Walking Barefoot in the Snow

“It’s not forgetting that heals. It’s remembering.”~ Amy Greene

The bodies of traumatized people portray “snapshots” of their unsuccessful attempts to defend themselves in the face of threat and injury. Trauma is a highly activated incomplete biological response to threat, frozen in time. For example, when we prepare to fight or to flee, muscles throughout our entire body are tensed in specific patterns of high energy readiness. When we are unable to complete the appropriate actions, we fail to discharge the tremendous energy generated by our survival preparations. This energy becomes fixed in specific patterns of neuromuscular readiness. The person then stays in a state of acute and then chronic arousal and dysfunction in the central nervous system. Traumatized people are not suffering from a disease in the normal sense of the word- they have become stuck in an aroused state. It is difficult if not impossible to function normally under these circumstances.” ~ Peter A. Levine

Feeling overwhelmed, I am. They say that snow is coming about 10 AM. I shall welcome the storm. I read an article earlier that explained how the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems work, what they do, and in PTSD it’s all the sympathetic system working. Always stuck on ‘alert’. That’s me. Thus the overwhelming. But it is Sunday morning, still dark, and although something was prowling in the yard a while ago I did not feel afraid. I’m looking to go all parasympathetic today. And, it can be done. At the moment the cat is on her bed at my side. Plenty of good coffee still in my cup. This head of mine feels cottony and achy. Achy hands. Heart feeling good and warm. That’s the main thing. Some part of me, in spite of the scourge in my nervous system, is smiling. I know where it came from. I am inclined to just let it sit and shine today. Yesterday I wrote that something happened recently that opened me up a good measure. Truth be told, it made me kinda weepy in the immediate aftermath. What’s up with that, right? Regardless, it happened and it warmed my heart. Yeh, Sunday and snow. I may go out and walk barefoot in it if there is enough accumulation. That sounds pretty good at the moment. Walking barefoot in the snow serves as a kind of reset for my nervous system. Onward.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Instinct of a Crippled Tomcat

“Those with less curiosity or ambition just mumble that God works in mysterious ways. I intend to catch him in the act.” ~ Damien Echols

“Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent and original manner possible.” ~ Richard Feynman

“She had an immense curiosity about life, and was constantly staring and wondering.” ~ Henry James

“The value the world sets upon motives is often grossly unjust and inaccurate. Consider, for example, two of them: mere insatiable curiosity and the desire to do good. The latter is put high above the former, and yet it is the former that moves one of the most useful men the human race has yet produced: the scientific investigator. What actually urges him on is not some brummagem idea of Service, but a boundless, almost pathological thirst to penetrate the unknown, to uncover the secret, to find out what has not been found out before. His prototype is not the liberator releasing slaves, the good Samaritan lifting up the fallen, but a dog sniffing tremendously at an infinite series of rat-holes.” ~ H. L. Mencken

Something happen recently that changed my world in an instant. It was a surprise, almost a shock; quite pleasant, perhaps even soul-stirring. It sure felt that way. Yes, I am being mysterious, and no I am not going to tell you what it is that happened. It is what it is, so don’t even try it. For more than two years I waited for this, without actually knowing that I was being patient the whole time. I have a curious relationship with patience. A good analogy is my hands. A couple of days ago a customer at work commented on how steady my hands were, and I was like “when?”. I held out my left hand, palm down, and simply said “This hand always shakes”. The shaking was visible. Case closed. But my hands can indeed be steady, if something I am doing requires steadiness. I related a story in my book, Theater of Clouds (click here), of how I came to realize that regardless of my neurological and structural challenges instinct can override them at times. It was an adolescent ginger tabby tomcat who showed me. Hermes got hit by a car, which all but crippled his hindquarters. The poor boy was spastic a good part of the time; most of the time. But one day I saw him poking about in some weeds when something caught his attention. His whole posture shifted in an instant as he began stalking whatever it was. Moving slow and low through the weeds, he expressed the full grace, and rather scary precision, that cats know so well. No spasticity, no sign of any kind of impairment at all. When his graceful approach proved fruitless he simply hobbled away, the instinctual grace having disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Curious indeed. The uptake here is that my hands do that too. As for that surprise I was talking about in the opening of this post, there is a similar dynamic going on there as well. My father often disparaged instinct. I respect that, but that ginger cat showed me otherwise. Have you ever watched a cat stalking something, anything? How slow they move, almost imperceptible at times? Here’s the thing: are they being patient? Was I being patient for two years? Simply put, no. Listen, I’ve run out of time here, so I gotta get to my workday. I realize that I may be leaving this post at loose ends. If so, so what? In the immortal words of Curly Howard: “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk”. Onward.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Of Panic and Cuteness

