The Last Fly of Fall

Even though we had a good freeze not too long ago, I saw a sign of summer last night. Buzzing about in my tiny living room, a fly. I know better than to take off my sweater, summer is a long, long way off; but I dream. The fly is wearing long stockings and a muffler that flaggs behind. Gloves and earmitts and a turquoise down vest. A broad, tooth-filled grin under bug-eye goggles. It snickers and glees as it dives and turns through the wasteland and canyons of my writing desk; between the african violet and the lamp and the pencil cup. Stopping to adjust a stocking, a wee rest and OFF again zooming and gliding and barreling about.
It leaves me alone, unlike the kamakazi flies of autumn last. They would sniggle into my beard and fuzzle at the corner of my eyes, begging to be taken out and joking and jiving in a teenage gangish way, watch me, Alonso, I can make that guy slap himself. And I did slap myself and missed, nearly broke my glasses. Nearly broke the serious silence of the task at hand, thinking and abstracting in a distant region of my mind.
We had a swift and furious storm that brought leaves from another town and moved our fallen leaves nearly to Canada. Trashcans went mobile and rolled to distant blocks, helping the neighbors to get together, swapping lids and storm tales. Big, proud trees knocked down like bowling pins and out over the Pacific another storm lined up. We are nailing down the roofs and keeping one eye out for a weather change. I slept through most of it and awoke to a town with no electricity. I saw the flashes and heard the booms of electric line transformers overloaded and defeated.
The thin veneer of convenience stripped away, I saw my town differently. Teen boys in t-shirts celebrated no-school on skateboards, oblivious to the cold. Freedom can be a warm blanket and what is inconvenient to most, a source of delight to some. Without electricity, time stood still, routine broken. The best of two worlds, a return to simpler times and a new look at what we have.

the storm

We had a bad blow of a storm a couple of days ago. Yesterday we had no power untill mid-afternoon, lucky us, some are not going to have power for days and days. It certainly changed my routine, as I am really hunkered down now. We tried to open the cafe, made Cowboy coffee and hot water for tea on a camping stove. Then the electricity got restored and it was back to normal life. While it lasted, it was fun.

Soup and bread for dinner

We did a fundraiser for the cafe last Wednesday and not only did we have great food, but the generosity of the diners was notable. We raised nearly $400, bringing the total of the "ransom fund" to $900. We had used some of the money for paying the power bill, the rest will be held untill Gretchen has to pay taxes. So that should help her attitude and go a long way to getting the old Gretchen back.

Indian drumming

It starts this time of year. The drumming. Drifts across the channel at night, loud and insistent. It is the Swinomish People continuing their old traditions. They gather in a big building and drum and dance and work their magic, a magic that we white folks are oblivious to. We watch T.V. We are spectators. They are creators.
Once, I heard the drums and followed a yearning. I was incredibly drunk and without inhibitions. I felt the need for something cohesive. I went to where the drumming came from. By the back door I entered their church, uninvited and under the influence of a drug that they had battled with for centuries. I saw a glimpse of what they do there.
Of course, I was ejected.

So what is it that I was seeking, in my "state". What are we, as "civilized" folks, missing? I wonder what place inside of us, an empty place, there is that we need to fill with some primal chant.

I still long for that. With all that I have, I am empty.

The cloning of Gretchen

This is a series I wrote to create some controversy in order to help raise some money for Gretchen, the deserving proprietress of the "save my life" cafe.

A TERRIBLE THING HAPPENED last saturday. Gretchen was abducted by armed gunmen and replaced by a clone.
A ransom demand was made. For a paltry $2000 the real gretchen will be returned to us. Needless to say, we are negotiating with the abductors over the pricetag. (Never pay retail)
In order to strengthen our negotiating position, we need a respectable wallet of cash. (The abductors are capitalists)
So, if you want the real Gretchen back, not this beechy, grumpy, whining clone, please vote for her with your dollars.
Honestly;
Roberto
Chairman of the Get Gretch Back Committee

Part Two:

IT KEEPS GETTING WORSE!!
Roberto went to meet with the armed kidnaping capitalists to negotiate a discount on Gretchens' ransom.
When he returned he was uncharacteristically happy, bright and cheerfull. Those cloning capitalists had replaced him with a clone too.
Damn. We are going to miss his grumpy, pouting and withdrawn self. The good news is that the ransom demand was discounted to a mere $100 AND it's a two for one deal. We get them both back for 50% off. (If we act quickly)
Truthfully;
Michael
Treasurer, Get Gretch Back Committee

Part Three
IT JUST GETS WORSE AND WORSE!!
I left the cafe where Roberto's happy clone was grinding coffee and being unlike his real self, WHEN I ran into the real Roberto. He was mad. He had escaped from the clutches of the capitalist cloning kidnappers. He told me that the kidnappers were aliens and they are going to ship Gretchen off to some distant petting zoo, as she is a prime specimen (speciwoman?) of Nordic womanhood. They would have sent her off, but she is just too skinny, so they are putting weight on her. The recipient aliens are slimy multi-armed spoiled-clam-smelling creatures that like to touch and feel stuff. We have to rescue Gretchen from this miserable fate!!
PLEASE, help get Gretchen back before she gets too fat and sent offf to that horrid petting Zoo.
In all Truth;
Treasurer G.G.B.C.

WELL, my life is in the TOILET.
The clone that the aliens replaced me with, somehow got credit cards(maxed out), a bank loan and borrowed money from all my friends and from people I have never even heard of. All my tools are in a pawn shop.
I am ruined. Cloning is not a good idea, let me tell you. No wonder that clone was in such a good mood.
I found out that the only protection from the aliens is a high blood-alcohol level, as it makes one invisible to the aliens. That's been usefull, but the hangovers are HELL.
So, I got rid of my clone and am trying to put my life back together. Meanwhile, Gretchen is gaining weight and her clone is getting meaner. Don't be fooled!!
Truly
Roberto,etc.

Note: so far we have raise $400 to help pay the bills.

Ransom Gretchen

Winter brings with it higher heating bills and Gretchen, the proprietress of THE CAFE, here on the south side of La Conner, gets real stressed trying to make make ends meet in the face of higher utility bills. So to urge the cavalry to come to the aid of a beleagered sweetheart, we have been asking for donations to help with the extra costs.
As it turned out, a little joke I made became the basis for a plea for help. I've been writing some stuff about a kidnapping of Gretchen and a demand for ransom. The story evolved ever more preposterous and the humor seems to help loosen pursestrings, along with the enormous goodwill that Gretchen has acrued.
We are planning a couple of fundraisers and the group has responded with generosity and creativity. So far we have $250. Marilyn Johnson brought in some stocking caps she knitted, sold by donation to go into the "ransom fund". We are planning to have a soup, bread and desert dinner on the 13th and we have some volunteers to make dishes. There will be some other events and permutations.

Cold toes and old prose

If anybody else shows for No Mike Open Mike tonight, I plan to read a couple of (I think) good poems about being snowbound. We have had the most glorious snowfall that I have seen since I lost my childhood eyes, that magic sight that we all wish to regain or at least experience again. It is a welcome change from the endless dreariness of a season of unrelenting rain and gray days.
I like to write poetry and appreciate well written verse. I can only imagine the days of paring, honing and rewriting that goes into a masterpiece. I don't have that patience yet, but it is Inspiring.
Meanwhile, it is enough to keep warm. The temperature is brutally cold for the area. Walking is noisy; crunch, crunch, crunch go the footsteps. Extra care when walking, don't want to get too intimate with the frozen earth. It all makes you appreciate the warth of the cafe and the talk, the laughter and glow of friendship.

White Rain

I have read that any sort of change in a working environment makes people more productive. Even if the change is perceived to be negative. Humans need change, as much as we need routine. The same thing day after day after day after day -- you understand, it gets boring.
I saw the look of awe on the face of a three year old; the first snow, speechless, shining beaming. It was enough for her to just walk in the snow, hear the crunch under foot, feel the drag of wet snow on the toes of her green boots. The snowball fights and snowman making will come later.
I saw a lone snowgoose flying at dusk, white feathers on snow-gray clouds. I saw my own tracks, where I had been an hour ago and where others walked. In a real heavy snow, the streets are owned by kids and the young at heart. Cars stay home. Delight comes out and sleds and slides down white-clad hills. Cold hands and cheeks ignored, the first sting of warm air on noses when coming into a warm house. Hot cocoa and a change of clothes, looking out a window at sentinel snowmen and the magic of the diamond glitter that snow crystals reflect.
The quiet of the night; snow swallows all noise. Bent-over trees and bushes stoically shoulder the piling snow. Stop signs and street signs whited-out by snow that precariously clings to vertical surfaces. Every little limb stands out and carries it's share of white. At the tips, crystal globes of frozen water drops.

power out(age)

It got real dark on Wednesday night. We lost electricity. Here at the cafe, it started during NoMike Open Mike. We found some birthday candles and it was magic. The light from a candle is the best for ambiance, so we plan to do it again in a few weeks. I spent a lot of time outside, enjoying the change from the routine, the strong gusts of wind, the cleared night sky and the distant flashes of thunder. A man walked by with a flashlight and asked me if I had seen a black Lab. I had to laugh, it was nearly an absurd question, a black dog in a pitch-black night. It was as if I was in a dream.
I watched the ladies tend the candles. I thought about the significance of the candlelight, their faces illuminated by that soft glow, held in the circle of light. Afterward, we decided that it was one of the better evenings. We have had a lot of better evenings, lately.

meta 4 s for everything

What if we are in a place where everything has multiple meanings, where nothing is as it seems. What if we had to read between the lines, to look at everything as if it is a wrapped gift, a box within a box within a box, like Russian dolls. What if we had to abolish the word "obvious", banish it to history, like obsolete technology or fads. What would our lives be like then? "Common sense" would become "deep sight". "Insight" would be the norm.
What if our world really is like that?

