A Drizzle in the Evening

It had been a day of hesitation. The storm that was promised by the forecast hung around sullen and lurking like teenage boys smoking around the corner. It sputtered and wheezed, a few miserly drops and a ghost of a blow. By evening, like two feeble boxers, exhausted from just standing around, it still threatened emptily.
I canceled plans to watch a movie with a friend. Secretly excited, I decided to have a special stay-at-home evening. In the dim light of the day's end, I sat with a pot of jasmine tea at the edge of my patio garden. Dark clouds above and a gratifying emptiness in my head. It began to rain lightly. More like mist, it gave a silky texture to the quiet of the evening.
The tea smelled of summer, of fragrant nights in exotic lands. My garden, I noticed, had changed. It was rebelling against the forced sleep of winter, stretching and yawning, getting to the work at hand. The ornamental maple trees that tastefully arch at the corners of the fence were finally getting dressed. Carefully unfolded new-green leaves, branchtips complete with gaggles of tiny red ballerina flowers wearing white tutus.
A robin flew by. With the whoosh of wings in my ears, it landed with a fat thump on the fence. It sized me up, left-eyed, canting her head to get a good view. I returned the compliment, from the corner of my right eye. Before I could offer my visitor a cup of tea, she flew back the way she came, leaving me marvelously satisfied with a conversation I can't remember.

How I met Gretchen

I remember being very inebriated at the La Conner brewery when I first talked to Gretchen. I had one of those vivid and important dreams, even though I knew absolutely nothing about her. I had merely seen her perhaps a couple of times.
Now, I was a Cultural Neanderthal and painfully shy. I very, very seldom struck-up conversations with people, though I would be delighted if somebody approached me. Because of the importance of the dream and the effect of the "social lubricant", I started telling her about the dream.
Can you imagine what she must have thought? Here comes some drunk guy, blabbering about having had a dream about her and she didn't know this guy from Adam. I am still shaking my head.
A few months later I started going to her cafe, where I am an this windy, sunny morning, pulling shots of espresso.

Breaking In

Last Sunday morning one of the regulars at the cafe found herself locked out of her house. As she was planning to anyway, she stopped at the Cafe, after her run and asked for help. At least the use of a cell phone and the number of a locksmith. I was studiously immersed in some internet interest, when I was asked if I could pick locks. Now another man might have googled lock picking, I volunteered to try to break into her house. My reasoning was that she might have overlooked an obvious solution, like the garage door was left unlocked or ditto with a window.
When we arrived at her house, I did the hopeful search for an easy way in. I checked said garage door, ugfff, nope, well secured. All the windows had sticks. The back door felt solid like it had resolve against the casual door-kicker. The sliding glass doors, had their feet planted firmly. No easy ingress, alas.
She tried to call the locksmith and he was not at home. Break a window? Ouch, big hit to the wallet. All the while, I heard in my head this inane sentence:"for every problem, a solution lies close at hand". I tried, with a strip of metal (a garden plant marker), to lift the window locking wooden stick in one of the kitchen windows. I pushed the strip between the glass panes and lifted up on the stick, but it moved over and out of reach. I needed a piece of stiff wire. I asked her if she had some metal wire and sure enough, in her patio planter were two pieces, just the right size. Bending the end into a lazy hook, I was able to lever the stick up and out of the way. Voila, she climbed in and retook possession of her home, doors and windows intact.
I write this to illustrate a point.
There is a lot more at the Cafe than coffee.

Time of the Pink Snow

The ornamental cherry trees where I live are in full bloom and Boy-Howdee are they loaded with blooms. Soon they will discard their ostentatious display and get down to the business of gathering sunlight and storing food for the coming winter. Right now, however, they are all Hollywood and Paris runway fashion. I am just shaking my head at the pure bloomyness of those trees.
Starting right about now, they will discard the glitz and the parking lot, the green lawn and even the street will turn pink. There will be small pink whirlies and drifts, puffs and gusts. The excess of pinkishness is just about painful to the eye. I can't help but wear a secret smile. I don't know why I find those trees so warming. Maybe they remind me of clowns and baby face licking puppy dogs.

Why, Art?