“When time is reduced to linear progress, it is emptied of presence.” ~ John O’Donohue

“There’s been time this whole time. You can’t kill time with your heart. Everything takes time.” ~ David Foster Wallace

“And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time’s malleability.” ~Julian Barnes

“The advantage of living is not measured by length, but by use; some men have lived long, and lived little; attend to it while you are in it. It lies in your will, not in the number of years, for you to have lived enough.” ~ Michel de Montaigne

A rather enjoyable perusal of political panel discussions has come to an end. It is so easy to sit back and listen to these people who . . . what is it they call them? Pundits? Talking heads? Not that it matters. They have kept me entertained this morning; except for there being not a sign of Natasha Bertrand, from The Atlantic. The magazine, not the ocean. She pleases me in many ways, intelligence being one of the more prominent ways. Freshness in expression, another way. Plus, she is such a cutie! No, I am not being sexist here. In my view, a man can be a cutie as well. I have been, on and off throughout my life, called cute. I’ve learned to tolerate it, and since I’d rather be cute on my own terms, I’ve learned to accept that one . . . where the heck was I going with that. I don’t feel so cute at the moment, k? But back to Natasha. She is but a child of 26. A child? Yup. I realized one day, while watching a video panel discussion, that 26 is really really young, and upon that realization I got all “and just how the fuck old am I?”. There is no answer to that question, as far as I can tell. Of course. What’s the Hallmark aphorism? Yeh, yeh, yeh . . . you are only as young as you feel. I feel pretty good today. But young? Well, yes and no. Yeesh, my mind wants to go into an examination of time. No thanks, not today. I’m all mellowed out from an excellent massage and a productive psychotherapy session yesterday. In the latter we fell into some scrutiny of my PTSD, and how I can be triggered by someone coming up behind me unannounced, and the resultant panic attack will make my next 48 hours hell. But what we came to notice from our dialog was that sometimes such an unannounced intrusion does not trigger me at all. Come to realize that this can be explained through how we’uns sense electromagnetic fields, whether we like it or not. The bottom line is that if someone has jagged personal energy they will get my cortisol pumping. If their energy is balanced and confident, the harmonics within my own energy detects no intrusion at all. It’s a question of balance. Don’t test me on this. I had such a test a few weeks back, by someone who had obviously been told about my troubles with surprises of that nature, and they wanted to see if it was true. And what I realized at the moment of the test was that people who would do such a thing likely would not take a swing at my head with a bat to see if my head was attached. There is not that much difference between the two types of attacks. I kept my reaction, the panic, contained, and luckily the resulting anxiety was not severe. I wanted to turn around and friggin roar in their face. I contained it, and I could not manage a smile within my shaking and quaking muscles. In the immortal words of Taylor Swift, “Why ya gotta be so mean?”. Yeh, what she said.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Perceptual Problem

“But you never know when the magic will descend on you. You never know when the grooves will open up. And once the magic descends you don’t want to change even the smallest detail. You don’t know what concordance of factors and variables yields that calibrated can’t-miss feeling, and you don’t want to soil the magic by trying to figure it out, but you don’t want to change your grip, your stick, your side of the court, your angle of incidence to the sun. Your heart’s in your throat every time you change sides of the court.” ~ David Foster Wallace