Manufacturing Consent

I have come across a profound documentary that I highly recommend: Century of Self.
Being your favorite paranoid person, I naturally gravitate to all sorts of weird and unpopular bits and pieces of conspiratorial trivia. I am surely not the most learned on the subject of conspiracies, mostly I am a dilletante, but this documentary is a keeper, as it traces the evolution of the Public Relations Industry. If you get a chance, download the documentary from Google Video and sit down to get educated on the subject of Propaganda.
Mostly, I am concerned with how stuff got into my head and what I can do to clean the cobwebs. When am I myself and when am I spewing out recordings, when am I genuine and when am I an actor, etc. I am interested in what is essential about me, stripped of the trappings of society, culture and assumptions and programmed interests.

thanks for all the challenges

Sometimes, to get out of a mental rut, we need extraordinary help. To wit: who will tell us that we are difficult if our friends can't get that across to us, or if we are unwilling to see. That is when we, if we are lucky, come into contact with a rare opportunity; a mirror appears.
I am in that fortunate space right now. One of my aquaintances is an extraordinary prick. Judgemental, mean spirited and destructive. Realy gets under my skin. That that person irritates me so much is a sign that there is work in store for me. I have known this for some time, based on the intensity of my reaction, the number of times I think about the situation and the lenght of time I spend being angry.
Yesterday, the dam began to break. I have been amiss in my behavior. I can't plead ignorance, as often I catch myself being a prick and instead of apologizing, shrugg it off. Tension grew and grew. It is not just enough to reflect on the problem, to skirt it intellectually, I need to deeply understand the flaws in my psyche. The deep understanding started to wash over me, leaving my mouth a-gape and the veil came off my eyes, if only partially. I came to understand the destructive nature of judgements and assumptions, some of my favorite forms of distancing myself (from people and the world).
Of course, the full understanding will take a long, long time. This knowledge comes slowly, bit by bit. Too much may be overwhelming.

Community

It may be that I regard "Community" so highly because I was transient nearly all my life, moving every couple of years for as long as I can remember. For those blessed with a rooted life it may feel natural, to be connected and part of a grand circle of family, friends and aquaintances. Now I live in a small town, a very small town, and I treasure my community.
A community is like a group of people in a boat, each with ideas and paddles. Now, it is fine to be paddling around, every person willy-nilly rowing, unless there is a storm coming or it is close to suppertime. Missing a meal isn't big deal; a raging storm is life threatening. Everybody should row in unison, to get to safety. So I will stretch this analogy a little more: sometimes to get everybody rowing in the right direction, a good calamity is necessary. Calamities, around here, are rare; a flood, a wind storm, some snow. We have it pretty good, all in all. Of course, not all calamities are as apparent as a noisy storm. Some are slowly undermining the foundations, hidden from plain sight. They don't advertise themselves; they need the darkness of ignorance and inaction to prosper.
Communities serve to make life easier, funner. We are social, we need humankind and humaness. Helping out and being helped, cooperating, creating and maintaining, tackling problems where two heads are better than one. Obviously communities work, there is a long history of settlements, after our adolescence as hunter-gatherers. We create institutions to safeguard our lives and culture. If there is a calamity, we chip in to get things back to normal, clean-up and learn from the event.
Community is more than a neighborhood, a town or city. It is an agreement, a promise, a state of mind, a spirit. It is the foundation on which we build the great places to live. It is the life-blood, the blueprint for a prosperous, generous and affirming congregation of people, houses and streets. It is a garden tended and cared-for; a stunning work of art or musical masterpiece.
Here is a poem by a guy that lived 800 years ago. His name was Hafiz:

Out of a great need
we are all holding hands
and climbing.
Not loving is a letting go.
Listen:
the terrain around here
is
far too dangerous
for
that.

So, watch out for the storms and calamities and if things are going well, admit that you love being on the water with your paddle and ideas. Remember, splashing water is fun. Go home when you get hungry.

Protracted Adolesence

It's possible to remain young-at-heart and never really grow up, while knowing how to play the Adult Games required to survive in Adult Society. This is called "neoteny" or Conscious Adolescence, and is genetically innate to only two creatures on Planet Earth . . . Humans and Dolphins.

Neoteny is catalyzed through a careful, non-judgmental study of adolescent characteristics and their acceptance and integration in a creative lifestyle. The spirit of experimentation so crucial to Adolescence necessitates a certain daring. No daring is fatal. What's deadly is our FEAR of: Making Mistakes, Taking Risks, and Being Awkward. This is because all three are essential to relating with uncertainty. Neoteny is dependent upon improvisatory skills . . . of quick, in-the-moment adjustments to new information. The Japanese refer to mistakes as "God Leaks" and so when they're made, we see that Life is what happens when we're busy making other plans. The fear of mistakes can be subdued by including them. The secret to taking risks is being just safe enough to do so and not too safe to feel threatened. Being awkward becomes an art form of considerable beauty when allowed its natural expression through the body. Its genuine vulnerability endears. Its groping, searching spirit brings truth to the moment it beholds.

—Antero Alli, Angel Tech: A Modern Shaman's Guide to Reality Selection

Chew on that. For a while. What did Jesus say: become a child.

Yeah, the things of Adulthood are important. Paying the bills, keeping the roads maintained; security and safety. After that comes the fun. Not fancy stuff, but joyfull gleesome whoop de doo zinging balalaboom. Dare ya to be childlike!!

In between worlds

It starts with my alarm, set to go off at 6:30. Nearly every morning it jangles me awake, signaling the start of the tug of consciousnesses. Between sleep and wake, like a Kingfisher I dive under to dream and to wake, dream and wake. Over and over, half hour cycles. I will do this for up to three hours, watching the theatre of my mind, the possibilities and improbabilities made tangible. As a child I dreamt of money, big coins that I could still feel in my hand on waking, though inexplicably vanished from my sure grasp. I have heard it said that we should judge a man, not by his acts, rather by his dreams. Knowing my dreams, I am reluctant to be judged. Weird stuff goes on. So weird that at times I think I am a stranger to my own mind.
I dive back down, having set my countdown times for 30 minutes. There is a bubble of warmth under my blankets that I fit into just right. My comforter I pull over my shoulder, across the back of my head. I close the canopy and strap on the helmet. All systems are Go. I taxi down the runway.
What most fascinates me about my dream life, is how at times it comes to me during the day. Something might trigger the memory of a dream I had twenty years ago. Maybe a smell or an association, maybe nothing I can put my finger on. A dream will surface in it's entirety, like watching a whole movie in a second, all the scenes acted out at once. What the hey!
I wonder. Wonder.
My countdown timer goes off. It is time to reflect. I think about getting up, going to the cafe. At seven, it will be very quiet, I could write. Or drink coffee next to the channel. Naw, no urge yet. I reset the timer and go back under. When next it goes off, I have lived months in a foreign place, complete with stamped passports and cheap souvenirs. Seven thirty. It is bright light outside. Time to get up and leave the dream world behind. I reset my alarm. I get up and feel the floor under my feet. I've stepped into a boat, what am I doing? Here? in a boat? Am I fishing? Yes, there is a tiny dwarf fishing rod in my hand. Funny, I didn't even notice that rod nor that I fish. Well, I might as well sink a worm and see what bites. Wait-a-minute, I just had that rod in my hand, where did I put it? And what is that noise? Damn, that is annoying.
Its my alarm! What time is it, lets see, I was about to get up when I fell back to sleep. It was 7:30 then, so it must be eight now. I dreamt about fishing, yes, reset the alarm, just a few more minutes---

Fall is coming

You see the signs: leaves turning color, foggy mornings, a lesser heat at midday. Individual leaves spiral down from their places; a quick pirouette to the ground; a second life as the breeze ushers them about. These are the early birds, before the rush, when they will swarm off the trees. The rains have started. Snails are feeding on the fermented apples and pears left on lawns. Children drag themselves to school and bounce out in the afternoon.
My thoughts turn even more morose. I wonder how I will make it through another light-less winter. I am looking for the quick fix. Anything to assuage the coming dread of January and February.
When I wake in the morning, before my mind jells into the usual, I hear the little voice tell me the truth about myself. I am paralysed. I need some kind of psychological dynamite to blow the blockage. Fall is nice, then comes winter. Crap!

No mo newspaper

Dang! Just when I was learning to read in between lines, they stopped publishing the local paper. The conversation at the cafe turned to filling in the niche. To our credit, within four or five minutes we began to seriously discuss the legal dificulties associated with slander and defamation. Double dang! Can't even dream before the lawyers step in. Meanwhile, we are paperless in La Conner. Now rumors can fly unimpeded and advertizing will have to be by word of mouth. Back to being a small town.
And now for the thursday morning wednesday evening no mike open mike report. It was nice. I could have said absolutely fantastic, but we have come to use these words far too easily, to describe mediocre events. Wonderfull. Awesome.
The musicians outnumbered the audience and the two flamenco dancers outdid themselves. I told a crappy joke and Garry brought delectable chocolate cookies. The guy with the bass fiddle showed and thumped his way through the songs. Ed was in good spirits even though a bit sarcastic. Marcia came for the first time and she can sing! Bob played the hits and Garry sang his famous campfire songs.

another sweet spot

On the hill just east of the catholic church, guarded by an alcoved Virgin Mary, is a set of stairs that lead up to a secluded brick patio with a couple of benches and surrounded by native trees and brush. In the morning the birds sing and the sounds of the town seem far away. In the gaps of the brush you can see a portion of Maple street; the rock-side condos below. It is a good spot to sit quiet, getting a feel for the town, for life. The young man who built this place, then an eagle scout, is not in Iraq. It would have been a waste.

A local treasure

There are piles of fruit all around town, fallen from the giving arms of trees planted long ago. Seventy years ago, America and the world plunged into a depression that urged the planting of gardens, trees and liquor stills. People had to do without or with less (poor people, that is). Fruit trees were prized, carefully tended and harvested. These trees are living reminders that even though we are at the whims of international bankers and criminals, for twenty bucks and some patient tending, several bucket loads of apples, pears, plums and cherrys can be savored, traded or preserved. They are a treasure laying idle.
Soon the trees will let go of their leaves and a nip will be in the air. I am fluffing-up my blankets and wondering if Costco has merino wool blend socks in stock yet. I have taken to buying about six pair every fall and they disappear into the vast hole where socks and keys and money go.

the black cat and the fog

Up early, again. It is foggy in La Conner. First fog with substance this year, that I know of. Some fogs have too much substance. Spooky. This one is just right. I like to lean back in the chair out front and look at the streetlight. The roof line shades the direct light so I can see the billions of foggies swirling around in the slight breeeze, scooting in the air, chasing each other but keeping a discreet distance. Last night I watched some children play hide and seek. It makes me smile to remember. The foggies play like that, by agreement; like touch football without the touching. If they didn't, they would become rain.
It got me to thinking about dew collectors. My bicycle seat is a dew collector. All these squirreled-away tidbits of trivia poured into my consciousness. Giant hanging sheets, like functioning Cristo installations, somewhere on an arid coast, corral the fog and fresh water flows. The night I spent miserable, trying to sleep on a parkbench in San Franciscos' Golden Gate park. Overhead the trees collected fog and drove me off the bench with the cold, water-fat drops. Using rocks at the base of grapevines to collect a few precious drops each day. A cowboy movie I saw, where the hero used hot rocks to collect dew and then sopped it up with his manly neckrag. An article on the building of a pond-sized dew collector and some historical eyewitness accounts of how well these collectors function.
Endless associations and the trivia elevator working overtime shuttling up facts from the memory hole. But when I need to remember someone's name, -------------------------------------------- blank.
Oh, yeah, I remember I saw a black cat come out of the fog.

