved, and a certain smile that glows full in the feelings the memory of that smile deliver. No expectations, no plans. I’ve not heard Cupid’s lyre, nor have I felt the prick of his arrow. It is simply a feeling. I’m all about feelings today.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



A Certain Touch of Elegance


“Your soul is the priestess of memory, selecting, sifting, and ultimately gathering your vanishing days toward presence.” ~ John O’Donohue

“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

Another quiet, dull day begins. Why dull? Well, I shouldn’t complain. That rainy morning three days ago was lovely. Other than that it is the same danged thing everyday. I’m finding it to be dull. Some variety would be nice. But that’s just me. I must admit, however, the days have been quite pretty. All is well. Yesterday’s march in Washington fairly blew me away. That’s why I don’t have a lot to say this morning. That march was big stuff; deep, historical. That much fresh social energy? Inspirational, emotional. I don’t think that something of that force can really be called politics anymore. It’s way beyond that. It’s going to be fun watching the various rightwing commentators dance around trying to get a handle on this children’s movement. They’ve already begun. Dance away, brothers and sisters. There is simply no turning back. And please don’t resort to petulant expression, k? You look so silly when you do that. I can’t bear it. Sigh, moving forward. I’m still feeling loose after Friday’s massage. In the before/after continuum it was one of the best massages yet. Of course, I felt some inner ‘letting go’ kick in, and it was a totally novel thing that kicked in. It was something like the opposite of self-pity. A proactive thing. It allowed me to lay there face down and relax into a feeling of sadness that saturates the soul. This can be changed, but carefully, my friend. It takes a certain touch of elegance to help the soul process sadness into profound growth. I don’t know if the masseuse noticed the faint tears. It would have been okay if she did; she knows me well enough. And I am sweetly grateful for that. Which brings me to today. Fatigue and laundry. I need to find a good story to get lost in. Maybe try out Netflix? No, wait, what?! You think I should work on the novel?! Soon come, mon. It’s just that I need to be told a story before I tell one myself. I get the impression that most writers read other people’s stuff, check out other people’s stuff, while in the process of writing their own works. It only makes sense. If you go through life without considering the perspectives of others you might end up as president, and we all know what kind of havoc that entails. It ain’t pretty. But maybe I should leave the poor bastard alone for a spell. My new source of outrage is the NRA. I mean, how childish to hide behind an acronym! But seriously now, I know that the children’s March for Our Lives makes some demands toward safer gun laws. But you nitwits at the NRA (not all NRA members, just them dark spawn who happen to be your leaders) still insist that “they” will take all of your guns away, because . . . because . . . . yeh, there are some demands, but you slavishly wield denial if you don’t recognize that this movement was born because the kids don’t want to be murdered. Dude, is that too much to ask? No, really, I mean it. These children of Parkland, who survived a brutal, full-fledged assault, . . . these kids don’t want children to be murdered anymore. Period. What that means to your 2nd Amendment Right remains to be seen. Let me give all y’all a clue, though: these kids are hitting you on a deep, symbolic, archetypal level, while y’all have gone all stodgy and shallow and stuff in protecting your withered ideology. Y’all need some new material. Like lose the schtick about how Hollywood billionaire elitists are manipulating and exploiting the children. You sound like friggin preteens around the campfire telling ghost stories. But remember, the kids came straight up and knocked on your metaphorical front door. Times have changed dude. At least they ain’t throw eggs at your house, right?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Rainy Morning Massage




“Fiction is an illusion wrought with many small, conventionally symbolic marks, triggering visions in the minds of others”  ~ William Gibson

“Music, this complex and mysterious act, precise as algebra and vague as a dream, this art made out of mathematics and air, is simply the result of the strange properties of a little membrane. If that membrane did not exist, sound would not exist either, since in itself it is merely vibration. Would we be able to detect music without the ear? Of course not. Well, we are surrounded by things whose existence we never suspect, because we lack the organs that would reveal them to us.” ~ Guy de Maupassant 