“I think the truth is probably that enormous, sudden, dramatic, unexpected, life-changing experiences are not translatable or explainable to anyone else, and this is because they really are unique and particular—though not unique in the way the Christian girl believed. This is because their power isn’t just a result of the experience itself, but also of the circumstances in which it hits you, of everything in your previous life-experience which has led up to it and made you exactly who and what you are when the experience hits you.” ~ David Foster Wallace

Fresh coffee, Rosie the cat asleep on the bed. Tinnitus cranked up to 11. Every once in a while I go back to the Mayo Clinic website to check and make sure I understood it right: tinnitus is a perceptual problem. That renders the reality of the condition irrelevant. It doesn’t matter if it is real or not, if it bugs you enough you end up thinking about it anyway. Says me. Point is, this morning I perceive high decibels. I suppose I should be grateful that it ain’t real. Yeh, I can do that. Say, do ya reckon tinnitus is an illusion? I find that question to be seductive. Geez, enough already. It’s a questionable use of intellect, this time of the morning, to push the boundaries of absurdity. But With Trump in the world them thar boundaries are far afield. Nuff said. As for me, I haven’t been feeling exactly vital the past few days. Likely that was why I missed posting for two days in a row. No biggie. Anyway, today is what my massage therapist calls my “Spa day”. I see her in the morning then drive straight on over to the psychotherapist. Body, Mind, and Spirit. The first two are covered with the skills of two lovely women, who also happen to be excellent at what they do. The Spirit part is pretty much up to me. I should probably do my taxes this afternoon, but that would be a waste of a day of therapy. I think I will just commune with the Universe instead. Be at home. Feel at home. I’ve got me a nice little respite from active depression goin’. These times are worth savoring. It all comes down to the moment. That should be quite enough, thank you very much. That’s gratitude for ya. And I ain’t bein’ the least bit ironic by saying that. My gratitude is real.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Imagine Thoughts as Ping Pong Balls

“Constriction alters a person’s breathing, muscle tone, and posture in order to promote efficiency and strength. Blood vessels in the skin, extremities, and internal organs constrict so that more blood is available to the muscles, which are tensed and prepared to take defensive action. At the same time, the digestive system is inhibited. We may also feel numb and shut down.” ~ Peter A. Levine

“Psychologists usually try to help people use insight and understanding to manage their behavior. However, neuroscience research shows that very few psychological problems are the result of defects in understanding; most originate in pressures from deeper regions in the brain that drive our perception and attention. When the alarm bell of the emotional brain keeps signaling that you are in danger, no amount of insight will silence it.” ~ Bessel A. van der Kolk

“Long after a traumatic experience is over, it may be reactivated at the slightest hint of danger and mobilize disturbed brain circuits and secrete massive amounts of stress hormones. This precipitates unpleasant emotions, intense physical sensations, and impulsive and aggressive actions. These post-traumatic reactions feel incomprehensible and overwhelming. Feeling out of control, survivors of trauma often begin to fear that they are damaged to the core and beyond redemption.” ~ Bessel van der Kolk

It generally takes about 48 hours for me to recover from a panic attack; even a small one. That stretch of time doesn’t cover all the symptoms. Not by any stretch. The more troublesome sink back down into the baseline, to the places they simmer and hide, waiting for the next threat, real or otherwise. Those baseline symptoms, for me, are the ones that have been smacking me back into weariness whenever something pleasant, or beautiful, or instinctively direct, happens. Instinctively direct? It’s like I get all proud and stuff when I recognize that some aspect of my behavior was or is truly instinctual, regardless of what society, or culture, may say about it, or think about it, and these instinctual forces cut through the constricted layers of guck and hopelessness that PTSD has engineered as armor. It’s like, ‘boy howdy there is still someone alive in there!’. A bit dramatic, I know, but it is hard not to be dramatic when you are pumping cortisol like blood sugar; when you have temporarily broken out of your shell; and your intact authentic self sends you a text about the triumph, and that text makes the whole thing go poof. Just poof. It’s the sole, core reason I don’t use text messaging. And why the ringer on my phone is often muted. As now, there are times in my life when pleasure and joy are hard to come by. I wouldn’t want to miss out on these rare feelings when they come. I don’t want a text message telling me what is real. But now, moving forward . . .