Where is Mr. Denis

I got up at four in the dark moring on Saturday. Quite unlike me, but when these kinds of miracles occur, I am glad. It is relatively quiet, especially the psychic space, as the damn televisions are turned off. Sitting outside the cafe at five, cup of fresh coffee in hand, a smoke in the other is, well, meditative. All you hear is the faint buzzing of civilization; the hum of electricity idling in the wires; the sound of the street lamps pouring orange tinted light on the resting asphalt. But that is not what I wanted to tell you about.
As I pedaled my faithfull bicycle onto Caledonia Street (named after a region on Mars, where that Face is) I noticed that someone had drawn and written on the street. I stopped to read. There was a crude chalk drawing of what appeared to be a pumpkin with the words "Where is Mr. Denis". I noticed that some toilet paper lay about, in the tradition of sneakily decorating selected people's houses. I thought that maybe it was a message for someone in the house nearby. Awww, how sweet, somebody misses somebody. I kept pedaling. The crime scene kept unfolding. Next, within a block a cleverly done ejaculating penis. Then, by the kid's playground, another. Fifty feet later another and one in front of the cafe and another on the sidewalk in front of the cafe. Some budding artist had a field day of practice on the largest canvas in the world. Wow. With my not so considerable powers of deductive reasoning, I Then the police arrived. Trying to acertain the identity of the drawer and mumbling about having to erase the trail of graffiti. I mentioned that probably the chalk came from the cafe and better chalk than spray paint. Then it occured to me that I had misread "Where is Mr. Denis".
That is the crime report for the week.

Something new on the block

For a while I was sweating the load, status-wise. When I first moved on my block, I was not on the bottom of the economic ladder. There was a woman living back behind Dean's house that sat on the bottom rung. Then she moved. Damn. It was hard to say "Good Morning" to my neighbors. Mostly I said "Good Day" as I was getting up too late. Now, we have some homeless folk, once again living with Dean (bless his egalitarian heart). I am no longer the poorest person on my block!
They have Southern accents and talk real loud. Hard to blend in when you talk funny and don't mind if the world knows it. I guess they are from Georgia. I once drove from Georgia to La Conner. Takes two days just to get into and out of Texas. I digress. What I want to point out is that as long as they are there, I am looking like a first-class productive citi-zen. Without doing a damn thing different or anything extra. There is a lesson to be learned in that. I will have to carefully chew on this one so as to get all the flavor out.
It is hard to be homeless. It is also hard to be a Homeowner; taxes, bills, inflation, etc. I have never owned a home, except for my own body and it needs painting, a new roof and some sorely needed foundation work. I've been homeless a couple of times. One time I called it "camping", that was nearly one and a half years and it was more of a hermit thing. The other time I lived in my van, on the streets of Tacoma. Homelessness in a city is truly no joke. It takes a strong personality to keep all the ducks in-a-line. Any weakness and you drop quickly.
Now, most people don't have the internal resources to be unaffected by homelessness. In a smaller town, where people don't suffer from the "not my business" syndrome, you get some relief; you can breathe. Homeless = Hopeless. Hopelessness is self-reenforcing. Once a-drift you are pretty much at the whims of the currents and winds.

Last night was no-mike open mike night. The cafe was packed and we had a real good time. Ed and Bob played their Guitars and some guy brought a bass fiddle and was thumping out the rhythms. Everybody sang along and Nora did her near-famous Flamenco dance routine, complete with wack-tack shoes and a swishy skirt. Annabells' British friend, Becky,( from Paris) sang, and how! I made coffee. Gary did his funny folk songs, one dedicated to my crepitation skills. He also brought a delicious summer sausage.

get the sweaters out!

It is Fall. I like it. We are having an Indian Summer and it feels good. There is dew on my bycicle seat in the morning and fog in the air. The moon rises bigger in the evening. It gets light at just the right time, just before six. I know , as for the past two days I have been spontaneously waking very early and watching the dawn sneak up on me through my windows. Yesterday I woke at four, dark outside, dark and sky starfull, clouds edging into the scene. I drank tea and smoked. I thought about writing but was too lazy to look for a tablet. I ate breakfast and when it got light, went back to bed. What a delightfull morning.
I don't like it when the weather is too hot. We had a couple of hot weeks this summer and I got cranky. I need to learn that when it gets that hot, drink more water and walk in the forest. Now the apple trees are dropping fruit on the lawns and harvest time is here. There is a glut of zuccini; soon the potatos will be harvested and I will go gleaning. I want to stash away a hundred pounds for the winter. I feel like a squirrel. I have a freezer and I will clean it out and restock what I can.
Misty mornings and hot, hot coffee. Coversations slow and easy. The world is spinning dizzy, fits and sparks, spitting and harrumping, dashing the dishes on the floor, fingernailing the wallpaper. I move at a snails' racing pace, trying to keep up. I am smiling. Go, Go, Go! Time is money! Get, Get, Get! Silly Fools.
The fog teaches me lesson. It has nearly no substance but a big effect. It is patient, slow and present. It snakes around every tree and leaf and hunkers down. Burned off by the sun, it waits for the morning to come. It's name rymes with dog.

My "ICAN" art show went well. When I figure out how to do photos on this blog, I will show u some. I've been resting-up from the show; amazing how stressfull it was. I am out of touch with my own self.

I'm about sick of it

Must be time for a media fast, again. I have been keeping up with the news and it is making me grumpier and grumpier. The best one so far was the McGyver Muslims that were to (alledgedly) mix up some common household chemicals and blow-up, not dolls, but airplanes. I am not a chemist, outside of rolling my own cigarettes, yet I am a wee bit curious, so I did a bit of reading on the subject and I discovered that this plot is about as fruitfull as my poor daft Uncle Bill, who planted his vegetable garden on a strip of rock. No matter how much he watered----. So, it gets me to thinking about fear. Certainly, I am just as gullible and spineless vis-a-vie my own fears as the Great Unwashed Masses (when did I shower last?).
Anyway, I hear that they are limiting what you can bring on board an airplane to dampen any terrorist enthusiasm for airborn chemistry experiments. That will keep them from being disappointed when they find out that they should have done a few dry-runs on the ground the day before martyrdom.
Of course, I can't wait untill Homeland D-fence uncovers a plot of Gay Muslim Bombers who would smuggle sticks of Dynamite in their, hum, well, you can only imagine where. Guess what! Good news! Everbody gets search in hindsight! Well, you got to play it safe.

It feels like Fall. A couple of days ago, I woke and it felt just like Fall to me, there in my cozy bed. I confess, I liked it. I was kind of excited! No worry, it wore off quickly. It is getting to that time of year when I can actually rise with the Sun! Yeah. Before too long, I will be beating the mighty orb.

My show of "I-CANS" will be happening this Saturday. I am getting ready now. I am trying to have about fifteen done by then. The taskmasters assure me that their whipping arms are strong and their resolve intact. The workers will be urged to the task!! A glorious goal has been set!

on the road to hell (ena, Montana)

I helped move my friend Tom this weekend. He moved to Hell ena, Montana. What a Pit that place is, though better now that Tom is there. I can't help but think that he won't last long and the Cavalry is occupied elsewhere. Tom, watch your back. You are in the pit of vipers. A single drop of rain in a vast and thirsty desert.
Needless to say, I do not have fond memories of Hell ena. My first impressions rapidly faded to a grimace, a toleration at best, a smile that hides a grim churning in the stomach. The place oozed desperation and a palpable deterioration of not only the infrastructure, but of spirit; a resignation and forlorne stand against the invasion of the culture snatchers. History replaced by pop culture, identity with fake names and logos stamped on every crappy plastic bowl and synthetic fiber shirt. It is the future, my friends, and it looks like the party is over. Only the hangover remains.
Montana is the Spanish name for Mountain. They have plenty of those, there. The very western part is absolutely stunning. It is the bleedout from Eastern Idaho, the mistake made when arbitrary boundries were drawn. Idaho should have gotten the whole Mountain range and Montana should have been called Plaintana. The towns of Kellog and Wallace were stunning. In the winter they probably are a frosty hell, sunk deep into a crevasse between sun-blocking mountain ranges. In the summer we search for firewood, the cold is coming all too soon. These are old mining towns and typify the American tantrum of nature destruction at-all-costs, damn the consequences. The ground and streams are hopelessly contaminated for hundreds of miles and as each day passes, with every drop of rain, this contamination spreads downstream, a slow disaster that will plague generations to come. Can you say C-a-n-c-e-r?

The trip was all business. Three hard days of driving with two nights of vague sleep in nondescript hotels. The best part of these hotels will always be the way they look from the outside. It is better to look good than to feel good, haha. I have of course stayed in some bad hotels in my travels, beds with vicious poking springs in dungeon-like rooms, mean and awfull, cheaper than plastic forks at Wallmart. I got what I paid for, though. If you want charm you have to avoid the Interstates and stay out of Macdonalds.
Talking to my friend Ed, he mentioned to me that he went to Tacoma, a place I knew well, as I spent ten years in exhile there. He had a hankering for a real milkshake, the kind that was honestly served in a mom-n-pop store in years past. He searched and searched without end. All these places where you could start a leisurely conversation, where time stood still instead of being money, are now gone, like the dinosaurs. Instead we have settled for efficiency and economy. Our wallets squeeze out good sense and good manners. I saw grinding poverty in Mexico, but only in the cities did I see squalor, viciousness and hunger.
What did Tom say? to paraphrase: They might not come from the gutter, but by God, if you treat them that way, they might as well have (come from the gutter). Goodbye,Tom.

