All Gurgle and Spin

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“It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.” ~ Neil Gaiman, Good Omens: the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

“And did I pass?” The face of the old woman on my right was unreadable in the gathering dusk. On my left the younger woman said, “You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.”  ~ Neil Gaiman

“When writing a novel, that’s pretty much entirely what life turns into: ‘House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.” ~ Neil Gaiman

When writing a novel? Ummmm,and just whyyyy have I neglected mine? Hmmmm? It’s not that it is hard work, which it is, it’s simply that I am afraid I will get it wrong! I don’t work from an outline and I don’t know where the story is going. It is in a way much the same as actual life, and as an introvert I must bend this tack I am on, right here and right now, by reminding myself that I am an introvert thus I’d rather be at home alone, and I don’t need to be so danged hard on myself, so no friggin recriminations, k? The cat doesn’t count as “company”; not unless she wants to. Being true to the introvert in me is to be true to much of who I am. It is a critical requirement. So what has that got to do with the novel? I’m not sure I can explain it, but here goes anyway. A couple of months ago, during a massage, I mentioned to the masseuse that I had resumed work on my novel. She read my first book, and liked it, and she knew I’d been remiss toward the manuscript, so she knows the writer in me. Her response to my statement: “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that”. I must have made a little non-lingual mouth noise, like a character in a Japanese anime. Her simple statement rattled me that much. I could have gone all vernacular on her and said “Wait, what?”, but I didn’t. So why the rattling? I actually don’t know. Why not, right? Regardless, I felt moved that she would think of asking at all. At that moment the writer in me felt recognized, and acknowledged as well, so I was a ball of integrity, which is to say that at that moment the writer in me was wide awake and present, and accounted for, and maybe even just a tad flattered. Naked on a table, under a sheet, face down, eyes closed. That is where the writer was and what he was doing. And she, in saying that, became the Muse for me. She was the only clothed one in the room. And at that moment my soul was also naked because the writer was present and aware of what was happening. Does that explain it? I’m not sure it does but I think so. Soooo . . . the next massage is scheduled for next week. I’ve got seven days, and goddess knows I need it. But I maybe kinda oughtta think about re-resuming work on the novel, just in case I forget. I can be true to myself, to my soul, by spending a lot of time alone (which a writer has to do anyway) . . . so why can’t I drop the censorship and let the words flow again? Well, maybe not flow so much as gurgle and spin. The words are all entangled with inertia at the moment, so it will take considerable effort and perseverance to get them moving again. But still and silent rather than moving and flowing, the words are still the writer. Or, geez, I could wait til next week and mention to her that I haven’t been working on the story, but she’s a massage therapist, not my psychotherapist, so I would embarrass myself by . . . oh, never mind. I gotta git out ta feed and water them wacky chickens right now. Got psychotherapy at noon. Hey, maybe I could mention to her that my neck hurts, and we could then talk about that. Not. What I want to explore is the archetypal, Dreamtime level of the issue. It’s got to come from self-knowledge, and the pursuit thereof. And wordless self-awareness as well. Don’tcha know, it never occurred to me to think of and use my nakedness in the presence of another person as a metaphor. Then there’s the Muse, and the Goddess. This is about the Divine feminine, right? Right. Now, I must go address and tend to the chickens. I’ve gone and made myself think again. For weeks it has been all gurgle and spin. Sometimes it feels splendid to think at all. But a dedicated, focused thought beats splendid. It needs no words at all. Not for a writer. Not for me. I’ll be needing’ them words for another thing.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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Three Excerpts

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“Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.” ~ William Shakespeare

Not up to writing this morning. I feel a nap coming on. Here’s three excerpts from my book.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

“The viaduct overlooked a marsh. For some reason, the Lady of the Lake of Arthurian came to mind. So I called back, out into the darkness of the marshland. She came. Her sudden appearance did not startle me. I could tell that she belonged there, that she was part of what allowed the lake and the marsh to be as they were. At first it was just a field of hazy light. But definition arose from the field. Colors formed within the now defined shape: silver, blue, and white. Here was an image of a woman, flowing and shimmering in the cool night air. Disbelief was not an option as I gazed upon this awesome spirit.”