Geez, I was starting to get a little cranky there. My bad. I went outside to get a hit of the fresh, nearly frigid air. No wind, no traffic on the highway, no canid proclamations. Quiet. Nice. Right? Yeh, it is. It’s a workday. I can feel my body tensing up already. I won’t dwell on it though, just in case something instinctual arises. That’s another thing I don’t want to miss. Imagine thoughts as ping pong balls being popped out of a machine, like one of those contraptions that dispense baseballs, tennis balls, or hockey pucks, so that you can practice your sport, perhaps to refine your skills. There is no refinement in random thoughts being tossed at you, for any reason. It just creates a mess. I will try not to get ensnared in that mess today. In the immortal words of Captain James Tiberius Kirk, “Sounds like fun”.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

In the Subliminal Soundtrack of My Mind

“It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.” ~ Samuel Beckett

“At any given moment in our lives, there are certain things that could have happened but didn’t. The magic moments go unrecognized, and then suddenly, the hand of destiny changes everything.~ Paulo Coelho

“The fact that we live at the bottom of a deep gravity well, on the surface of a gas covered planet going around a nuclear fireball 90 million miles away and think this to be normal is obviously some indication of how skewed our perspective tends to be.” ~ Douglas Adams

“A tiny change today brings a dramatically different tomorrow.”~ Richard Bach

This seems to be another of those 2019 mornings when I could simply surf videos and articles about scandal and tyranny . . . well, all day long. That’s what I am saying: all day long. But I ain’t going there. I think it was seeing the photo of Kid Rock posing on the Mar a Lago golf links, standing alongside Trump, and the Kid is wearing American Flag pants. A lot could be said about that. But all I will say is that somebody looks pretty darned stupid. And there may more than . . . let’s leave that alone. I don’t want to get riled today. It is Sunday, after all. Shortly after I woke up this morning I could suddenly hear quite clearly the coyote chorus rising up from the sage. Now, that last sentence was pretty clunky, if you ask me. I can do better. But this underscores one of the reasons I write blog posts most every day: practice, practice, practice. I don’t need to go back and rewrite the sentence because all I really need to do is to read it and go “Oh, dear. Did I really write that?!”. Anyway, moving forward, between waking and this here current moment, I got lost in some Youtube videos, and ended up watching Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, live at the Fillmore, in 1974: the song, “Almost Cut My Hair”. The performance? Mind blowingly impeccable and compelling. It is much too easy to forget the levels of intensity that musicians were cranking out back then. Me thinks it might be a good idea to cultivate a habit of watching some old videos on occasion. I think this is . . . no, I know it is . . . why I get a feeling like nostalgia when I listen to modern pop music. It is not authentic nostalgia because there is no undertone of melancholy to it. All I can say, to those of you who are my temporally challenged contemporaries, is that besides Taylor Swift, this gull durned modern music ain’t even in the same ballpark as that old stuff. Yeh, I’m a big Taylor Swift fan. I don’t consider this to be a guilty pleasure, although I used to feel that way about the woman and her music. I think she is brilliant, that’s all. And I’ve invited her to lunch, burgers and beer, several times in this blog. I don’t know what I would do if she actually accepted my invitation, but it is burrowed deep within a blog that has very few readers, so the chances of having to face that are slim to none. I talking a nano-% of probability. I’m safe. But, nonetheless, Taylor, my dear, the offer still stands. And on that note, my good readers, I shall mosey along into a safe Sunday morning, with the haunting music from CSN&Y jamming back in the subliminal soundtrack of my mind.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Morgaine and the Magic Wine

