Incandescent Blue and Majestic Gray


“Color directly influences the soul. Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another purposely, to cause vibrations in the soul.” ~ Wassily Kandinsky

“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.” ~ Richard Dawkins

“Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways. ” ~ Oscar Wilde

Deep sleep last night and moderate peace this morning. That’s how it is today. The sun has yet to crest the gap in Pueblo Canyon, but it’s going that way. The only annoyance from a sleep so deep that the body kinda sorta just let it all loose in that the pains in my upper body were highlighted as I stirred coming awake. There was a bonus from all that pain in that I could feel the pattern of the structural glitches, most of them seemingly . . . no, not that, I almost said arbitrary. Let’s just call them random. I mean, no one intends to go down with a bicycle: you play you pay, that’s all it really is.

I took a break to watch the sunrise for a while. It was one of the displays, all orange and incandescent blue and stuff. Both pretty and majestic. I’ve been known to consider a deep gray dawn to be majestic as well, so draw your own conclusions. With me and the weather, colors and all, it is a true case of it’s all good. I don’t often use that tired aphorism, so, once again, draw your own conclusions. Geez peeps, I have the strangest urge to sit down and watch some Columbo with mom, but she died 11.5 years ago, so the accomplishment of such a thing is sketchy at best. No, I don’t know what it means. Not at all. A part of the grieving process? Boy howdy is it ever. It never stops, this grieving for the loss of the mother. I still to this day sometimes get the urge to call her around lunch hour. When I still used to do that, I had no cell phone, and pay phones were still around. What happened? I mean, really now peeps, what happened? I mean, I’ve got a friggin smartphone now. The world has changed so much that . . . well, it just changed. That’s all.  I gotta go give the cat her insulin now, so let’s call the writing a wrap. Luckily she hasn’t fought me on this in many a month. I’ve already spilled enough blood as it is. But . . . it’s all good, right? Right.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Myths Forgotten by the Day


“It occurs to me that the peculiarity of most things we think of as fragile is how tough they truly are. There were tricks we did with eggs, as children, to show how they were, in reality, tiny load-bearing marble halls; while the beat of the wings of a butterfly in the right place, we are told, can create a hurricane across an ocean. Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkable difficult to kill.”  ~ Neil Gaiman

“Nights through dreams tell the myths forgotten by the day.”  ~ Carl Jung

“Do I dare Disturb the universe?”  ~ T. S. Eliot

Wow: “myths forgotten by the day”. How cool is that, right? Actually it says a lot to me, most of which is unlanguagable. I’m kinda sorta all about dreams these days. One thing that has been missing for me is one of those . . . ummmm, what do you call it? . . . let’s call it an aspirational dreams. That’ll do. A “something” to achieve in the future. Something to beckon me forth. For a long time I have been of the view that you don’t need to consciously know what that dream entails, but my view is changing. In fact, just writing about it now, a significant shift occurred. Almost like a micro-satori. Please do not read this as whining, k? What I am seeing is that it is risky for someone like me, someone who must deal with PTSD and bipolar disorder (mine is type 2), to allow a dream such as this to get too amorphous. Both disorders are pretty much active at all times. Lately for me they have been a tad too active. So if I leave that dream in an amorphous state, the risk is that the rather insidious habitual thought patterns and tools of these disorders wouldn’t skip a beat in taking over and having their way with the dream. Believe you me, it has happened before. Many times. I won’t, can’t, whatever, call the results a nightmare. It’s just that it gets a Twilight Zone and X-Files vibe. Life then does not make sense, and that is because when the disorders give the orders rationality gets sent to the penalty box. Wow, did I just use a hockey analogy? You betcha. Anyway, what kind of dream do I want.? Do I know my life’s desire? By all indications I was born a writer. They just wouldn’t give me pencils for maybe two years. No, wait. Make that crayons. You can put your eye out with a pencil, right? Right. I ain’t so sure the dream, when it comes, will be romantic, although I would not resist that bundle of feelings. Truth is the romance thing just doesn’t strike the necessary tone right now. It might as well be a myth. At this time, moving forward, my vibes just don’t roll that way. So I guess I’ll just have to go with the writing, with the novel. But you can’t own a dream just by saying so. Sigh. I’ll get it right when I get it.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Mysterious Mechanism for Patience