 

“There is light in my memory of that exploration into the storm. There was no electricity within a hundred miles. The high power lines from the mainland had come undone from the wind. But I could see clearly, at 1 AM, as I wandered up to the highway. The apartment was maybe 50 yards from US 1. Reaching the road, I stood right on the centerline. The palm trees were whipping in frustration, bent over low by the fierce wind. Yet the hardwoods and the Brazilian Pepper trees in the State preserve across the highway seemed to be dancing freely. There was an energy of excitement that was only partially linked to the energy of the storm itself. Those trees were excited, and they were calling out to me to dance with them. I had to lean hard into the wind to maintain a feeling of security. Yet, balance was not difficult since the wind was steady as it barreled down the highway. There I stood, absorbing all of the intense experiential sensation, and feeling the emotional tides rising within me. This was glory! I was feeling the full power of the life energy that allowed me to experience anything, much more so a storm of this magnitude.”

 

“Life is encapsulated in a pub. The regular patrons do their daily jobs, come to the pub for companionship and to let loose the workday. There is a tribal feel to this kind of tiny and specialized community, with all of the posturing, laughing, and conflict entailed in tribal life. But it is a small world, all involuted, unto itself. Stories that come in from the outside world become mythologized, and impersonal. Yet the stories of the hurricane damage in South Dade County carried a weight of certainty within overwhelming reality, and the men who told them all glowed with the fire of life itself. Their weary faces and demeanors, their alcohol enhanced voices, and their unspoken compassion all cast a shine upon them and within them. Life itself was their story. However much it hurt, I was honored by their sharing. It felt good to be a friend with an ear. My reward was well beyond the tips for my services. My reward was to be allowed to witness the stories through the telling by men who had been there and who were not at all at ease with the experience. It was a simple yet profound opportunity for me to seek and to find the beauty of life which is so intricately and mysteriously woven into the boughs of tragedy. Tinsel in a shade tree.”

 

 

 

 

A Tiny Light and She who Shines

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“We can express our feelings regarding the world around us either by poetic or by descriptive means. I prefer to express myself metaphorically. Let me stress: metaphorically, not symbolically. A symbol contains within itself a definite meaning, certain intellectual formula, while metaphor is an image. An image possessing the same distinguishing features as the world it represents. An image — as opposed to a symbol — is indefinite in meaning. One cannot speak of the infinite world by applying tools that are definite and finite. We can analyse the formula that constitutes a symbol, while metaphor is a being-within-itself, it’s a monomial. It falls apart at any attempt of touching it.” ~ Andrei Tarkovsky

“It has been said that the first black presidency was mostly “symbolic,” a dismissal that deeply underestimates the power of symbols. Symbols don’t just represent reality but can become tools to change it.” ~ Ta-Nehisi Coates

“We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges.”  ~ Gene Wolfe

It’s 5 AM, overcast, mostly quiet. Once in a while some vehicle passes on one of the highways, then the noise is gone. The air temperature is 50º. A few minutes ago I witnessed a meteor shining through the layered clouds as it ended the life of a rock, thus stimulating my scientific imagination. Of course, by personal character, I went to metaphor and placed the swift and shiny object behind the layered clouds of my unconscious mind. Think about it. Sometimes there comes a tiny light in the darkness. This means a lot to me because it was this way when I was stuck in the Void during my NDE journey, 34 years ago. With that light came music, then my stuckness abated. Lucky me, right? Hmmmm, both light and music are forms of vibration. The tiny light in the darkness thing reminds me of Raven, who ventures into the darkness in search of hidden light. If you think about it, tiny lights may be washed out, to the point of remaining unseen, by the brilliance of our local star, Sol, yet in the dark parts of our minds . . . lets just say it is easier to spot the tiny light in the darkness rather than in the light. I think Raven is on to something. Curiously, I had a race with a raven last week, he first circling around over the hood of my car before commencing the game. I was in my car, he was on the wing in the air. He won. Every time I sped up he did as well. About 10 years ago I had the same experience, the racing thing, with a big male coyote in full winter regalia. Them are some beautiful animals. The coyote won as well, and I don’t mind. Both animals, being as they are gods, speak more to my heart and soul than they do to whatever speedway inclinations I might possess. Whatever. These were both magical encounters. Yeh, I know that some evangelical Christians would deem my take on the encounters, and my interpretation, as the work of Satan, but I don’t need his help, nor do I necessarily believe in that liar. Listen folks, you are missing out on a good part of the magic of Nature, and I invite you to have a looksee at said magic, to witness just how natural it is. Go ahead, try it, Jesus won’t mind, because he would know where I am coming from. It’s about wonder, and the awe experienced in viewing the magic of existence. That’s all. First tell Satan to shut the hell up, have a seat, then chill out. Give him a time out; Lord knows he misbehaves! That said . . . wow, I’m writing stream of consciousness this morning. Me thinks this is because a fat filament from the Dreamtime followed me out of that realm and into this one. Well, maybe that and the fact that yesterday I saw the woman who sometimes brightens my life. We chatted up close. That sort of encounter strongly tends to unmoor me, then leaving me adrift in my own stream of consciousness. Hey, I’m a romantic. Stuff like this makes my heart beat stronger and my mind all fluttery and stuff. It’s another expression from the magic of the world. I’m not in love with her, I simply love her shine. On that note I think I’ll mosey along into my workday. The forecast is for big wind today. My dear friend from the Pueblo told me these big Spring winds bring change. I believe my brother.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Past the Alarm

