“You can’t reason with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns.” ~ Mark Twain
“As he was about to climb yet another dune, his heart whispered, “Be aware of the place where you are brought to tears. That’s where I am, and thats where your treasure is.” ~ Paulo Coelho
“Perhaps it is how we are made; perhaps words of truth reach us best through the heart, and stories and songs are the language of the heart” ~ Stephen R. Lawhead
Me, sitting here, and I reach down to stroke the cat. She’s on my lap, but a faint tremor of restlessness sparks within her body, simply because she does not like me reaching over and around her to type. She never does, she never has. As my fingertips connect within fur I find myself saying, out loud, out of the blue, “the cat requires ultimate reverence”. Whatever that means. And I’m not so sure it’s wrong. Finally my motions annoy her to the point of no return, and the tipping point having been reached, she launches. Scared the shit outta me! I mean come on. Anyway, the point here is the stuff that comes out of my mouth sometimes. My theory is that this emergence of spontaneous quips is an indicator of my rich inner life, and the creative fire within. I thought of one of those quips, perhaps the all-time best, yesterday. I was still with the ex back then. We were awakened by some truly odd and alien sounds. I woke first, heard the strange voices outside, and kinda snapped upright; hypervigilence, don’tcha know. Sometimes my ears even twitch upward, as if I was an animal of some kind, which of course I am. So, the sound . . . it was clearly a conversation of some sort; even a dialog maybe. I’d never heard anything like it, and could imagine no other animal sounds that might be like it, except maybe parrots on shrooms, and even that’s a stretch. But it was canine. There are a lot of coyotes out there on the mesa. To them our house was merely another features of the desert landscape. Canis latrans (‘barking dog’, in English) was our culprit. So, to my left I hear her come awake. Momentarily: “what is that sound?”. And what pops outta my mouth? “It’s the Beavis and Butthead of the coyote world”. We laughed to tears over that one. Where do I get this stuff?
The morning is almost quiet, save for one neighbor dog who won’t be quiet. Could be coyotes, on the prowl, who know; the dog sounds angry. Cold, 23º. I heard a fox, in the dark side of the morning yesterday. Quite nearby. And I’m pretty sure there’s a bobcat around here. Could be a cougar too. I love that there are some really really cool animals living so close. As for the moment . . . most of the second cup of coffee remains in the cup for me to sip at as I mildly struggle to keep a focus to write. It’s feeling pretty good. I’m surprised. The thing is I could easily go back to sleep. In part this is because I only got 6 hours last night. I got wrapped up in a little binge-watching of the series “Haven”, which is in reruns on Netflix, having been originally aired on the SciFi Channel. I like it for multiple reasons; mostly for it’s ‘zone factor’; I can easily suspend reality (and still actually know what I am doing, unlike the president) to get out of my own head for a spell. Do not doubt that TV is spell-work in that it utilizes parts of the mind usually dedicated to dreaming, both sleeping dreams and those that hide behind our waking consciousness, waiting to pounce, for better or for worse. We consciously open up to let the TV people in. Be careful with that, k? Anyway, “Haven”. It is based on a novella by Stephen King. I reckon y’all get a fair idea about the story just from reading the man’s name. It takes place in the fictional town of Haven, Maine, though it was actually filmed in Novas Scotia. The characters are likable, in fact they kinda give me that family feeling that my mother pointed out to me in regards to watching Star Trek NextGen. She and I, in our separate houses – me on Windley Key and she in Key Largo – weekly, watched the fresh episode, then we would talk on the phone about it. Later on in life it was The X-Files. That we would watch together, then afterwards we would watch the evening news, usually in great hilarity, because it all sounded so silly in contrast to The X-files. We had entered a surreal state of mind. That kind of shakes off given time. But yeh, mom was cool.
So I must go. It’s that morning where my tendency toward my barefoot island hippie boy persona reaches the tipping point and I have to break down and groom. Truth be told, I usually get pretty shaggy before the tipping point unfolds from the plenum. Maybe 20 years ago a six-year-old Native boy would call me Shaggy, each time he saw me. His mom was a striking young woman, a ‘true blood’ Native from the Pueblo. She was one (she has since passed away) I would like to have known much better, but we loved each other, platonically speaking – oh, and spiritually as well. One day I asked her why her son called me Shaggy. She smile slyly and said, “Like Shaggy from Scooby Doo”. And that, my friends, is high praise, especially coming from a six-year-old.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.