“I had come to the canyon with expectations. I wanted to see snowy egrets flying against the black schist at dusk; I saw blue-winged teal against the green waters at dawn. I had wanted to hear thunder rolling in the thousand-foot depths; I heard the guttural caw of four ravens…what any of us had come to see or do fell away. We found ourselves at each turn with what we had not imagined.” ~ Barry López

“If facts are the seeds that later produce knowledge and wisdom, then the emotions and the impressions of the senses are the fertile soil in which the seeds must grow.” ~ Rachel Carson

Well, it’s back to sleep for me. Nice fantasy, that. If I had not seen my Nurse Practitioner a few weeks ago, and had been given a clean bill of health, I might worry at being so fatigued lately. But I do not feel at all sick or even notably unbalanced. Sure, I could use a skilled massage, but that will have to wait until Friday. I’m eager to get there, go there, be there, whatever. It’s the pain, don’tcha know. Both neurosurgeon and physical therapist have apprised me of structural glitches in my body that will, save for a miracle healing, pretty much stay the way they are in perpetuity. And they will hurt. But enough about me. Yes, I am sleepy and tired, but there is also coffee in the world. Anyway . . . the air temperature has dropped into the teens. Yikes. The sky is clear. There are no traffic sounds from the highways, no coyote songs from the mesa. Coffee all done been drunk. Cat snoozing on the floor by the idle space heater. And — oh, geez — there’s all that political news as well. Is that what is making me so tired? Yes and no. Alas, tis brain fatigue that hounds me softly this morning. The brain knows it has to perform for eight hours today. That performance will include use of the eye, the ears, the voice,and whatever mysterious mechanism there is for patience. Fascination and wonder are the reason’s I have to practice patience. My mind likes to race ahead. I live with it. Also, my heart and mind want to withdraw and keep speechless, but that is not an option. The interesting part is that I am these days often hoarse. I reckon I am forcing the speech? Yeh, reckon? Let’s wrap up this post before my rambling becomes a quest. Today I will ponder that there mechanism for patience. I already have one for compassion: I simply be here, wherever here is. I still ain’t none to clear on that.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Reconciliation of Opposites


“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.” ~ Jimi Hendrix

“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”  ~ Hunter S. Thompson

“I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.”  ~ William Shakespeare, A Midsummer’s Night Dream

“The heart has its reasons which reason knows not.”  ~ Blaise Pascal

Something, perhaps, like the logic of the soul that keeps me from staying behind with the morning. Say what? “Stay behind with the morning”? Yeh, it’s like being in the moment and not wanting to lose it, not wanting it to stop, and then you realize, with all your serene raised frequencies, that what you are wanting to do will leave you in a situation like trying to be rid of a scrap of cellophane that just does not want to leave your magnetic presence. Don’t get all frustrated. Just remember it is static electricity. Static, k? It just sits. OMG, did I just mock Zen? As luck would have it, I have no idea at all what this all means. I simply can’t stay behind. Not today. Why? I don’t know. There is something out there in the day to come. It whispers, “Come hither”. How can you resist a call like that? I ain’t even gonna try, k? Yeh. Anyway, I am supremely cognitive of the fact that I have left myself little time to write this morning, and that’s okay. I could type a little faster, right? No. Not right. Besides, I think they call the “data entry” now. I am, via modern nomenclature, no longer writing, I am creating content. Sigh, kinda pisses me off in a way. Perhaps I am not ready for the future. And if that is the case it harkens back to my previous point, with is dude, I gotta go to work today.  Now, going forward . . . that was one strange little storm that passed through yesterday. I was out on high ground on the mesa. I looked south and I could see it coming, a wall of gray whatever, coming up through the pass, down at the Horseshoe pass that leads north to one of the most awe-inspiring sights I know, round these parts: the vast scene of Taos, and the gorge, and stuff, all laid out in the valley below. That wall of gray moved north, pretty fast. Before too long there came the heightened wind, which pumped up to about a steady 60 mph for a while, whipping miniature snowflakes about in tiny gyres and broad gestural strokes. It was wild! I walked out into it, just to experience the energy of the event. And, no, I did not want it to stop; that moment thrilled me, and I did not want to let go. The hard wind lasted maybe 10-15 minutes, then it all calmed down, and it began to snow in earnest. I, however, did not calm down. My anxiety has been running a tad too high for a week or so. But I’m working on the theory that this is yer basic come on down life energy, and not just yer simple garden variety anxiety. And that begs the question: what coming event is going to thrill me like the height of that storm did? You can feel things coming. It’s not prescience or precognition. You can feel the back-flow of a big event, because of all the gyres and broad gestural strokes and stuff. It’s called weather. Fluid dynamics of the wind, and all that happy horseshit. Ooops, that was crude. See, I’m of two states this morning. One is serene, and does not want to leave the house, for fear of losing the moment of peace. The other state finds me kinda pissed off about something I can’t quite put my finger on. Whatever. It’s Spring in the high mountain desert. The wind blows crazy this time of year. Ain’t no thing; happens all the time. Part of me has romance on my mind, and in my heart. Part of me wants to ride the wind, out there alone, up where the ravens and red-tailed hawks play. What’s that I hear? Reconciliation of opposites? I think I’d best go get a shower. I’m feeling a little too lofty and  . . . ummm, I think lofty will do right fine, reckon? Nothing that a hot shower won’t fix. But first I gotta go have a gander at my car, to see how much ice I’m gonna have to scrape before I hit the road. It’s odd that I have a particular woman on my mind. The oddness, at this point, is long-lived. It was a whisper and a giggle that tipped me off, many months ago. I’ve learned a lot since it started. And I will learn more, all the while not having the slightest inkling of what the heck is going on. Such is mystery, I suppose.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