Vampire Rotisserie

This is part three of a series, please start two entries back:
Turning a vampire is a delicate operation. The Hunter, after having located the Quarry engages in a "dance" with the Vampire, juggling states of mind and emotions so as to draw the Vampire into a trap. The vampire, confused by the repelling field of the Hunter, drawn by "blood lust", is slowly drained of energy. This internal combat appears mundane to the casual observer. The two might appear to be "just sitting around", the Hunter stoic and the Vampire going through mood changes, moaning and groaning as his energy drains away. This process could take up to two days to complete. The Vampire will become listless and consume his own life energy to the point of death, unless the Hunter intercedes. At this point, the Vampire can be turned. If the turning is successfull, the Human Being can recuperate and quite possibly become a Hunter after extensive training. If not, the Body remains, a shell still functioning, without an essence.

Vampire Hunters

This is a series-Part II
It is the fear that the Vampire induces and feeds on that is his greatest liability. It is by way of sensing the fear induction field that the Vampire can be traced. The Hunter carefully senses this field and moves in the direction of its' center, the physical location of Quarry. This requires great skill, as the Hunter must do several mental and physical things at the same time. He must sense the field and evaluate it, keeping his own mind and body absolutely calm. He must generate the camouflaging field in proportion to his nearing the quarry and finally, he must search into the possible futures to catch a glimpse of any problems that might arise as he nears the Quarry. Depending on the skill and age of the Vampire, anything less would lead to the destruction of the Hunter.
Traditionally the best Hunters came from Tibet, where the training received as Monks made them prime candidates for Hunter training. Others would be individuals who survived some rigorous calamity, so as have to totally reorganized their mental outlook and make-up. They are the perfect blank slate that the Hunter training is carved on. Needless to say these individuals are rare and difficult to find. It is extremely important to the survival of the Hunter that no cause for remorse or depression remain in their psyche.
There are many kinds of Vampires, some fairly easy to locate and neutralize, others, those with ages of experience, difficult to impossible. The oldest have learned to keep their fear lust in check and having built a reservoir of emotional energy, do not require gorging to live. These are next to impossible to "turn". They are savy enough to not create emotional chaos on their environments. They feed on the residual fear of the population without creating fear-situations. The most destructive are the new-formed, who are in a feeding and power frenzy. They create an extremely destructive environment and must be turned or neutralized quickly. With care, they can be made into Hunters. Because of their inexperience, they are easily located, trapped, turned or neuralized.

There's vampires in my closet

The modern vampire has learned to use instant tan lotion to comouflage his stark white skin tone. He is truly a sight to behold. Skin deceptively thin and pearlescent. His veins move under the surface, undulating and yearning for the victim, alive like black snakes or worms. If you get the chance to see this, your life is at great risk.
His teeth are for show only. He doesn't actually drink blood, rather a long, long sipping of a finer substance: Fear.
Nor is he vulnerable to garlic, crosses or stakes in the heart. These are metaphors for the survivors, those who did battle, willingly, with the elusive vampire. Garlic stands for a stench that a certain state of mind generates. It is noxious though not debilitating to the vampire. It merely gives the hunter an edge of distraction in the quarry's mind. The cross refers to a confidence that must be grown, like armor or some tall place to stand. A stake in the heart is necessary to keep the hunter humble and cautious. It is the hurts already suffered that give some immunity to the primary assault from the vampire, as he attacks with depression, doubt and overwhelming remorse.

in-2-it

I should have listened to my feelings!! Ever said that to yourself? Of course you have. The question is how to know for sure. What ifs all over the place. A What If here, a What If there--- WHAT IF WE JUST COMPLETELY TRUSTED OURSELVES???
Oh yeah, that's a tuffie.

I don't know where to start on that one. That's all.

lo-tech, hi-tech

It occured to me that there is an interesting pair of playgrounds here in La Conner. One, the obvious, is the official woodchip carpeted, fenced and secured junglegym kiddie park below townhall. The other, which I call the "sliding rock", hunkers off park street, at the foot of the capital "L", which is the birdseye shape of "the hill". I often ride by the sliding rock and admire it every time. I have yet to utilize it for more than an eyestop.
These two artifacts are a world apart. One is ages old and I like to think, has a long history of patient shouldering of playing children. I imagine that the shiny patina, polished by bellies and butts of giggling children, climbed on and over for hundreds of years, is looked upon with nostalgia by stoopback grandfathers, who yearn back to times of unlimited energy and frolic.
There he sits, wrinkled and furrowed, like an old-time coal miners' face, moss like ground-in coal dust growing in the cracks. Lichen clinging precariously on his sun-baked back. Waiting. Waiting. I imagine he smiles.

life out of control

Somewhere I read that the tales of a Golden Age yearn back to the time before mankind discovered (gradually) agriculture, back when we were Hunter-Gatherers. There is some compelling anthropological evidence to that myth. People were considerably taller and healthier. Especially the domestication of animals exposed us to new diseases. For a hundred thousand years we perfected a way of life that featured self-sharpening tools, plenty of exercise and heaps of free time. Now we have T.V., debt and crappy tools made in China. Not only that, but we live long enough to realy get sick of that crap.
How many songs do you have memorized? Do you play any musical instruments? Probably not many and none. We have advanced to the point of being pure spectators. Know many jokes, stories or even what you had for dinner last night? Is life vivid or pale? How good is your memory? Do you feel? Good, relaxed, awake? Do you feel your body, every organ, every bone, tendon and muscle? Are you serene or are you wounded? Do you love your work? Does it give you a sense of being and of mastery of a skill? How about Christmas? Is it stressfull?
Are you redundant to society? Are you Real?

Real life

After I wrote the Chihuahua trilogy, my doctor upped the thorazine and I came to realize that all that was just in my head, about the vicious Chihuahuas, at least. I still think that THEY are out to get me, which is why I keep a lot of magnets on my car, as that seems to keep the aliens from messsing with my gas milage.
Just kidding! I don't have a doctor!
For dinner last night I went to Dave Hedlins vegetable field and gleaned some lambsquarter, which is an absolutely delectable weed far superior to spinach, in my opinion. It is more nutricious. Along with a succini sqash and an onion that I "fingerblighted" and a small pot roast, I enjoyed a fine meal. Off to the store for some icecream and the evening was complete. I plan on doing it again this afternoon. For some reason "shopping" out of a field is so much more engaging. Trips to the store are o.k., but the experience is as lack-luster as woodchips. Gleaning is primal and brings out the genetic memory of our hunter-gatherer ancestors. They, by the way, had a better life than we do, with all our "contrived convieniences". Remember how the computer was going to save time, paper and make life just about ecstatic? Better living through chemistry? By the manufacturers of dioxins and PCBs!! Electricity too cheap to meter by the Nuclear Industry!!
The bushmen of the Kalahari desert work only three hours a day and live in a harsh environment. They glean all the time, no Safeway there. Poor fools. They need CocaCola!!

I've had enough

this is continued from the previous post.
No more Mr. Nice Guy. Last night was the last straw. I was wearing my new suite of armour, clanking down the sidewalk, feeling snug and smug, protected from those vicious nippers, when---the brilliance of it, the sheer unadulterated deviousness---it was a trap! Somehow they had absconded with a bottle of single malt and knowing my routine, cleverly baited the ambush, there it was---brown bag clad (nice touch) the red top recognizable to connoissuers, devilishly hidden and yet not---I fell for it. I was bending over, not an easy task, even without the armour, when from behind---well, I went down in a heap of jarring and banging and metalic scraping. I was helpless. Protected, none the less, seemingly safe yet as I was to realize, horribly vulnerable, like a new-born turkey chick. There they were, in the light of a full moon, bug-eyed and frothing, frenzied, nearly frolicking, victorious in the fray, joined as one in the melee. Through the visor I could see them, their needle-sharp teeth and sub-vocal growls; it seemed like there were hundreds of them. Then the indignities started. It was, well, when urine a suit of armour, on the ground, you need a crane to get you back on your feet. That's right, urine a heap of doodoo. Not just metaphorically either. Well, dear gentle reader, I don't want to soil this true tale with graphic descriptions, so a wink is as good as a nod, if you get my drift.
I went on for a long time, seemed like ages. The Smell, oh the Smell.

Doctor's visit

this is continued from the previous post.
Well, I'm changing Doctors. I didn't like this one anyway. All he did was give me some band-aids for the "scratches", he called them. Scratches, nothing, I was lucky to get away with my life!
To tell the truth I have started to doubt my sanity vis a vie the damn Chihuahuas. As I said, I have mentioned it to my friends and anybody that will listen, but they just look at me weird. What do they know, they just watch TV in the evenings and have no clue what happens outside after dark. Besides, the hell-hounds have become smarter and I have to change my strategy in dealing with them. I mean, you have to respect their abilities. As a pack, they function remarkably well, singleminded, to say the least. I don't especially think that they are out to get me, it isn't like they wait for me in ambush by my front door. Sometimes, I don't see them for days, which was kind of disappointing, back when they were few and unorganized. Now, it is serious and frightening. I even thought to go back to just watching TV and using a stairmaster.
I remember when I first saw three together. That's when I first got nipped by one of them. It drew blood and I swear I have never seen such avid lip-licking in all my life. Its' bug-eyes rolled back into the constricted crantium, a un-dog-like moan escaped its' scrawny, wrinkled throat and it did a jig or a dance like a footballer celebrating a touchdown. I was aa-mazed. The other two got to dancing all excited too, whining for a taste. That probably was my first mistake. In retrospect, I was guilty of introducing them to a habit forming substance, my own blood.

Sharp-toothed vicious little beasts

Don't get me wrong, this is a great little town; I love it here. There is one problem that is being totally ignored, like a bad case of denial. It is the roaming gangs of ravenous, ankle meat loving Chihuahuas that rule the streets at night. I have endlessly complained about them, and nothing is being done. Instead the townspeople are focusing their ire on the shinanigans of the wing of turkeys that harm nobody. I am at the end of my rope. My evening walks have become excursions into a surreal battlezone, worse than Apocalypse Now. I can no longer rely on my Five Iron to keep me safe. My shouts of "fore" will no longer be heard. It simply is not safe anymore. I need to up the ante on those vicious f***ers.
It all started when I quit watching television and began taking walks instead. The first few Ratbags were cute, I admitt and I even thought about adopting one of them. The lowly Chihuahua, alone, is remarkably adorable. In a pack, however, they take on a dark nature absolutely hidden in the light of day. I have read that nearly all breeds of dogs decend from the man-mauling brutes that the Romans brought into battle with them. With the tiny Chihuahua, the size must have been bred out, thereby emphazising latent viciousness. My ankles hurt, just thinking about them. More later, as I have a doctor appointment to sew-up the gashes on my throat.