“You can shoo people away in real life, but not when they force their way in through the dream door.” ~ Donna Lynn Hope

“You know a trillion times more about art than me. But I’ve learned that it isn’t necessary to know all that much. You just make what you wanna see, right? It’s a game, right? It’s like being paid for dreaming.” ~ Tom Robbins

“Writing a book is always a hard job. One is always tempted to limit oneself to dreaming it.” ~ Gaston Bachelard

“What you are seeing and hearing right now is nothing but a dream. You are dreaming right now in this moment. You are dreaming with the brain awake.” ~ Don Miguel Ruiz

It is proving to be hard to get any words out this morning. Something about dreams, and danged if I can figure out what it is. Heavy allergies have my head in an itchy fog. But it rained. I first noticed it when I lay down to sleep last night, having put on a sleep learning mp3 that is designed to subliminally encourage creative genius. I could do without the genius part, for sure. Who needs that? As I put my head on the pillow I heard what sounded like rain. These sleep learning subliminal albums sometimes use the sounds of rainfall to sooth you down to where you can actually learn something. But I did not remember there being any rain on this particular album. Yeh, it was a nice addition, as if the Universe was saying “Rest child”. So I did. I slipped off through the gateway of a smile. Sweet stuff. Now, I still don’t remember what I dreamt, nor do I have any proof that is not still going on. But it is – it is still going on. And there’s a strong element of Spring Fever to it. Goddess stuff. Without going into too much personal process I can note that what I work on in therapy has much to do with goddess stuff. We were talking about it yesterday, as it has been a hell of a week in my dealings with and relationships with women in my life. Only part of it has been hellish, I should note. The predominating factor has been quite the opposite, it has been sweet discovery and even an occasional sparkle of understanding. I just went back and reread my blog post from last Tuesday, the 19th. I wrote about Lori, for whom I will always grieve. That’s one I won’t let go. Finding one’s soulmate ain’t no small thing. When they die it gets larger than large. And on we go. I imagine this Spring Fever stuff will carry on into Beltane, about a hare, hair, whatever, short of six weeks from now; Beltane being the beginning of Summer in ancient and modern Celtic tradition. In legend Beltane was when almost-King Arthur impregnated his half-sister, Morgaine. There was a magical White Stag involved as well. Beltane is about fertility. What can I say. Morgaine, of course, was a witch, a witch with a bad reputation these days. Some say she dabbled in the Dark Arts. Boy howdy, many modern Christians believe that any magic is of the Dark Arts. That of course is bullshit. I’m guessing they don’t include multiplying loaves of bread beyond rational and material probability. Or turning water into wine. I mean, who does that?! Magic is our birthright. That’s all I’m saying. And now that we have box wine we can get on to other uses for our magic. I’m using mine to protect myself where protection is need. I’m also using it to keep track of a certain smile I know. No ritual is needed in keeping track. All I need is eyes and ears and that giggle from the goddess who tickles me at the oddest times. She’s one of many goddesses, of course, but one of the best, which is good because . . . oh, never mind. I’ve got to get on to my workday. Bueno bye. Oh, before I go . . . I wonder how much magic wine Morgaine drank? Mixing metaphors in mysterious ways can be great fun (and the blogger meanders off into his day, giggling).

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Fabric Softener for Space and Time

“Semiotics is in principle the discipline studying everything which can be used in order to lie. If something cannot be used to tell a lie, conversely it cannot be used to tell the truth: it cannot in fact be used “to tell” at all.” ~ Umberto Eco

“They were unironic enthusiasts for all the mass pleasures the culture offered: television, NASCAR, cruises, Disney World, sports, celebrity gossip, and local politics. Szabo often wished that he could be as well adjusted as Melinda’s family, but he would have had to be medicated to pursue her list of pleasures.” ~ Thomas McGuane

