“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.