Yonder in the Future


“Disorder increases with time because we measure time in the direction in which disorder increases.” ~ Stephen Hawking

“Disorder increases with time because we measure time in the direction in which disorder increases.” ~ Stephen Hawking

I’m short on time this morning. I forgot to mention the second house-sitting gig, which is in effect til Sunday. Actually, though, I am long on time. It seems to be a growing phenomenon for me, and I like it. As Hawking suggested – there is no reason we can’t remember the future. That is what I am on about these days. There’s some good lookin’ and feelin’ stuff yonder in the future. I can wait. Don’t wanna spoil the surprise!

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Wand Magic Battle


“Traumatized people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies: The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become expert at ignoring their gut feelings and in numbing awareness of what is played out inside. They learn to hide from their selves.” ~ Bessel A. van der Kolk

“For our physiology to calm down, heal, and grow we need a visceral feeling of safety. No doctor can write a prescription for friendship and love: These are complex and hard-earned capacities. You don’t need a history of trauma to feel self-conscious and even panicked at a party with strangers – but trauma can turn the whole world into a gathering of aliens.”  ~ Bessel A. van der Kolk

A gathering of aliens? That’s what the second quote says. I can dig it. I’m not sure why I was drawn toward looking at the imprint trauma, the PTSD, this morning. Something inside is calling out. I’ve got to listen, and it will take somewhat of a Promethean effort to untie the knots that bar passage to meaning. Ooooo, nice image. Anyway . . . I’d never really thought about it in that way, not until now. PTSD is a sinister manipulator of meaning. Semiotics? Yeh, I think that plays a healthy part in it as well. So, semiotics deals with signs and symbols and how you use and read them. Me thinks PTSD operates best and most often on the symbolic level, once you get beyond the visceral level of the disorder; I mean visceral, like a Hogwarts wand magic battle going on down in the lower gut. It all starts all Draco Malfoy and stuff, moves on to Snape, and then the psychological  components begin to seek to convince you that Voldemort is behind the whole thing. And me? Sirius Black, all the way, imprisoned for something I did not friggin do. That’s what it is like for me in an active phase of PTSD. Some innocuous little thing happens in the course of my day, and it somehow trips my triggers and here we go, and whatever happens is wrong. Some dungeon master contractor see’s me trembling with trepidation, so he slaps on the ankle chains and tells me, in his best Tombstone sheriff’s voice, “Boy, if I were you I’d run”. It’s then that I realize that the sheriff sounds an awful lot like Sam Elliot. Hey! I met Sam Elliot once. His voice really is that way. And ladies, if you start up on Sam and git like all giddy like, I’m a gonna hafta start up on Jennifer Lawrence, k? Just sayin. Wow, I haven’t let J Law be my muse in a long time. That’s one of the things about Taylor Swift for me: she keeps on giving, she is a generous inspiration, and I’m pretty sure some of her song lyrics say pretty much the same things as I just said about her. A celebrity Muse helps me stay in touch with the goddess energy, and at this time of year it is important to stay connected. Actually, any time of year, but the Equinox is next week, and . . . yeh, maybe I will let Jen ride along at my symbolic side for a spell.