“In fact, pop-cultural references have become such potent metaphors in U.S. fiction not only because of how united Americans are in our exposure to mass images but also because of our guilty indulgent psychology with respect to that exposure. Put simply, the pop reference works so well in contemporary fiction because (1) we all recognize such a reference, and (2) we’re all a little uneasy about how we all recognize such a reference.” ~ David Foster Wallace

Did you know that they have “Prime Rib and Horseradish” flavored potato chips? That kind of stuff just freaks me out and makes me greet the 21st Century by asking “where am I?”. And that’s just in the chips aisle. Try going to the “Packaged Snacks” aisle. And if I had an iPhone I’d be texting to ask if wasabi-flavored toasted almonds would be appropriate on the snack tray. And of course they would. Delicious they are. Whatever. My magpie mind is chattering away, bolstered by the strands of magic that have so generously come along with the Full Moon and the Equinox. You’d think that with all this magic in the air I would be able to start a blog post with something other than industrial snacks. These foods are not designed by chefs, they are designed by chemists. No, really. I know that leans more toward dark magic than light. But ya gotta have both dark and light magic, even if only to maintain a workable reference point. Now, moving forward . . . my ears are ringing up well into critical levels. I’ve noticed that I can’t actually determine the frequency of the bass line in this maddening music. There is none. If you can even call this stuff music . . . well, you’d have to call it amorphous and free-floating as well. Still, it is maddening. It is like pain in that you have to deal with it in ways that make it blend into your day in a way that ends up in the subliminal realm so as not to be a bother as you sip on noxious Red Bull, or sweet and creamy Starbucks stuff. It’s still hard for me to believe that we have a Starbucks in Taos . . . oh, wait, I was comparing tinnitus to pain. My point is that both conditions create a slow and steady subliminal drain on my energy, thus my Raggedy Andy posture at the end of the day. This day is laundry day, a task that requires that I go to one of my sacred spaces: the laundromat on the Pueblo, where the quarter-fed Om of the dryers spinning is a subliminal effect as well. And cleanliness. And fabric softener. Just imagine if they had fabric softener for the fabric of Space and Time. And how do you know that they don’t have it? Sigh. I suppose that if I have to entertain myself with science and stuff today I might as well toss in Chaos mathematics and Strange Attractors as well. It’s not only all good, it is what it is as well. I just love that sentence! Onward.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

She Who Happened Through

“Popular culture is a place where pity is called compassion, flattery is called love, propaganda is called knowledge, tension is called peace, gossip is called news, and auto-tune is called singing.” ~ Criss Jami

“Simply touching a difficult memory with some slight willingness to heal begins to soften the holding and tension around it.” ~ Stephen Levine

“I do not admire the excess of a virtue like courage unless I see at the same time an excess of the opposite virtue, as in Epaminondas, who possessed extreme courage and extreme kindness. We show greatness not by being at one extreme, but by touching both at once and occupying all the space in between.” ~ Blaise Pascal

Here’s to the first day of Spring. I’m sitting here with kind of a wow feeling bouncing around in my cauldron like a pinball; and if by the mere mention of pinball you conjured up the sounds of Pete Townsend wailing on his Les Paul, well, I have to say you got it just right. I was once a minor-class pinball wizard, but I have not played in years. Do they even have those things anymore? Back in the early 90s I used to play long into the early hours of the morning with the true love of my life, Lori Mellon. Two, maybe three, o’clock, a fair amount of beer in us, copious nicotine, and a love deeper than the sky. That was us. I drank draft Budweiser with a chunk of lime at the bottom and she had her Miller Lite. It was a good arrangement. I wrote at length about our time together over the pinball table, in my book, but not here, not today. Tis the succinctness of feelings that still hold me fast to Lori’s memories. She died in a car crash, down near Fort Meyers, in the Summer of ’95. I’m crying at the moment. Heck, I’ll admit it, since I was just sitting here trying to catch my breath, she still leaves me breathless after all these years. Big girl, 5′ 10″, IQ of 167, buff athletic build from soccer, yet she had a softness to her that absolutely drove her crazy at times. She was often kind of annoyed at my propensity for tenderness. Too bad, lady, it comes with the package. I’d say things like that to get her to laugh and smile and friggin loosen up a little. That smile dazzled me. I remain dazzled to this very day. And this day is the Vernal Equinox, and a Full Moon to boot. That’s probably why Lori came to me this morning: the Veil is way thin, and when that happens you never can tell who might happen through.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Skunk and the Beaver