The most-abused drug

I meant to research how many people are addicted to television. Last week I got another sampling of the power of T.V. to suck the life right out of me. If I were the Decider, I would fanagulate the end of Television. I would frame it in the context of a terrorist plot to deplete the last two functioning brain cells in viewers' heads. I would do it on T.V. of course, just before 33 eco-friendly nut-wacks suicide themselves across various power transmissions lines, bodies burned way beyond identification, except for their passports, which would miraculously slip out of their Hemp fiber jeans. All 33! That's possible ain't it?
The power outage would bring the country to a standstill and I would make millions on the stocks of candle manufacturers and battery fabricators. There would be a congressional investigation and I would gladly testify, being very concerned about the lack of T.V. and all; wanting to get down to the truth, you know. I would insist that the procedings would be conducted in secret, citing national security. If anybody objects, I would simply mutter the words traitor or sedition. Then before that august commitee, I would pinky-explore my presinus appendage or roll my eyes at the tedious bi-partisan harranging of the Decider.
That's what I would do if I were the Decider and if you are laughing, you are NOT like military underwear --- supporting the troops.

straight out of nature

When I stumbled outside this July morning, I realized just how far removed we are from nature. I lit my cigarette and siped my coffee, shivered slightly in the pre-seven o'clock fall-misty dawn. I have been housesitting all week and in this, a typical cookie-cutter suburban (I hate to use the word "Home") roofed Box, with piped-in water, gas and electricity, not to mention the T.V. (piped in and officially sanctioned How-to think), I can feel the post urban Hunter-Gatherer in me scream silently and fade into nonexistence. It's the screen doors and the air conditioning; the conveniences; washers and dryers (now you can have more clothes); the closets to store them in; Fashions to sabotage "How you look", the rat race of esteem, power and MONEY. There is so much crap and frosting on the cake that it takes a shovel to get to the center.
Real. Royal. Regal.
Who are we, really? What do we need? What is the point of all this stuff?
Last week I saw a patch of poppies in the bright sun light. I was glued to the ground, still and awed. It felt like food for the soul. Now that may sound trite and I would be the first to point that out. Food for the soul. EAUGH. However, in that experience there is a hint about something very real. Something essential. If life is varying shades of gray, notice the occasional flecks of color. They add up. Work hard!!

the sweet places

As I roam about La Conner on my bicycle, I pass certain places that have a special meaning for me. They are my personal pocket parks and I happened on another one yesterday. I had bought a loaf of Brickbread from the grocery store. I like that bread because it is Honest Bread, dense as a neutron star, hefty like brass knuckles, good in a fight when thrown; leaves a lasting impression. Sometimes, I buy the fried chicken and have a pick-nick lunch. I bought the two piece lunch special and was on my way to buy some bedding plants when I happened upon another sweet spot at Mary Hedlins greenhouse. It features a vista of farm fields to the south, a couple of rustic swings, cool grass and welcome greetings from Mary. Underneath a row of five Black Locust trees, the two swings hang patiently from a long, heavy beam suspended between two trees. One Locust has a long and long-ago-split branch that leans into a gigantic Tulip tree, a lesson in friendship and community. If not for that tulip tree, the branch would have been a nuisance and then, firewood. You can swing on the swing and look up into the cathedral roof of the trees or wind-up the swing and let it unwind you or just gaze into the distance, with the distant sounds of traffic and near-by sounds of singing birds. Take more breaks!

An hour here and there

We have to steal time for ourselves, big chunks, little bits (take a deep breath right now), everything in between. God, if S/He judges, will judge us on our abilities as Time Pirates. ARRR, Mate, where's the rum and let's dance on the dead mans' coffin. We can spin out of control and give the appearance of being well-adjusted or we can pack our heavenly bank account with experiences. God loves experiences. Since God lives through us, eats life energy and life energy comes from doing new and exciting stuff, you are doing God a service by providing a vacation from the boring work of creating new viruses, biting flies and lawyers.

Summertime and the livin' is easy

Fish are jumping and the cotton is high. So are most of my friends. High on the weather, the light. Talking about going on the river with a cold six-pack and the sweet yearning for a cool breeze. Just drifting, aimless, talking easy, looking softly at the world, our wildness mirrored in the water, the world.
We burn more light before seven than we get in a whole winter month. It is a glut of light and it feels good to just waste it, let it stream into dark crevices; scatterit-willy-nilly about like easy money paydays. I wake to a bright morning pouring into my trailer door, lighting my couch like a movie star on stage. My door is open to the cool night and I am snuggled into my bed-cocoon awaiting the new day. The stars are out, the stars are out. The galaxies abound and drift endlessly. There is majesty in the air and it goes on forever. It is a feast of a hundred dishes and we say it's great, but where is the wonder bread.
Today I will butter a croisant and eat it slowly.

I lost last week

I have been trying to think about what happened to last week. Have you ever lost something that could not be lost in some particular way? Like, you put down a set of keys on the living room table as you do normally, but the keys are not there, they are ???? (in the freezer!?) I have had some of those experiences and they can be explained by forgetfullness or the intervention of another person, but there were some unexplainable "disappearances". I have wondered where those lost or dematerialized items go. I have speculated that they drop down onto a little plot of land, farmed by some Tibetan farmer, who adorns his rustic home with jangles of keys, single earings, socks and the morals of politicians. Or maybe they blink into another dimension where the recipients puzzle over the purpose for the items given by the Gods----.
Last week went into the twilight zone for me. My karate teacher, who knows me well enough by observing my transparent nature suggested that if I got my head out of the beer bottle, lost weeks would not happen. Ouch. The truth hurts. I mumbled something about "can't argue with the facts".
I like to think that I can distinguish between an alcoholic stupor and a strange weirdness. Maybe not. Perhaps the effect of long-term use of elixirs, is a melding of the reality boundary between daydreams and nightmares. This is all speculation and rates right up there with sport talk; interesting but useless.
Time is a stretchy affair. To illustrate: a minute sitting on a hot stove feels like a lifetime and a lifetime sitting, a minute. The weeks can blink by as the days are endlessly long. Fish fall out of a blue sky. Frogs rain.

Wednesday

Today is Wednesday. I know it is Wednesday because my next door neighbor,Jeanie, puts her garbage out early on Wednesday for the Thursday pick-up. Her dog, who I call "Barky" (guess why) was outside NOT doing what it normally would do, which is remind all passers-by that they are on Foxy street and they better behave. We don't really have a Foxy street in town, but the dog, a Pomerroodle, doesn't know that, nor does Foxy know that a Pomeranian should not have a Poodle haircut. Barky WAS outside but not barkying. Humm, odd, maybe Foxy is sick.
Friday is Bloomsday, the 16th of June. One month to go to the official start of Summer around here. No guarantee, of course, sometimes Summer don't arrive at all. Today we are back into Winter and I broke out my heavy quilted winter shirt. So Friday we will celebrate the famous author, his name slips my holy mind, who wrote a realy weird and inscrutable book and some other books. Now I remember his name, James Joyce. I guess the holes in my mind got sealed-up a bit.
Thursday, along with garbage pick-up, features a pot-luck and birthday party for Joe. That should be fun. Wonder what I will bring to eat.
Today I am slated for some heavy labor. I will help some neighbors down the street, Gem and Felicia, finish tearing down an old garage. I did about three hours of prying and cussing and it liked ta have kilt me. I even took a one hour break after the first two hours. I am only good for about two hours of hard work, these days.
I have been working on their place for about a month now, as the weather and my attitude allows. The weather has been inscrutable also.

the only spot on commercial street

Probably not the shortest street in the world, Commercial street is certainly the shortest in La Conner. Not only is it just one short block long, it has very little commerce going on. The only business is The Cafe, from where I am writing this heavenly Monday morning. It feels like summer and Sunday today. It is quiet, before eight a.m. and the town is waking up. The birds are chirping, the seagulls are hanging about around the fishing boats that can be seen from the front door of the cafe and I saw an eagle flying earlier. Commercial street is a hill and stuff naturally flows down to the channel. The garbage can lid will migrated down to the water when assisted by stiff winds. My eyes follow the hill down to admire the water, the fishing boats, the seagulls and the water traffic going by.
We have been confused by the weather lately. Yesterday it was foggy like fall if the morning. The day before was summer and today is summer. We have been cycling through the seasons, skipping winter, thank you verymuch. Now the clouds are moving in and it is reverting back to spring. Do Over!
Last wednesday's Open No Mike was quite good. Everybody agreed. It was a fine evening. There was guitar music by Bob and Ed and a visitor (another Bob) played a little. Nora brought strawberry shortcake, Tara brought wasabi potato chips. I told a cute joke and read some entries from this blog. Thursday we are having a potluck Birthday Party for Joe Capparella. That should be fun.