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“Later on in life, you expect a bit of rest, don’t you? You think you deserve it. I did, anyway. But then you begin to understand that the reward of merit is not life’s business.”  ~ Julian Barnes

“You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel—a hunger and thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughts leading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady”  ~ H. G. Wells

Two quotes to represent the fact that I slept past the alarm. Nine good hours of sleep. Just stopped in because I missed posting yesterday. Darn it, right?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Made Up Stuff

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“What matters is that life is good. It has a lovely texture, like some rich cloth or fur, or the petals of flowers, and everything else worthwhile. And that’s as true for the last man as the first.” ~ Fritz Leiber

“When I face the desolate impossibility of writing five hundred pages, a sick sense of failure falls on me, and I know I can never do it. Then gradually, I write one page and then another. One day’s work is all I can permit myself to contemplate.” ~ John Steinbeck

“Whether you like it or not, you are committed to the human endeavor. I cannot ally myself with such a purely negative goal as avoidance of suffering. Suffering is a chance you take by the fact of being alive.” ~ William S. Burroughs

It’s all so exhausting these days, but my gut tells me that now more than ever it is not time to turn away, even if only for a while. I’m talking about the constitutional crisis, of course. For some odd reason I came across an evangelical Christian the other day. Everything happens for a reason, right? Yeh, maybe. She spoke of “the war” as if it was a full-blown no doubts about it actuality. It may get there, but I doubt it. And of course the space people will come and save us. Nah, actually the space people are keeping safe distance. Gosh, I don’t know, I’m just making this stuff up. Anyway, back to the Christian woman. There was a tone of optimism in our brief chat; all mine. She seemed genuinely happy that such a war should exist. I get it. Armageddon and all. Punishment from . . . oh, stop it. I can’t do this! Soooo . . . at the end of the chat she turned to walk away, while recommending a Bible verse to me: Psalms: 91. I googled it. I have to google Bible passages because I don’t have a Bible. 91 has something to do with being protected under God’s care. Okay. I get that. But why’s she telling this to a pagan? Many questions come to me and I choose to cop out on sharing a few by simply saying that I don’t have that kind of time this morning; which is BTW true. It also prevents me from my usual morning whining and advocacy for more understanding toward mental health and illness. Oh, yeh, I also write about death sometimes. But none of it for now. I’ve only a notion for one last thing, which I made up as well. This constitutional shitstorm will pass. They may end up having to use a six foot pry bar to get the president out of the Oval Office, but they will accomplish it before too long. Don’t forget: that’s not real, I just made it up. We writers do that. Soooo . . . time to step on into the shower.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Feeling of Unconditional Plushness

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“Some people see things that are and ask, Why? 
Some people dream of things that never were and ask, Why not? 
Some people have to go to work and don’t have time for all that.”  ~ George Carlin

“People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.” ~ Neil Gaiman

“I believe in everything until it’s disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind. Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?”  ~ John Lennon

Straight up four o’clock, and there is hot, steamin, coffee, one mug, one mug to go; and only one more chance for a one on one . . .