“The bodies of traumatized people portray “snapshots” of their unsuccessful attempts to defend themselves in the face of threat and injury. Trauma is a highly activated incomplete biological response to threat, frozen in time. For example, when we prepare to fight or to flee, muscles throughout our entire body are tensed in specific patterns of high energy readiness. When we are unable to complete the appropriate actions, we fail to discharge the tremendous energy generated by our survival preparations. This energy becomes fixed in specific patterns of neuromuscular readiness. The person then stays in a state of acute and then chronic arousal and dysfunction in the central nervous system. Traumatized people are not suffering from a disease in the normal sense of the word- they have become stuck in an aroused state. It is difficult if not impossible to function normally under these circumstances.” ~ Peter Levine

“Perhaps a creature of so much ingenuity and deep memory is almost bound to grow alienated from his world, his fellows, and the objects around him. He suffers from a nostalgia for which there is no remedy upon earth except as it is to be found in the enlightenment of the spirit–some ability to have a perceptive rather than an exploitive relationship with his fellow creatures.” ~ Loren Eiseley

Sluggish again, two days in a row. Risking sounding whiney, or hearing that everybody feels this way sometimes, I cop to the trauma again. Sigh. But it does not, with any kind of firm metaphorical hand, keep me from perceiving the important things in life. Like the Moon. She’s up there beyond the clouds, which are thick enough to nearly occult the orb altogether. I love that kind of stuff. Or reading that scientist have revealed that a meteor exploded over the Bering Sea, last December, releasing a force that was ten times the power of the atomic bomb that exploded over Hiroshima. I find it odd that the bomb was named “Little Boy”. Something about that bugs me in a cosmic sort of way. I won’t dwell on it, nor do I even have the urge to . . . I don’t know where I was going with that. Never mind. But the coolest thing about the meteor is that it took us three months to notice it, because nobody seems to have actually seen the thing in person; an “if a tree falls in the forest” kind of thing. The cat is asleep in her bed, to the right of my chair, blissfully unconcerned about exploding extraterrestrial objects. The last swallow or two of tepid coffee sits in my cup, awaiting consumption. Yeh, it’s good to the last drop. It’s a workday. My war with the backyard skunk has swung in my favor for now. Pepper spray, at the opening to the place where the beastie likes to nest, effectively gave me victory in this particular battle. Bully for me, right? I in no way expect to never see that critter again. I feel like Bill Murray in his war with the gophers. Again . . . bully for me, right? Skunks are very beautiful to behold. Nuff said. The lovely animal will return; I have no doubt of that. And if anybody brings up the name Pepé Le Pew, I will righteously unleash Foghorn Leghorn on them before they can even begin to utter Rumpelstiltskin. “Boy, I say, boy, now don’t get me riled!”. That’s what I say. I’m not cranky so much as I am simply on high alert. The PTSD got mildly triggered yesterday. That which tripped the trigger was fairly petty and not at all important at this point. Everybody feels that way at times. Gee Wally, do I sound pessimistic and dark . . . dag nab it, I nearly quoted Beaver Cleaver! I don’t know what got into me. My bad. I’m just grateful that I stopped myself in time. No, wait, I really did quote him, though I am pretty sure that he never actually said that. Whatever. Apocryphal TV trivia can be kind of fun, though. But, so much for my foray into pop culture, except to note that I must confess to a deep love for Foghorn Leghorn. I assure you that not everybody feels that way. I’m feeling moderately depressed this morning. I hope that my attempts at humor here have amused you to some degree. As for the depression? Ya pretty much have to roll with it dude. That’s all, folks.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.