It’s comin’ up on dawn and I’m fixin’ ta grab my camera and go watch the light spill down through Pueblo Canyon. There are some coyotes prowling the neighborhood here at the dark end of morning. I’ve heard them several times in the past three hours. One time they sounded close, likely out at the end of the driveway, and across the road at the little creek that runs through the donkey pasture. How rural, right? Yeh, I kinda like it. I also kinda like it that today marks a Dark Moon, a New Moon, then in one week the Equinox comes. I’m lookin’ at the magical side of life. The magical side lies just beyond the symbolic, archetypal level. You start out here on the mundane plane, head toward the symbolic, then keep on walkin’ the same direction ’til y’all get there. And when you find the magic don’t forget to share.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



Like Molasses in August


“There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.” ~ J. K. Rowling

“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“When I say it’s you I like, I’m talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war, and justice that proves more powerful than greed.” ~ Fred Rogers

It’s a silent morning, relatively speaking. Traffic, nil. Wild animal sounds, same. Domestic animals, ourselves included, can’t be trusted . . . ummmm . . . . well, the cats and dogs can be trusted, though I would still keep an eye on the cat. My partial lack of trust for people is here because of watching and reading about the chamber of horrors that is Washington on the Potomac. I mean OMG. Are you serious? Really, really? It fairly boggles the mind. It’s not just tRump, it’s the Republicans too. The GOP has an undercurrent of cruelty, a darkness that runs like a river of rancid molasses in August. Ooooo, I loved unfolding that sentence . . . ummmm, anyway. I appreciate that they stand hesitant, with all of the power they have to fling about, even though I know they are here to slap down any class below their own. Luckily . . . oh never mind. I don’t wanna go there no more. Classless sons of bumpkins, if you ask me. Geez, I’d better step outside for some fresh air. Sons of bumpkins?

I could ramble on and on; I’ve seen a lot of good stories lately. I think it’s my state of mind. Maybe? Stories arise from the sensuous, subjective side of life. That’s where I’m going today. I don’t care if it’s about me, or not, k? Ohhhh . . . the opening photo . . .  That’s my foot, with my new friend, the raven across the street on the light pole. I’ve been tossing him morsels of food at lunch time. We are beginning a new friendship. That’s good.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Journeys Through the Past


“The only way out is through”  ~ Robert Frost

“I don’t know if I ever told you, my therapist said. But I’m a birder. I love birds. and when they hit a window like that, or get hurt in any significant way, they have this ritual. They shake off the pain. They shake off the trauma. And they walk in circles to reconnect their brain and body and soul. When your bird was walking and shaking, it was remembering and relearning how to be a bird. Oh, wow. I couldn’t say much after that intense revelation, but my therapist continued. We humans often lose touch with our bodies, she said. We forget that we can also shake away our pain and trauma.” ~ Sherman Alexie

“You know you’re having a bad week when you call 911, the paramedics come to your house, and one of them notices you’ve rearranged your furniture.” ~ Cherie Kephart 

Before I get to the coffee, I want to point out that I find that last quote there to be hilarious, and I use it in full metaphor form. Which means? Well, it kinda sorta reminds me that anxiety and depression are not the hats you choose to wear; they wear the hats. Or, more to the point of the quote: you don’t heal by shuffling stuff around and saying all better now. But I want to add, and underline in pink highlighter, that you should in no way stop shuffling things around. Move the couch if you must, and if it sits on a hardwood floor, get some of those hefty felt cushions to stick on the legs. Forgive me, please, I work in a hardware store. We’ve got yer felt pads. I might also suggest kneepads, in case you have to look under the couch to see if the cat is hiding under there. It won’t hurt to look, and you will have avoided encountering an animal who is suddenly awakened, and is way pissed to find that her fortress is shifting above her very head. Enough. Now, about the coffee. I don’t often make a perfect cup but I did this morning. Lucky me.