More on intuition

What good is Intuition? It lets you know when and what to do. Most important, when to leave stuff alone. It also gives you a big picture of a situation. That way, it is possible to better comprehend what the heck is really going on. I am out of the water on this, as I don't know a whole lot about the subject, but I suspect that when we get these complex feelings, it is kind of like getting Cliff notes about a book. Without having to analyse all the possible permutations in any given situation, over time and with unknowns, the intuitive gives a "flavor" of the situation.
What interferes with intuition are our personal beliefs and agendas. Therefore, it is the loss of what we have learned, becoming newborn-mind-like, that helps us to not taint the complexity of intuition with our own prejudices and expectations. That is one of the effects the Great Teachers seek to impart in their students. Voila, therefore all that work on the ego and the skill to use it like a tool, without it running the show and running off with the circus. Therefore the clearing of the body of any trauma (neurosis is stored in the musculature, not in the brain), as the body is intimately linked with emotions. Therefore all that meditation training to still the storm of monkeys that is the brain/body.
As individuals and as members of a community, we need the insight to act wisely in difficult situations. It is very easy to judge a situation completely wrong. Common sense counsels the apparent, uncommon sense cautions us to do something else.
Please excuse the preaching.........

thought police

I have noticed something about the group at the cafe and about myself, by extension. The Thought Police is among us and it is we. And we are just about oblivious to them. I observe the interactions between the men (themselves), between the women (themselves). I have noticed some interesting stuff.
First, a joke to set the stage: A young boy was sitting on a park bench eating candy bars. He was on his sixth candy bar when a man, sitting on an adjacent bench said:"If you eat that much candy, it will rot your teeth, make you fat and you will die young." The boy replied:"My grandfather was 107 years old when he died". "Did he eat six candy bars at a time?" asked the man. "I don't know, but he minded his own fucking business".
The men (in general) are repressed and real busy Thought-Policing each other. Any time somebody (even a woman) makes a gesture or a statement that threatens to elevate the group to a higher level of social or community functioning, somebody plays the role of Thought Police and stunts the emotional life of the group or the individual. Any sign of tenderness, compassion or caring is quickly put-down. It is incredibly threatening to some that SOMEBODY might be humane with somebody else.
Isolation is a dis-ease and has a pseudo-intelligence that fights to remain as part of the personality. It is not enough that the individual is isolated, others must be isolated also, as the pseudo-intelligence of Isolation is threatened by any display of emotional intimacy. The person becomes possed by the negative program (so to speak) and their mouth gets highjacked.
Though I have countless examples, I will relay one: I was watering a geranium I had brought to the cafe and placed it outside on the "smokers table". A guy then remarked that the Flower Girl had arrived. Of all the possible responses (as if a response was necessary), equating me with a Girl (defaming the good name of female youth) was an attempt to police my behavior.
And of course I do crap like that myself and if I could just remember one of the very many examples, then I would confess, but my blindness to the big effing beam in my eye, keeps me from seeing, fully, my own crap.

gut feelings

When we have a gut feeling (for the guys) or an intuition (for the gals), we may be tapping into a phenomenon called "the collective unconscious". This is not some woo-woo New Age hype, rather, it has been demonstrated through experimentation along with (of course) endless anecdotal evidence. The guy who is doing the cutting-edge research and is public about it, is Rupert Sheldrake, a British scientist. He has come up with some fascinating experiments and he is just HATED by conventional science. This is always the case when a totally new concept comes to light. In another fifty years, it will become common knowledge, but now it is ridiculed.
The use of intuition can be developed like any skill. I am a big believer in it and I try to sharpen my sensitivity. There are probably numerous How-To books on the subject and I am sure they are more-or less on target. Probably the first step is to get over the ingrained belief that we are stunted mental dwarfs and are incapable of more than blindly following the manipulations of culture, society and political henchmen.
Now, I will admitt I fall on the paranoid end of the skeptics scale. I don't wear a tin-foil hat, at least not in public, yet. I believe that there will come a time when we will need to develope our intuitional abilities just to survive in this increasingly controlled scociety. I use the word "survive" in reference to personal freedom, the freedom to think, believe and speak what we want and to live how we want (ethically, of course). These are not just human rights, they are survival needs and rank just behind air, sustenance and shelter in importance.
To becontinued------

leaving well enough alone

God help me, I have a big, big mouth. I can put my foot in there, both of my hands and still have room for a gala event. My mouth has done more harm than any particular tendency I can think of. None the less, I like my mouth. I am learning to disengage it most of the time and when I do spew forth something horrid, I more often than not catch it faily quickly; even apologize.
I have this grumpiness about the parking around here (the cafe). I have noticed it and have been observing without interfering. Something is going on and I am not quite up to speed on what it is. It must be very obvious, too close for me to see. Somewhere in my head I am stuck and the parking thing is the visible tip of some psychological iceberg. I am not even willing to think about it at depth, it is so convoluted. It is somewhat frightening.
So, keeping my mouth shut is the theme of the decade, of my life, really. When I can keep that quiet and the iniciator (my brain), then I will have done a good weeks' work.

Payat tention

The brain is an attention machine. Its' functioning is directed by the mind. What is the mind? I don't know. Who cares. The brain is like a car with dark windows. Somebody is in there driving. Often the cars are parked. Permanently. The motor is running, but the driver is in the 7-11. When on a hill, turn the wheels to the curb. Otherwise the brakes may fail and the car gets going on its' own. Some cars go better than other cars. The driver might have had racetrack training or souped-up the motor. Other drivers don't do good maintenance. Sometimes the driver falls asleep. You get the point, yes?
Attention is a form of money. We pay attention. We give attention, we trade it, we save it. Attention is the glue that holds friendship together. Attention heals. Negative attention hurts. It pays to attend.

What Lucy likes

I have noticed that Lucy, the adorable young girl-dog at the cafe likes to watch birds. She doesn't watch birds like an avid human bird-watcher, studious and quota driven, rather she sponges up information in a relaxed way. No lists, no diaries, no research. Just a soft fascination with those snacks-on-a-wing. She prefers to patronize the area close to the No Parking sign, where at times she has been known to crunch on a bit of loose concrete. It is a good spot for observing the goings-on at the intersection, the pear tree behind the barnsiding wood fence, the wisteria trellis across the street and the grass patch where she harvests greenery for better digestion.
I wonder what she sees. How she sees the birds. What goes through her mind.
Then I wonder about myself. How do I see things, what do I really like, what is my purpose, what am I feeling right now, how alive is my body, my brain, my heart. That's all.

talkin'bout road rage on a sunny slow day

It was Memorial day and the cafe closed early. Dang! I didn't get my daily dose of just sitting around in. Seems I overslept and didn't get into the cafe untill the Bank opens. I was flabergassed. Closed? Waddayamean, closed? What about my daily dose? There were some other layabouts laying about. We got to talking about important stuff, like road rage. Thank God I don't live in Seattle. The way I figure, every commuting hour in Seattle is worth a visit to a shrink. That's the way I feel. O.K., I am not a Captain of Industry, I know. Not even a corporal of industry. I may qualify as a private industry.
But the way I figure, every day living without road rage is worth a million. If more people did a lot of nothing, I figure, this would be a much better world. No commuting, no crap jobs, no B.S. No war in Iraq, Darfur, no meddling and mucking about. Doing nothing has not been explored as a profound statement for the times. It's easy to do in a do-do culture. Be-ing, just being, is a toughy.
I know the fears and the objections. Who is gonna pay the taxes for the Pentagon and the Natinal Spy Agency? The answer, dear naive reader, is simple: the same people as who is paying for them now! Your grandchildren!! (Gramatical error? No, it be Presidential newspeak, tank u vermuch.) Let's all drink to debt!
Oh man, I'm tired. Nap time! Wheee!

I've been watching

About the most ubiquitous electronic appliance in America is the television. I own the aparatus for receiving the signal, but do not utilize it. I got the TV for free. It is very easy to get a free TV. Nearly everyone has an extra TV and if you say that you are TV-less, within minutes they get you hooked-in. It is nearly a religion. I have been house and dog sitting and I've been watching. I am horribly addicted to TV, ever since I was a kid. The only way to mitigate my addiction is to say "No". Nancy Reagan would be proud of me. At this house I can't just say "No", I say "Yessir". And I watch and watch and watch.
One officially enters the television wasteland after midnight. Strange things begin to happen. I know I am tired and should go to bed, but I need to finish the movie or look for another program. With the remote control, the TV becomes totally non-physical, except the pointing finger that activates the channel flipper. My body melts into the couch. My brain blanks out. Only a small part of my brain does anything other than absorb the pablum spewing forth. That part is the quiet, sane part of me and it is no longer quiet. It is screaming. Turn this crap off and go to bed. What are you doing? Look at yourself, you are akin to nose snot, slime-ball! I studiously avoid hearing the voice of reason. Gee, aren't these comercials good!
Actually, the comercials are better than ever. Somebody expained to me that with the advent of TIVO, TV programs can be recorded while skipping the commercials. It is forcing the buy buy propagandists to resort to something much more creative so as to get the people to watch the commercials willingly. I even saw a talking gecko explain how that works (in a commercial). Cool. Another commercial gave the definition of inner strenght as a combination of knowing oneself and being connected to others. I was impressed, about the best working definition I've heard. Cool. Luckily I only have about a week of this before I return to my saner life of drinking smoking and carousing.

rainy days

One of the best things about rainy days is the "work at home" break in the scedule. Not that I have a scedule. I would like to have a scedule. No, I would like to follow the scedules that I make. No, I would like to follow the scedules that I make, so that I can deliciously ignore them. Yeah, that approximates the truth.
Rainy days, working in my shop, working on projects, putzing and puttering around, playing solitaire, making tea, getting a beer in the evening, what a day it would be. The rain this week has been good. It isn't the endless grey drizzle that descends like a streak of bad luck. It came with sunbreaks and touches of blue sky, soft and hard rain alternating, warm and fresh, uplifting. I like an "honest" rain. I like for the sky to bust wide and declare open season on drought. I like being amazed by the sheer fullness of clouds, generous and copious. I like watching the UFO bubbles appear and wink out in mudpuddles. I like jumping in, with both feet, into the middle of that pool of H2O. I like the smell of the rain when it first comes. Farmer Dave taught me that there is a word that describes that particular smell. Petrifor, I think it is called.
So if you ask me if I like the rain, chances are I would say "no". What I should say is "it depends". Yeah, that approximates the truth.

Internal Beauty

It has occured to me that one aspect of internal beauty is that it manifests itself outside the boundaries of the Self. It may seem a bit woo-woo or even trite to say this, but obviously, the world is what we make of it; we create ugliness and beauty. I have been running around with a image in my head, something I saw two nights ago. I was walking , late at night and the snails where out. They were migrating across a busy road, making a dash for the other side, for greener pastures. Now, snail dashing is a Zen sport, it is not as popular as the consumer sports such as curling or sumo wrestling. Snail races are notoriously boring and the critters difficult to kep in a straight line. What motivates the snail is the custom of crushing the losers, obviously a take off from both Polo's divet stomping and Aztec religious practices and boycotted by Bhuddists, who aren't much fun on the outside, as they are too damn occupied with cultivating internal beauty. Ah! got off on a tangent, but brought it back around very nicely, didn't I? So, as I was saying I saw a bunch of snails and one was crawling out of the gravel parking lot snail wasteland, hoping to cross the road unmolested and take up residence at Moore Clark, which is a low-rent, run-down part of town populated by transient artists and pidgeons. In the light of a streetlamp I noticed a silver dot trail in the shape of a backward question mark (obviously dyslexia is not only limited to humans). The series of dots gave it a regularity seldom found in nature exept among animals with a high-fiber diet. I was struck still, admiring the curve of it, the shining, glistening chain created by the snail and the street light. It wasn't untill later that it occured to me that the snail may have been sending a subtle message. What does a Backward Question Mark Mean?

poem-the secret smile

I stand between the sun and my shadow
my two loves, one hot
the other near.