Yesterday delivered a rainy morning, as a gift, I suppose. I saw it that way. We only get maybe a half-dozen of those a year. It seemed perfect ambience for my early morning massage. This body was in bad shape this time. Can you call it attrition? Well, of course, that’s what it is. A couple of weeks ago my psychotherapist told me I am “strongly introspective”. That’s true. I know it to be so. The past couple of weeks it is everything I can do to get my assets out the door, into town, then poking my employee code into the software at work. Note that this is not because there is anything inherently wrong with what it is I am obligated to do. There’s not. It’s a fact of life kinda thing. No praise, no blame. The thing is that it is either profoundly draining, or painful, or both, to spend all day with other people. See me and you’ll likely not notice that I have my brave face on and happiness app in the on position. I will simply look as if I am at ease and enjoying the situation, which I do, because . . . ummmm, I am. Does that sentence make sense? Seems kinda clunky to me, but in a good way. Of course. Without going into detail, I can note here that certain issues of spiritual and emotional healing are the culprits here. Some healing requires a higher level of solitude if you hope to make any kind of proactive progress. Grieving is the basic undercurrent: a job, my mom, my soulmate sweetheart. It’s a good time of year to be walking this healing path, and hopefully I can do it without flowery language. We talked about the seasonal and astrological forces yesterday during the massage. Why wouldn’t we, right? The Equinox has done it’s thing. The dark Moon is now waxing. And Mercury – that rascal – is retrograde. It was a good conversation. Always is. My theory is that in conversing along with the bodywork – for me, as a strong introvert – the stories that are set into muscle tension like a lockbox are given the option of kinda sauntering, if not out and out running, out of their archetypal prison. Freedom is good. Cultivate it; that’s what I say. A little rain doesn’t hurt either. A pair of good strong hands both hurt and help. It was a good session, and I told her so, thanked her for it too. Sometimes it is simply that simple.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Battle of Occipital Ridge


“What am I living for and what am I dying for are the same question.” ~ Margret Atwood

“To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top.” ~ Robert Pirsig

“Like most North Americans of his generation, Hal tends to know way less about why he feels certain ways about the objects and pursuits he’s devoted to than he does about the objects and pursuits themselves. It’s hard to say for sure whether this is even exceptionally bad, this tendency.” ~ David Foster Wallace

. . . and then what should arise from the early morning’s dark silence? The cry of the fox. That’s what. This excites me on several levels. What gets me most is that since I have lived here I’ve had only scant evidence that the fox lives here, too. Footprints in the snow was my first clue. Since then, not so much. This morning it just came out of nowhere, out of that timeless place where archetypes rule. About an hour earlier it was distant dogs, then distant coyotes. Those two species often play footsie in the dark. Wow, that was a weird sentence. Anyway, as I was saying. The fox was by the sounds of it about halfway up the slope that opens onto the mesa. Not far away at all. Her voice had a tone of annoyance, or pissed-off-ed-ness, to it. Or maybe it was just me, right? It is the dark of the Moon and the Vernal Equinox has just tripped us on into actual Springtime. I’ve no proof that it was a flesh and blood beast I was hearing. It could just as easily be a Spirit Animal, a magickal being. She let out perhaps two dozen more little barks as she walked away to who knows where. So, I just went and googled it. Symbolically this encounter suggests that cognitive clarity may just be beginning to re-emerge from wherever the heck it has been hiding. There’s a lot more to it, but the clarity is what stokes me right now. Now, this is a magickal time in the cycles of the seasons. The Veil that separates us from awareness of the Spirit World, the Dreamtime, the world of Faery . . . well, that Veil is a little thread-bare this time of year. A lot gets through. I’m just sayin’ that the fox may have come from there, then expressed herself through the cry of an actual flesh and blood fox. For me the Fox is Goddess energy, of the Divine Feminine, whatever. That blends right in with the inner currents of what I am on about in this earthly life, right about now. My therapist pointed out that what I wrote about yesterday, about chillin with mom while binge-watching reruns of Colombo, is the call of the Goddess, inviting me into more Feminine climes for a while, for some of the nurture and healing I’m gonna be needing before I grab hold of the tow-rope and go forth into the next phase of life. I’ll be gettin’ some of that nurture and healing later this morning, when I lay down on the massage table. The muscles and bones are worse off than usual. Pesky achy stuff. But the dark of the Moon, just beyond the threshold of the Equinox, is a good time to get a good, energy-freeing massage. I’ve been so friggin tired lately, and I reckon that it is somewhat because I have so much bound up energy. Reckon? Yeh, maybe. It’s kinda what ya get when ya bid for transformation. But that comes a tad later. Right now I’m focused on the battle of occipital ridge, which is a fancy way of saying my neck hurts! Poor me, right. Yeh, today is about me.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Incandescent Blue and Majestic Gray