Coyotes were singing earlier. A little later it was dogs, casting up a corral of howls into the cold night air, where it reverberated for a while, then it was gone. They all stop at once. Coyotes do that too. I mean, what the heck?! How do they do that? Practice, I suppose. Today’s a workday after two off. Life goes on. I took a long drive yesterday, to clear my head out some. Traveling through this landscape by car reminds me of that old Neil Young song, “Journey Through the Past”. In a landscape that harkens back millions of years, memories go on parade, but ya gotta keep your eyes effectively on the road, so getting lost in one of those memories becomes what my former physical therapist calls “unwise choices”. She was talking about my having fallen asleep in my chair one night, so I was all knotted up when I showed for therapy. “Was that wise?”, she asked, and I was like all “listen lady I didn’t do it on purpose. I was tired, k?”. I think she understood. Interestingly enough, I have fallen asleep in this chair a coupla times in the past week or so. It’s hard on my hips, more than anything, but then my neck has been a hot mess lately as well, so how would I know, and the massage therapist had to be postponed, much to my annoyance, and . . . and . . . and . . . oh what the heck. Poor me, right? Anyway . . . I stopped for a cup of coffee for the road yesterday and happened across an old comrade from the animal shelter. She looked great, relaxed. We’uns were far from relaxed at the shelter. The ambience of troubled, traumatized animals pretty much forbid it. Now, away from that scene the love between us feels safer. For me anyway, Those were dark days back then. How dark? Dark, dark. So, anyway, my friend notified me that she had finally read my book, and that she loved it. The rush of appreciation I get when someone says that is a complicated web of feelings, but it all comes at once, so no biggie, right? The amount of work I put into that book leaves me wide-open to the immensity of it all in the face of someone taking a few hours to actually read it. It feels good. I wrote it to be read, crafted it to make it as easy as possible. Yet, considering the material . . . well, it deals with some bigtime uneasiness. That’s healing, I suppose. In fact, let me just leave it at that. I should note that Saint Patrick’s Day is fast approaching. It comes Saturday. Sure, my Celtic blood finds smiles on this day, and I like the beer well enough. But St. Paddy’s Day always finds me in imaginary dialog with Patrick, like “dude, what did you have against them Druids anyway, dude?”. I will never understand why them Christians can’t just leave us pagans to our own spirituality and worldview. Sigh. Onward, I need a shower.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

When Magic Has No Way


“The rich died, too, disappointing all those who thought that somehow they didn’t. Peter Lakes had no illusions about mortality. He knew that it made everyone perfectly equal, and that the treasures of the earth were movement, courage, laughter, and love. The wealthy could not buy these things. On the contrary they were for the taking.” ~ Mark Helprin, Winter’s Tale

“She believed in magic—the magic of places, the magic of people, the magic of coincidences, serendipity, and fortune. She enjoyed wandering through the world with the open mind and curiosity of a four-year-old child. In her world the mystical, mythical, and magical inhabited the same space and time as the ordinary and the practical. At Bethesda Terrace, she always felt close to a source of magic and creativity. It was as if she was tapping into the place where dragons, angels, gods, sorceresses, and demons came to life.” ~ Jamie Le Fay

It could be anything, but today I think it will be magic. Yeh, I look for magic most every day. It’s not a conscious thing, more of a subliminal “openness”. Sometimes it even works, the vigilance pays off. Whatever today may bring I will endeavor to avoid saying whatever. You know, like whatever.

So . . . now the cat is fed, nose deep in the stainless steel bowl. A short while ago I took a break from this writing to go watch the sunrise. Couldn’t see it. To my surprise a low cloud ceiling, 8500′ maybe nine, covers the valley, so gray it is. A gray day offers a perspective shift from the Sunshine Superman Continuum. I appreciate such a shift, but to this very day I remain careful in letting slide my fondness for gray skies. Oh, I like sunny days well enough alright. My attitude actually has nothing to do with the sunny days. It has to do with the soothing balm of relative quiet that reaches ever so gently in and suppresses the fire of constant anxiety. A gray sky soothes. I wish it would rain. Then I could seriously chill. Whatever. The day offers much and I ask little. Certainly, magic is on and in my mind.

The thing of it is . . . those four nights of pet-sitting took it out of me. I had not realized how much of a dedicated homebody I have become. Ain’t such a bad thing. Not really. I feel the time approaching when that seeming restriction will begin to lift, maybe through circumstance, maybe not. That’s the way with magic, it has no way, to speak of. The magic applies to my homebody-ness in that solitude is great for recharging the batteries of magic. The mundane world of work and caffeine can suck a fella right dry, and then the magic depletes like nobody’s business. I mean it too. At least I’ve got a muse. Best not call her an angel or goddess. So says my intuition. My intuition says a lot of things these days. Intuition is but one door into the magical realm, the realm of Faery. And in my mind’s eye, at this very moment, I can see some woman standing in the doorway, who is stroking her chin and whispering, “Is this guy like fer real?!”. Yes, m’am, I am. There, that’s a good little smile and giggle to lubricate my way out into the world today.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.