One sister to thought
the other brother
to my body and earth.

She burns me and tantalizes
heady and aloof,
he lies and lies not.

When the cloud comes
comes the quiet,
the secret smile.

po'try, poe'tree

The poets have arrived. We have a poetry festival here is lil' ol' La Conner that brings in some remarkable people. I was working at the Cafe when a couple of them stumbled in, obviously suffering from caffeine need. They are good conversationalists. I would guess that writing poetry and telling stories have something in common. I cannot say that I do either very well, though I have had my moments.
They talked about the turkeys. It was amazing to them that we have turkeys roaming around town, cage-free and officially sanctified. Now that tulips are on the decline, turkeys are on the rise. Ican see it now, The Turkeys of La Conner save the town from anonimity. Fowl Poetry.

Days like summer

It is the middle of may and it feels like August. Warm early in the morning, tee shirt warm, with a bit of pleasant chill, a freshness in the air. The channel is smooth, reflecting the opposite shore nearly perfectly; a seagull swoops and dances in unison with its' reflection. In the distance, the fragile early morning mist hangs tenuous, veiling rows of poplar trees and expansive slight-violet plowed fields. The just-risen sun is impossibly orange and cheerful. I am headed to the cafe for coffee. Only the birds are my neighbors. The wisteria across from the cafe looks like a grape arbor, with white fruit. The flowers are delicately fragrant, exotic as if from a far away place. The blooms are dropping, a mass of white a week ago changing slowly to green. We get about seventy wisteria bloomings in our lifetime. So short, so few.

More than just a good cup of coffee

So, there have been some derogatory monikers attached to the cafe on Commercial street. One that especially itches me is the tag "looser's place". I guess in deeper reflection that is correct, as the owner has, in fact, lost a lot of money (read: invested), to keep the cafe open. In no way is it big enough to accomodate the whole town; I get wide-eyed at the thought of several hundred people waiting for coffee; spilling into the street. What a sight that would be. So, it does cater to those that live an alternative or retired lifestyle or both. The cafe is open during business hours, when working people work, so that influences the selection of customers. Since my primary career has been Prison avoider, which with my 'colorful' past I have done quite well (though it doesn't pay, the benefits are great). So, like some of the other losers, I spend way too much time at the Cafe and am not making hay while the weather is hot. I will at best, tag along at the bottom of the economic food chain and scrape up enough money for a meager life. The poor will always be with us. The losers too, as when there are winners, losers are created.
Having confessed my shortcomings, I will point out something that the casual observer cannot know. For one thing, Gretchen is a remarkable person and brings a rare compassion and wisdom to the cafe. I have noticed the difference in how I react to situations and how she does. Her reactions are life-affirming; live and let live. As a result, a wholeness is created and remarkable things happen. Between friends this may be common, but in the context of a communal gathering place, complexity rises and as do difficulties. To my knowledge, only one person has been excluded, not because of anything that Gretchen said, rather the person sensed that their behavior was realy unappealing and subsequently did not return.
In this context, I have observed some transformations in people. It is my conviction (yikes, wrong word: read belief), that the wholeness of the cafe is a primary factor or catalyst for these changes. For social beings acceptance is paramount, perpetual isolation is akin to death. I have seen this in my life and see it in the lives of some of my friends.
So, here at the cafe something important happens that cannot be duplicated in a clinical setting. There is a sincere concern for people and that concern is truly healing. Humane attention is manna for the psyche.

Energy crisis?

Every day the sun donates more energy on the US than all the oil ever used or will be used in the whole world. That is nine quadrillion kilowatt/hours per day. 9,000,000,000,000,000 is 9 quadrillion. Free! Gratis! That is worth about one thousand trillion dollars. Every day. Every day the sun spends that much on us in the United States. That is how much it costs to run the weather, grow the plants and heat the place. It is equivalent to 4.25 trillion barrels of oil. Every day. What generosity! The Sun is good. We are swimming in energy. There is enough for us, our kids, their kids, all other people and their descendents for ever and ever, all we all need, plopped on just the U.S. in only one day. Tomorrow comes more.
There is no energy crisis. We are thirsty people standing neck deep in delicious water.
There is something going on, none-the-less. The crisis is called "free market manipulation", and it keeps us in the dark, untill whoever's got their finger on the light switch deigns to turn the lights on. But wait, does that sound like a conspiracy theory? It must be, so don't listen to the mad man rant. Move on, folks, he's just nuts.
Have you heard of ENRON? Energy price fixing? Rolling black-outs is what they specialized in. They conspired to blackmailing or extorting energy consumers. Just a few bad appples? Hardly. The stench goes all the way up to the prez--Mr. Dick "F-U" Cheney. What is the secret energy policy of the current administration and why is it secret? Paranoid types like myself want to know.

The fundamental mystery of life

Not another quote!:
If we could only find the courage to leave our destiny to chance, to accept the fundamental mystery of our lives, then we might be closer to the sort of happiness that comes with innocence. This profundity from Luis Bunuel, who was a filmmaker.
Time for a homily? Best laid plans---,etc. Just might be that too much planning and expectations takes the flavor out of life and to be open to whims of fate, to expect chance encounters, is the key to living like a king or queen. Too much handling and overcooking ruins the delicacy of many foods. Lao Tzu uses the metaphor of cooking a small fish as an illustration about how easy it is to overinterfere in the process of life. The hardest thing for many painters is knowing when to stop painting. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
For us that have been trained to be too linear, the concept that the shortest distance between two points is in reality a curve, is a bit too much to swallow. It just goes against the grain. Trusting in the intrinsic benevolence of this Universe, through aligning oneself with subtle tendencies, just too frightening. Yet the anecdotal evidence of the sheer goodness of (IT, God, the Tao) is brimming and overflowing. Scientifically, Chaos is Order.
Let's all take small steps of trust. Nothing wrong with testing the water.

importing the important

I confess, I have been feeling overwhelmed lately. I have been working long hours (as much as three or four a day). My winter depression had evaporated any drive to "get stuff done", so now I have stacks of undone tasks, chores and want-tos. It is real easy to get caught up in these important details and fill the days with a carnival ride of establishing order and making lists of keepups.
Here is a quote that I ran across this morning while wasting time on the internet:

"The only real valuable thing is intuition." A. Einstein

Good ol Al. He also said that time, as the common man perceives it, does not exist and he said that reality is merely a persistent illusion. More enigmas for me, while I am trying to solve some conundrums like why doesn't my floor vacuum itself, when will they invent self-washing dishes and what does it mean that there are dusty spiderwebs in my shop.
I have noticed that several people have complained to me about clutter (thankfully in reference to their own lives, not mine). So, there must be something afoot. If we mostly did what is important, cutting out the "fluff", what would that look like?
The only real valuable thing is intuition.
Take that to heart, Roberto. Thanks, Bob-o.

Would you like fear or fun with that order,Sir?

I have been thinking about what motivates us. Some have said it is greed; some say it is survival; some say it is spirituality; some say it is social. I figure it is either fear or fun. Fear is well-known as a motivator and it is used extensively in politics to control a population. Religion, too. The fear of going to Hell is very exiting. It is a breathtaking game, where one wrong move dooms one to everlasting suffering of a most excrutiating nature. Perpetual torture, administered by fiendish demons with nothing better to do and endless time to perfect devious tricks.

Often, we get caught up in the hum-drum dailyness of our lives and we create some exitement that doesn't help anybody, rather causes animosity in the community. I guess that comes with familiarity and complacency. What we need is a good tyrant. Something like a natural disaster or a common affliction, pulls the community together and we have a common cause. Trivial things like Joe's unmowed lawn seen innocuous then, when facing a flood or cleaning-up after a hefty wind storm. It seems that without these sorts of major and minor causes, we chew at each other instead.
If a fiend can't be found or doesn't appear, then what? It's time for FUN! So, I suspect that having fun, looking forward to fun, watching others enjoy fun, creating and dispersing FUN is as good as the GUN (hey, it rymes)! It may be the only remedy to mass hallucinations such as perpetual war on terror or our side is better than their side. So, perhaps the way to healing is through fun, so let's all go out there and get some! It's Patriotic.

the vibrant greeness of freshly sprung trees

I have been noticing the trees flower and leaf out. Yet it wasn't untill a couple of days ago that it sunk in. Spring is here and the trees have mostly sprung a new coat of downy green foliage. The freshness of the new leaves is riveting. No dust, no chewed holes, no waxy protective covering, no history, no fear, just a joyfull expansion into the world, an exuberant expression of life.
It reminds me of young children and how they explode out of houses to play and explore, arriving in the yards full volume, hardly touching the stairs, the porch, whirlwinds of pent-up energy, a controlled bundle of chaos. It is a stretch to compare the stoic rootedness of trees to whirling darlings. If looked at over time, and time is a stretchy experience, then the yearly leaf ins and outs would look like fireworks or pulsations or vibrations.
In Germany the new leaves are harvested and eaten. Clipped with shears, the delicate salad is available once a year for a few days, less than a week.
Last week there was a layer of pink snow on the ground underneath flowering cherry trees. It is marvelous to see. Totally incongruous, pink on green grass, a soft fluffy sheet spread yearly, lasting but a moment in time, a blink. It is all so temporary. The seasons, our lives, even ages and eons. Our universe expands and collapses, living for a short 50 billion years, over and over, forever and ever, like the trees that yearly leaf and drop, like children breathing, like neurons firing rythmically in our brains.