“Color directly influences the soul. Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another purposely, to cause vibrations in the soul.” ~ Wassily Kandinsky

“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.” ~ Richard Dawkins

“Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways. ” ~ Oscar Wilde

Deep sleep last night and moderate peace this morning. That’s how it is today. The sun has yet to crest the gap in Pueblo Canyon, but it’s going that way. The only annoyance from a sleep so deep that the body kinda sorta just let it all loose in that the pains in my upper body were highlighted as I stirred coming awake. There was a bonus from all that pain in that I could feel the pattern of the structural glitches, most of them seemingly . . . no, not that, I almost said arbitrary. Let’s just call them random. I mean, no one intends to go down with a bicycle: you play you pay, that’s all it really is.

I took a break to watch the sunrise for a while. It was one of the displays, all orange and incandescent blue and stuff. Both pretty and majestic. I’ve been known to consider a deep gray dawn to be majestic as well, so draw your own conclusions. With me and the weather, colors and all, it is a true case of it’s all good. I don’t often use that tired aphorism, so, once again, draw your own conclusions. Geez peeps, I have the strangest urge to sit down and watch some Columbo with mom, but she died 11.5 years ago, so the accomplishment of such a thing is sketchy at best. No, I don’t know what it means. Not at all. A part of the grieving process? Boy howdy is it ever. It never stops, this grieving for the loss of the mother. I still to this day sometimes get the urge to call her around lunch hour. When I still used to do that, I had no cell phone, and pay phones were still around. What happened? I mean, really now peeps, what happened? I mean, I’ve got a friggin smartphone now. The world has changed so much that . . . well, it just changed. That’s all.  I gotta go give the cat her insulin now, so let’s call the writing a wrap. Luckily she hasn’t fought me on this in many a month. I’ve already spilled enough blood as it is. But . . . it’s all good, right? Right.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Myths Forgotten by the Day


“It occurs to me that the peculiarity of most things we think of as fragile is how tough they truly are. There were tricks we did with eggs, as children, to show how they were, in reality, tiny load-bearing marble halls; while the beat of the wings of a butterfly in the right place, we are told, can create a hurricane across an ocean. Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkable difficult to kill.”  ~ Neil Gaiman

“Nights through dreams tell the myths forgotten by the day.”  ~ Carl Jung

“Do I dare Disturb the universe?”  ~ T. S. Eliot

Wow: “myths forgotten by the day”. How cool is that, right? Actually it says a lot to me, most of which is unlanguagable. I’m kinda sorta all about dreams these days. One thing that has been missing for me is one of those . . . ummmm, what do you call it? . . . let’s call it an aspirational dreams. That’ll do. A “something” to achieve in the future. Something to beckon me forth. For a long time I have been of the view that you don’t need to consciously know what that dream entails, but my view is changing. In fact, just writing about it now, a significant shift occurred. Almost like a micro-satori. Please do not read this as whining, k? What I am seeing is that it is risky for someone like me, someone who must deal with PTSD and bipolar disorder (mine is type 2), to allow a dream such as this to get too amorphous. Both disorders are pretty much active at all times. Lately for me they have been a tad too active. So if I leave that dream in an amorphous state, the risk is that the rather insidious habitual thought patterns and tools of these disorders wouldn’t skip a beat in taking over and having their way with the dream. Believe you me, it has happened before. Many times. I won’t, can’t, whatever, call the results a nightmare. It’s just that it gets a Twilight Zone and X-Files vibe. Life then does not make sense, and that is because when the disorders give the orders rationality gets sent to the penalty box. Wow, did I just use a hockey analogy? You betcha. Anyway, what kind of dream do I want.? Do I know my life’s desire? By all indications I was born a writer. They just wouldn’t give me pencils for maybe two years. No, wait. Make that crayons. You can put your eye out with a pencil, right? Right. I ain’t so sure the dream, when it comes, will be romantic, although I would not resist that bundle of feelings. Truth is the romance thing just doesn’t strike the necessary tone right now. It might as well be a myth. At this time, moving forward, my vibes just don’t roll that way. So I guess I’ll just have to go with the writing, with the novel. But you can’t own a dream just by saying so. Sigh. I’ll get it right when I get it.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.