Hey, wait a minute now. What up with all of the “one”s in that borderline-run-on sentence? Is some spirit from the Dreamtime now, trying to remind me that we are All One? Uh huh. What’s your point? It’s friggin 4:13 AM, and I am telling you right now, I’ve got a little cranky streak activated, with the cat on my lap, with my worried eyes, and, hey, don’tcha think 4 AM is a tad early to be contemplating the Cosmic Unity? I mean, really? Really?! Stop that, that’s very silly. But before we drop the subject, just to be mysterious, I gotta say that, all told, I’d rather be listening to a bagpipe right now than that, and that’s saying a lot. Now, moving on . . . or as Curly Howard from the Three Stooges would likely say at a moment like this: “nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. Why I oughtta . . .”


About the bagpipe remark: give me a misty moor to go along with them pipes, and you got a combination that opens the Veil to the Dreamtime for me. Thanks, yer a pal. I was just outside a bit ago. The dark side of morning has almost a plush feel to it, in an unconditional way. Some clouds have moved in from the West, and the weather radar shows that the mountains to the East are sponsoring falling snow. But it was them coyotes that stole the show. At the instant one of their howls emerge from the soft silence woven into the darkness,  I always get a rush, a thrill, to hear that startling sweetness pop up. And it is a good omen for me, as I view totem Coyote as one who dances on the liminal edges between the Dreamtime and the waking world. Edges? Plural? Yeh. It’s one of those “ya had ta be there” things. The thing that got me started, that turned me toward the Dreamtime, was a vector we fell into during psychotherapy yesterday. She was encouraging me to remember some of my dreams so we could do the Jungian Analysis thing with them during session. That’s hard for me. I haven’t remembered a dream in months. I feel deeply that this is by design, that my soul is benefitting more from the “not knowing” than it would from disclosure. That’s a poignant morsel to ponder. Soooo . . . going forward . . . no wait . . . During these occasional phases of “not knowing”the content of dreams I sense that I am sorta kinda in a class of sorts, where I am getting an upgrade, in a manner of speaking. Here and now it is the phase between the last drop of coffee and the approaching hot shower, after which this writer will head on down into Taos for a fresh workday. Before I go I wanna note that my relationship to the Dreamtime, at this time in my life, is overwhelmingly inhabited by the goddess. We touched upon that for a while in therapy as well. The goddess in the eyes of a smiling woman during a random encounter. Yeh, there is that.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

On the Edge of Nonsense

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“Probabilities—the surest screen a wise man can place between himself and the truth.” ~ George Elliot

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”  ~ Stephen King

Well, seems with that quotes I’m gonna let Stephen King do most of the talking, writing, whatever, here. Or maybe not. Who knows? After all, I’m in a rather painfully neutral mood this morning, painful only in that it provides such rich soil for indecision and ambivalence. I don’t want to go there, k? The thing is that indecision and ambivalence can so easily stoke any little depressive ember that is lying around unattended. There are always copious amounts of those embers, waiting for the moment to spark up and serve their natural function. Natural? Yup. I have a hard time with that one, always have. There is nothing in Nature that is not in Nature. That sentence hurts my brain. Anyway . . . I acknowledge no Devil in my worldview, so where does that darkness come from, and why does it do such dastardly things to folks? I have no intentions of answering that question. It may be one of those questions that are better off remaining questions. Woof. I feel on the edge of spouting nonsense. Good thing writing time is over, for now.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Rationality and Will

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Looking SSE from the West Rim Trail  ~  Taos, NM

“Hear the wind moan
In the bright diamond sky
These mountains are waiting
Brown-green and dry
I’m too old for the term
But I’ll use it anyway
I’ll be a child of the wind
Till the end of my days” ~ Bruce Cockburn

“Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the disheveled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.” ~ W. B. Yeats