Sunday mornings

It can get packed in the cafe, sometimes. Standing room only. There is some kind of pressure generated that some thrive on; I pull down the brim of my hat, lean into the cafe like facing a strong wind and get quiet as I weave my way towards the coffee pumppot. After adding milk and sugar, a quick stir, good mornings said, the pressure pushes me back out, for a needed break. I like people, need people,in thruth; yet unlike my vices, small amounts is all I can take. If People were a drug, then invariably a tolerance gets built and more is needed for the same effect. Looking back on my social history, that has been the way socializing worked. I may die from an overdose. I am staying away from parties held in stadiums.
If there is an overflow at the cafe, chances are it is a Sunday. Hopefully it is summer and the scene spills out into the street. Otherwise, I face the elements with only my bones and cigarettes to keep me warm. I smoke furiously. The chairs are cold and whisper promises of comfort if only I would sit in this one or the other so that they get relief from the chill. The meager roof chinsels out a bare strip of protection from the rain. Buddy, the oldman cafe dog, is huddled next to the building, snug as a nail in wood. I wish for a warm fur coat like his. Sometimes he comes over to get his ears ironed, they do get wrinkled at night. He puts his head between my legs and I cover my knees with his ears and smooth them out, enjoying the palm size patches of warmth. I tell him he has no pockets and he gets angry; more blood rushes to his ears. At least my knees are in the tropics. I wish I could make myself small and crawl into his ear, covering myself with those baby blanket flaps. But then I would smell like dog earwax.
Writing like this, making stuff up is a lot like dreaming. Last night I dreamt I could drive my little truck right into the grocery store, parking near the checkout stand. That was convenient and brilliant! Except then the way out got filled with grocery carts and stuff and I couldn't get my truck back out. It turned into a nightmare as I tried to drive out the side entrance and stairs appeared where there were none before, aisles shrunk, corners where there were straightways and the checkout clerk that was helping me got involved in a major remodeling project, complete with concrete busting tools. He hurt his head, blood flowing and me totallly aghast and beside myself. I was just about tearing my hair out, which is cool, as I don't have hair. That dream somewhat resolved itself when a way out appeared after I protested loudly.
With all that trouble, in the next dream somebody stole my moneyfat wallet but gave it back to me right away. Thank you, Dreamgod. I learned my lesson and will resolve to leave my wallet at home before I travel to dreamland and park my truck in the parking lot like everybody else.

Our own money

Now that our government is printing money 26 hours a day and "misspeaking" about inflation stats and not publishing the account of money supply in the collective kitty, I ask : is it time for us to have our own money, yet? We could very easily organize (very legal and possibly tax exempt) a iron-clad, inflation proof La Conner dollar. I am, unfortunately, not capable enough (yet) to pull this off, but by the time hard reality hits us across the back of the noggin, I may be organized and savy enough to launch this revolutionary economic tool. If anyone out there has any interest, I would like to collaborate, in the meantime, educate,educate and educate myself.

Poem-Butter Golden Sammi

Sammi opened the window and
The sun stole in
Licked the butter
There's no butter in the house

Sammi opened the box and
Time went by
Turned the bread green

It molted and became a butterfly
Sammi opened the cat door and
The butter fly away

Golden butter turned to sun

Time flew by and laughed
Sammi smiled as the days dripped down
Butter rose and sat
Flying through the sky

Bread kept molding green

Sammi licked the butter
Wouldn't eat the bread nor
Green cheese
Just the golden butter
Streaming from the sky
Soaking Sammi's skin
Butter golden Sammi

sidewalk talk

When the weather is nice the cafe expands. The scene shifts outside as people draw-up chairs and enjoy the sunny day. Invariably a loose circle is formed and anyone walking down the sidewalk gets included, for as long as they like. Of course, there is so much to be talked about, ranging from the personal (How are you? What are you up to today?) to community (When is the parade? Is it beer time yet?) to sports (How about the Mariners!) to national (What we need in this country is either some government accountability or a free beer day) to international (How about those nuke tote'n Iranians! Let's joyfully bomb 'em back into the stone age, yeah!) to metaphysical ( He who talks doesn't know, he who knows is too overawed to talk) and lots of stuff in between and to both sides.

I miss the good old days, when we had a couple of dedicated Republicans to stoke the fires of political debate. That was then, when we celebrated the dawn of the CEO Prez. Ahh, those were the days. The diehard naysayers were put in their place, when the victory was declared. Oh well.

It's just real nice, it feels good, a slow start to the day. It reminds me of breathing. The cafe opens in the morning and swells with customers, the morning crowd, the afternoon scene; inhaling people and exhaling at closing time, day after day. A cafe can be the heart of a community.

the quiet of early morning

I've had the by now infamous recurring flu, the kind that grabs you and hangs on for six weeks; you get better, almost normal and then, like a horror movie about ghosts, "We're ba-a-ck." So, last night I went to bed with chills and a mantra not taught by some enlightened monk: "Crap, crap, crap, crap,----", which was appropriate since it verbalized perfectly how I felt. I will repeat the wise words of a Mexican friend of mine: "There is no bad that doesn't bring some good, nor good that doesn't bring some bad." In the spirit of that, I will report that I had been concerned with the increasing tendency for me to go to bed later and later over the past month and at least today, I got up at a good Christian hour, right about when I would agonizingly retire normally. How refreshing.
It is still dark at Four, for those of you that sleep like babes well fed. It starts to get light just before five and the quiet is, well, remarkable. I suspect that there is some kind of thinking field hanging about and at about four a.m. the pollution level of the "thinkosphere" is not only lowest, but since so many of us are in REM sleep and dreaming, is actually good for creative endeavors. So, you don't have to be crazy or worse, a farmer, to have a reason to rise that early. The wild turkeys of La Conner are up and turkeying at that hour, need I say more?

When I used to go to Mexico, I often stayed in the small house at the back of my friend Victor's palapa (coconut palm leaf covered roof) restaurant and would get up early. It got very boring after about seven in the evening and going to bed was the highth of entertainment. I would wake at four, well rested. My alarm clock were the village roosters and the dogs, who would get into a shouting match starting at about three a.m. and being considerably weller rested, by five the crowing and barking echoed even into the deepest corners of my cranium. It takes a few weeks to get used to that, and then the good stuff starts. I would make good coffee, with a real coffee maker and write letters, diary, poems or study spanish, all the while noticing the changes in the light, the comings and goings of birds and locals, the sound of the sea waves breaking on the beach, the coughing of early morning Marihuana smokers, who would come to the scenic vista to start the day (in a more mellow way).
I miss that, so when I rise early, I get excited by the thought of going to the cafe, long before anyone else might arrive and have a Mexico morning. It is nearly seven, I wonder what is for breakfast and is it siesta time yet?

the incredible loudness of small frogs

It is spring and the frogs are croaking in the evenings. Sometimes I housesit at a friends' house; he has a little pond with a few goldfish and a single resident frog. When that frog started croaking, he got my attention. Judging by the sound, that frog must have been big, so I thought. I searched, expecting to find him easily. When he noticed my presence, he shut-up. I leave and he starts in again. So I stayed still and quiet. After a while I was able to trace his location and got a look at him. He was a tiny frog, about the size of a quarter!!
For some reason, that frog reminds me of Harley Davidson motorcycles. All sound, no substance. My brother in law has a BMW motorcycle and the potential for noisy rumbling is converted into performance. Fast and quiet. So, perhaps I should take a lesson from the lowly frog. If I do, what would it be?
How about some homilies. I'm not real sure what that word means, maybe it is the lazyness that sets in when it is time to look-up unfamiliar words. The word looks like what you do when you lie on the couch watching TV at home. Anyway, I think a homilie is something like "the squeeky wheel gets the grease". If that is the case, the croaking frog version would be: "the louder frog gets to polywalk". Heh Heh. Sorry.
So the frogs are croaking in the evening. You can hear them for blocks and blocks. From a distance the sound is comforting, lulling. Good for going to sleep. Up close they can drive you nuts. Makes you want to holler:":SHUT UP". It all depends on your frame of mind. Like if you slept well, the bird chirping is a welcome sound. If you wake grumpy, you want to go outside and holler: "SHUT UP". It just shows to go ya that attitude is everything. SHUT-UP!! ok.

fear of life, fear of death

I have come to love life and it is scaring the crap out of me. I was never really alive, so I never feared death. Now I am at times so overcome with the wonder of this marvel, that I melt inside and overflow. I feel like my time here is so short......so much, so much left undone. It is sweet and sad.
I have come to the point that was told to me in my early twenties: in my fifties I will have arrived. I am not alone. I am coming into the promise. Now I look suspicious at the reaper. I am angry about that absolute reality.
Here is the great quote for old humans: Youth is wasted on the young.
I knew an old man who gave me some advice that I studiously ignored. He said that if he had known he was going to live so long ( he was nearly eighty ), he would have taken better care of himself. He also told me about the dangers of Trans fat, long, long before anybody ever heard about it. Other stuff too, that has yet to come into the light of common knowledge.
The fear of feeling things, be it life or death and so much else, I handled by shuting down my emotions, choosing a form of death over the pain of being alive. Even the good stuff, the fun stuff was too much, too intense. Safety in numbness. I chose security over life.
It was a coping tactic and it worked for me. I didn't have the knowledge, support nor guidance to learn about my emotions. This aspect of myself , I now realize, is OH! so important. Also, if I am to make progress, I need to carefully lead myself to emotional maturity.

seeing in between

There is much more going on than we know. Beyond all the doings of human beings, beyond the world-full content of our brains and body and beyond the possibilities of all the worlds in all the galaxies, forever and ever, there is something very different, thin, hidden, an immense secret, a wonder. This has been hinted at by all the sages of all time. Every one has indicated that we humans have a birthright, a treasure of untold wealth. I don't know how to get at it, but I sense it and have at times experienced profound hints about the "inbetween".
There is a remarkable book, very old, short and useless, called the Tao Te Ching. It was supposedly written by a grouchy old man named Lao Tzu, and if you had a name that sounded like a sneeze, you would be grumpy too. Basically, Mr. Tzu insisted that the way to see, really see, was to unlearn what we have learned so far. He said it is very easy to do this, but very few are capable of this practice. We are stuck in our ways and very, very reluctant to amend our ways. We have become invested and ridgid.
Youst (new word--You + just!) think about how uncompromising people are about their political bent or racism and multiply that by some number maybe like 10 or 100, and there you have it. Beyond all that there is that damn "doing". We get stuck on "doing to get", so when some guy proposes that the way to "get" is by doing nothing, he's got them rolling their eyes and rolling in the aisles. Its enough to make you crazy.
Now, we have that Jesus character to consider. That guy was a radical. Not perhaps as grouchy as Mr. Tzu, but just as weird. He essentially said that to do cool stuff like turning water into wine, or walking on winey water, or raising the dead, all you need is a little bit of "faith". Just a little bit, like a small seed, the mustard seeds' worth. It's so easy!! ....... See those little dots? they are about the size of a mustard seed. .... that was four times more than you need to see inbetween. Learn to unlearn. Practise not doing. Let go and give up. Good Luck!!