Art, of course serves many purposes. That is why it is blended into our history, like a golden thread woven into fabric. Even graffiti, the least of the Arts. Funny that graffiti would pop up in this 'entry'. I got to thinking about the Art that was 'done' on the street Saturday evening. I know why the Artist did that, but nothing has a simple past or meaning. This was done by an accomplished young Artist. It was done boldly and it was mildly controversial. The Crime Scene Outline held the hint of a pistol and had a red heart. While I watched him draw, I thought that the piece would be controversial and I held the disquiet I felt.
A friend approached me later on Sunday and said that the pistol bothered him/her. Tried to erase it. I understood. We rid ourselves of what is offensive, like hunting down a vague stink coming from the basement. Perhaps we can't find it, or we no longer notice it or just slightly. Perhaps we have made a deal with the elements and come to accept the stench of things or events as part of the burden of life. Perhaps we think it is us.
Along comes a chipper soul and announces: "Hey, it stinks here."
Sideways glances and gritting teeth. Why can't you be nice, we demand of the Artist, paint some pretty pictures, you know, Real Art. Like Magnificent Landscapes (said with broad gestures of the hands, like fishing lies). Or Still Lives (like our own Lives) that look like photos. Something that is uplifting.
Poor guy, it is all he can do to get through the days, to mark the weeks and years passing.
Creativity is a flighty lover, comes dressed for the costume ball. Never know what you will get. Sometimes you settle for a wink, sometimes a breathtaking and earth shattering orgasm. The Artist is just the tool, an extension on the brush. Like the paint, the artist too is the medium. Scraped, scratched, blowdried and overlaid. Who knows who really runs the show.
Have I woken in a Genet play?
My mentor Steve said: "If it isn't hated by the provincial, it isn't Art."

Chalk Art Critics

The giant Chalk Art Eraser descended on the sleepy town of La Conner this Sunday morning and deftly removed the expression of Fun from the sidewalk and street. Yes, you read right. Sidewalk art at the Bohemian (Read: Terrorist) Cafe half block off Moneygrubber street, is now considered stricktly Verboten. Actual laws to that effect still need to be formally passed, however we can assume that the Low Class Sidewalk Defacers have learned their lesson and having forced a town employee away from their family on a Sunday morning, feel appropriately guilty and remorseful for their selfish expressionism. Besides, what are they teaching our children? Defacing public property at such an early age! They will surely start smoking and drinking next. Such antisocial types as these must be reigned in and severely before they give the town a bad name.

Cosmic Stuff Arranging Management

"He wants WHAT?"
"He wants a rice cooker!"
"A rice cooker, what for? He's got a hot plate and a pot, what's he need a rice cooker for?"
"To cook rice, I guess. He wants a small one."
"Well, arrange for a twenty dollar Drop and he can go to Target and get one."
"Nope, won't work. He wants it by the usual route. "
"A Crap, not again, the Second Hand store! Why can't he just go with the mainstream. Why make it so difficult."
"What are we gonna do?"

I got it in my head to start eating rice. In part it was due to the "day-old bread" insecurity I was experiencing after the price of bread went up to nearly five bucks. I could not gander the thought of squishy sawdust commercial bread. I wanted a rice cooker. Preferably a small one.

"Offer him something else. He can win the lottery and get a house with a real stove and a new set of pots and ...."
"Nope, won't work, besides, he's a fourth level Nexus Propagator...."
"Fourth level? Since when? He was a second NP back around Christmas, right?"
"Yeah, Lucy the Dog got him jumped two levels."
"Who is Lucy the Dog?"
"Lucy the Dog is the Physical Manifestation of Gabriels' bellybutton."
"Angels don't have any freaking bellybuttons, not even Gabriel!"
"He does now, been some changes since you went on sabbatical, Sir."
"What do you mean, 'HE'?"
"You guessed it!"
"NOOO, I DON'T BELIEVE IT!"

It's kind of a Game, wishing for stuff and seeing how it arrives. I've been toying with Intentioning for some time. I get all sorts of stuff coming my way, not just material possessions, but also lessons and growth. Sometimes it comes in such ways as to leave me agog.

"What's the report from Inventory?"
"Nothing doing, only big rice cookers, Sir."
"WHAT! Ah Hell and Damnation! Get on the horn and call in the Time Jumpers, we need the best they got. We've got to move quick on this one, get it before we have a Reality Conundrum. I don't want to go through one of Those again!"
"Ah yes, you mean the Cuban Missile Crisis!"
"No, you Dope, the 2000 election!"