What kind of world has this become? And the real question is, at this moment in history, what has just begun? I have no answers. Just askin’. That’s all. Now . . . The mellowness of the morning is soothing my jangled places, those places where . . . well, it’s hard to describe, but I’m a gonna do it anyway. What I am seeing is that place where my B-team demons hang out around the water cooler, waiting for something to trigger the snapshot horror that is PTSD; then they get right to work. I don’t have any A-team demons that I know of, except maybe the PTSD itself. Being as I am, I search the disorder for purpose. It may seem to be an aberration, or maybe just the price of living in the modern world, but I know Mother Nature well enough to realize that something as powerful as PTSD has got to be more  –  much more  –  than simply an affliction. I fell into a brief though deep chat yesterday, with a woman I know, talking about PTSD. She has it, but it is basically dormant. Some guy she knows had a full-blown panic event in her presence. She said it freaked her out to the point of being frozen in awe of the torturous episode. I’ll give it that much, PTSD is awesome, yet abhorrent, but . . . it is a natural process and I feel it needs to be treated as such. An episode is saturated with feelings of dying. It’s not a rational process, but the emotions do get seriously froggy. I don’t know. I had a second chat, with a man who just got diagnosed. That turned kinda weird. He started asking me what some of my reactive triggers are. I told him a couple. But when he said, “What about this?”, and did a little lurch toward me, like a child at Halloween trying to scare someone. Well, I’m good at management, and can almost always knock down the primary rush of a trigger getting tripped. The fella almost got me. I found it interesting that my reaction to his gesture was one of defiance: defensive posture. The trigger clicked and my heart said ‘no friggin way, dude’. I did not flinch, and my face got all serious and stuff  –   but I did not flinch. Friggin weirdo. One key I should mention here is that the trigger there sorta fizzled out because the empath in me sensed there was no danger there. At best his action was inconsiderate and discourteous. The rational side of me was right there when the brief panic kicked in. Rationality is perhaps the primary defense against a panic attack. Rationality can save you from a world of hurt. Rationality heals. On a side note  –  about the “empath” thing. Over the past few months, for some reason, I’ve come to learn that there are a fair number of admitted psychics in this town. And empaths. I am both, but I have never been comfortable with it. Well, maybe a few times. My favorite one was when I had a playful battle of will with a Wiccan High Priest. We were at a yard party. I’d just met him, and we were simply chatting across a small plastic table, nursing cold canned Budweiser. Then out of the blue he started pushing with his will, probing into my mind. I lingered with it long enough to get a feel for the configurations of his psychic intrusion, then I jumped right on into the sense of play, and gently pushed back. We were eye-locked in a gaze. He pushed back. Back and forth we went. And he got a big smile when I finally pushed him all the way out. I smiled too. We both knew that our psychic abilities were on a par. He got his through training and ritual. Mine were given to me by the goddess, back when I banged my head against the handlebars, then the pavement. No worries. I’ll never forget that smile, and that challenge. Nice. It’s time to wrap this up for now. This has been a fun post to write.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Thoroughly Welcome Visitor

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“So the next time you see a person with a composed face and a soft voice, remember that inside her mind she might be solving an equation, composing a sonnet, designing a hat. She might, that is, be deploying the powers of quiet.”  ~ Susan Cain, QUIET: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking

“Introversion – along with its cousins sensitivity, seriousness, and shyness – is now a second-class personality trait, somewhere between a disappointment and a pathology. Introverts living in the Extrovert Ideal are like women in a man’s world, discounted because of a trait that goes to the core of who they are. Extroversion is an enormously appealing personality style, but we’ve turned it into an oppressive standard to which most of us feel we must conform.” ~ Susan Cain, QUIET: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking

“Don’t let the muggles get you down.” ~ J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Almost groggy tired this morning. Yesterday was a rigorous day at work. More so than usual. It’s more than just that, it’s the “soul-tired” thing too. Poor me, right? “I can’t complain. Nobody will listen anyway”. I find that commonly expressed phrase to be extremely grating, especially because it comes across like a complaint, which pretty much nullifies the irony. Sheesh. Whatever. It’s just clumsy, not cute. Sigh. If only I could stay home today, but I must go to work. That’s where today’s quotes come in. My introversion is at full-throttle lately. Public life burns. I could get into personal energy and boundaries, and the field effects that work to knock the stuffing out of you, slowly and effectively, but I won’t dwell there. The electromagnetic field generated by our heart extends about fifteen feet in all directions. You do the math. I’m too tired. But smiling. Lori’s spirit came to me yesterday, and lingered most of the day. She was the love of my life, who passed away over 20 years ago. That pain has never left me. I don’t sense that mending is needed with this wound. It is supposed to be this way, because it adds a depth to life that is immeasurable; a testament to just how profound and precious true love is. Yeh, I had it; still do. Now, I’m not concerned with non-believers, and I know after death communications is quite real. And yes, I can feel Lori nearby as I write this. I asked her why she is with me right now. What is it she has come to help me with? I’ve received no explanation, so far. I can wait. She’s going to be here all day. That much I know. A thoroughly welcome visitor.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Under the Crystalline Star Fields

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Looking west over Taos mesa; vast fields of sage forest.

