“For the artist himself art is not necessarily therapeutic; he is not automatically relieved of his fantasies by expressing them. Instead, by some perverse logic of creation, the act of formal expressions may simply make the dredged-up material more readily available to him.” ~ Al Álvarez
“Trauma is hell on earth. Trauma resolved is a gift from the gods.” ~ Peter Levine
“Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.” ~ Mark Twain
Upon waking from dreams there was magic afoot in the land. Not a bad way to start the day, right. Yeh, buddy. Midsummer’s Day just past, Full Moon in Capricorn coming right up. And I am sitting here on my assets, crafting words, some in appropriate ways and some in ways as plucky as the day is long. Truth be told, I know this mood. It’s a personal rarity for this one to be entangled in any kind of orthodoxy. Which makes it a rare kind of day, one where the pluck will indeed hold the Trickster’s hand throughout, and they will make mischief together, along the Yellow Brick Road. I would rather it be a boulevard instead, but I did not write the story now did I. I’m drawn to Scarecrow, up until them Flyin’ Monkees (sic) show up. At first, of course, seein’ how they struck terror upon the band of protagonists, without so much as a Howdy Doody. But in the end, after the old hag melted “like brown sugar”. Sugar? That leads my thoughts to Willy Wonka and all that candy, but that, my friends, is a different fantasy. Listen, I gotta feed and medicate the cat. Bisy backson.
There is a foreboding, subtly couched within the morning. Perhaps foreboding is too harsh a word. Maybe trepidation. Point is it’s gonna be friggin hot. I was out yesterday for about 40 minutes. 90º and windy; a blow furnace. And maybe ‘couched’ is not quite right either. I don’t have a couch, just this chair. But have no doubt that I will become One with the chair; whereas with a couch someone else can always sit down as well, and then One goes poof when One becomes two. Don’t think about that too much, and for heaven’s sake don’t look for hidden meaning. Nor should you plan for me to discuss Duality in these pages. Who’d ya think I am, Bill Nye on mushrooms? I can’t go that route myself. Likely I’ll plug my pre-frontal cortex into Netflix and call up some more episodes of Star Trek Next Gen. I’ve been watching season 6. After five years they had gradually comes forth with deeper story lines and sharper, more modern production values. Lately I have come to suspect that this retro-fascination with these lovely re-runs is because those were the years when my quest to reconstruct my world after the bicycle accident, NDE, and head trauma, became more intense. The show’s episodes were so often morality plays, drizzled with ethical challenges. By watching these old episodes I get a look at some of the building blocks I stacked, out from the cornerstone. Of course another type of building block was through observation of seagulls, ospreys, and kestrels. And pelicans. Pelicans hold a special significance, for they gifted me generously. But that story is not for the telling today. Hey, maybe I should write about Wade the pharmacist soon. He helped me more than he will ever know. The pelicans’ teachings bore fruit when I began to make bicycle rides to Key Largo with Wade, barhopping just a tad. A Rumrunner here and a Rumrunner there. Coconut oil and early-90s chic bikinis. One time Wade even asked me if i wanted to write up a summary about Prozac for his CMEs test. I declined and put my feet up, poolside. Yeh, buddy.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.