“Chaos is merely order waiting to be deciphered.” ~ José de Sousa Saramago 

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe

“Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears.”  ~ Marcus Aurelius

“It’s harder than they warned you: the anxiety will scratch at your insides like the creature in Alien, except it never bursts out of your chest, it just stays there, scratching.” ~ Michael Bennet

Hear tell Buzz Aldrin went to the moon. Ya reckon that’s true? Some say it was fake. Fake news. Arrrrgggh! Yeh, I know that Neil Armstrong first stepped foot on the Moon. Buzz was second. But Buzz is my hero, for punching a guy who said the the Moon landing was faked on a soundstage, and that Buzz was a liar. Buzz punched him. That is so cool! About the fake news stuff, it really rots my socks to hear so much empty usage of the phrase. Empty. Please pardon my crudity, but every time now I hear someone use “Fake news!” as a retort I can’t help but hear, “Fuck off!”, to which I can only reply, “Back atcha, dude”. What I am talking about here is a prominent illness in our nation. I’ve heard the story about the soundstage and the spaceship, as long ago as 1987. It’s still going. And how ’bout this: those famous kids who don’t wanna die in a hail of bullets during home room. Who can blame them, right? But to hear it told by the ravers, the kids are fakes, what they call “crisis actors”. If you have never listened to a broadcast by Infowars’ Alex Jones . . . ummmm, do yourself a favor and listen. A lot of this horseshit is having a direct influence on our  current and hopefully transitory administration. Alex knows all about the fake Moon landing too. It goes with the territory. Click here if you want to take my advice and hear Alex tell ya ’bout the military coup that is being arranged by an Obama supporter. Alex can be quite entertaining . . . for a while . . . and he is not burdened with evidence and facts. After a few minutes of watching Alex my brain starts to feel like live Klingon grub worms, the kind they have for lunch, all wavery, crawling, slithering, and writhing, in the bowl. And I start to feel the anger and resentment, the guy’s really really good at this. The fear. Yeh, that. It’s what Alex and Trump are selling: fear and anger. “Fear is the path to the Dark Side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering” ~ Yoda (from Star Wars, The Phantom Menace).


Yikes, seems I’m a mite riled about all this stuff. Time to settle down now. Promise. I will. I’ll step outside on the deck, under the crystalline star fields of Nuevo New Mexico del Norte. Bisy backson.


It is a lovely morning; temperature hovering right at the freezing point. I love it when the air downswings and reaches that point. It changes; the feel, the texture, the effects. It’s a level of sensuality. To feel the air. I came here from sea level, where the texture, the softness, of the air is ubiquitous and perpetual. Hence, I don’t often feel the air here. It’s just there. But when I do feel it I get all fuzzy inside. It is literally the nurturing from Mother Nature, the fire within the Hearth, a kiss from the Goddess. The heart, beating from within the vast fields of wonder, can be blessed, simply by slightly tweaking your perception. When I got all riled down in the islands, I could go dive repeatedly into the tiny harbor at the trailer park, where I lived in a concrete cottage. I’d dive and I’d dive, until I was too tired to continue. I’d even try and bump my chest against the bottom of the harbor. Sometimes I’d succeed. It gave me a sense of grounding to do so. And afterward I’d let the salt dry on my skin. I was recovering back then – recovering from the most powerful bout of depression and anxiety I have ever known. I was all fear, all day, 24/7. I’m still like that here and now, but I have learned some of the intricacies of managing the effects of the illness. Which brings me back full circle to the issue of feeling the high desert air. And the fact that I can use the wide open spaces to the west of here as my ocean. That and the troubadour heart within me, who cherishes the romance of being alive. Romance, he says? Yeh, I did say that. As I was saying . . . that and the romance of being alive undercut the illness, and bring it down to Earth, where at this very moment I need to post this, then go empty the cat’s litter box, and carry the sack of cat shit out to the trash bin, in the waning dark of this high desert morning. Have y’all noticed that I am being somewhat poetic this morning. It’s that romance stuff. My feelings have only dreams to work with. It’s a start, and this whole world is built of dreams, so having a dream and all makes me part of this grand thing we call life. In real life I am headed for toward the workday. Real? Yeh, I said that.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.