It was only chance that got me to the Soroptomist on Sunday. I was somehow occupied on Friday and Saturday. I walked into the Garage and there it was. Not in the Kitchen, where rice cookers should be, but in the Garage, where Mens' Stuff hangs out.

"Sir, we found a possible pathway for the rice cooker problem. It involves several Nexus points and we have Shifters working on it now."
"How many Propagators we got?"
"Several of second level, but only one third level, Sir. It's gonna be a tight squeeze."
"Only one third level? Damn, why can't Gabriel promote somebody?"
"You don't keep up on the gossip, do you Sir. Gabriel is busy showing off his new Dong. Goes around asking angels if they wanna see his 'Flaming Sword'."

It was only a dollar and I plugged it in to see if it would heat up. It did and it cooks rice real fine. As I figure it, I got lucky with this one. I probably would not have gone to look if Kevin Sunrise hadn't urged me to go there. He said that they got lots of new stuff in. I saw Kevin by chance on the street as he was going to do some garden work.

"What was the deal with the Year 2000 Reality Conundrum, Sir? That was before my time."
"Oh yes, it was a piece of Work, let me tell you. It was a Seventh Level Propagator with a huge Account balance that wished for the Jews to get along with the Arabs. Never wished for anything his whole life. Definitely a favorite with Ol' One Eye upstairs. So, since he dumped his whole account on that Intent, all Creation started to quake and we had to do something quick..."
"He never got his wish!"
"Yes, well no, he never got that wish! He got another, but only after the Ol Guy got involved and we had to bring in some Shifters that were working with the Ol Man on another Manifestation. Got him to amend the wish somewhat."
"I don't understand, Sir."
"The Shifters went in there, looking like fellow Democrats and they got him into a political discussion. Of course the subject of his wish came up and they were all moping about how impossible the situation was and how peace between the two seemed impossible. Notice they used the word 'Peace'. This is a tricky one, cooked up by the legal department. If he had said:"I wish for peace in the Mid East", then we could have solved the problem. We would have arranged a rain of green peas and according to the Law of Pun, that would fulfill the obligation. Instead, due to just dumb luck, he was saying that nobody knew for sure what the real policy of the White House was concerning the conflict and if only there were a couple of Plants in the Oval Office, the Nation would know for sure. Bingo! Legal was all over that and we tried to get some roses or houseplants into there. Seemed easy, we thought."
"Yeah, the Law of Pun, Sir. I never heard of that. What happened then?"
"Well, they don't allow that sort of stuff in the Oval Office, due to Security concerns. We were stuck and this Manifestation was rattling worse than a toy in a baby's hand. So Legal cooked up another plot and that was how we put two Bushes into the White House."
"I get it, Sir. If we can't get the connections arranged, then the fall-back would be a short Asian woman, right?"
You got it, my boy. You are catching on quick."

The power of a Pen

In third grade I had a friend named "Red". Red had red hair and after bringing home a bad grade from school, vicious red welts on his back and arms. After a test, the paper had to be signed by the parent and turned in to the teacher the following day.
With a look of woe, Red showed me the "F", which looked like a severe beating to me. Now, in Germany in those days, pens were just about a controlled substance. They were rare and children were not allowed to have access to them. The test had to be signed in ink. My Mother, being somewhat irresponsible, habitually left a pen laying around. I had a brilliant idea. I asked Red if he had a sample of his parents' signature. He assured me he did.
My mother worked swing shift and I usually waited until after she left for work before I went home. I might not see her for days, except asleep when I left for school or sometimes she would wake me when she brought home fried chicken or french fries from the Army base where she worked.
Red met me at home and I set to work on the forgery. I was very good at copying stuff. I remember I had once copied a ballerina from a tissue box and she asked me if I had traced it. No, it was a free-hand copy. I don't remember if I practiced serveral times or if I just carefully duplicated the signature.
The next day, the teacher called us up to the front, one by one, to inspect the signatures. I remember Red looking back at me as he walked to the front. He handed the test paper to the teacher, who inspected the signature. There was a hesitation and then the teacher looked at me. He seemed to look for a long, long time. Busted! I squirmed and recrossed my fingers.
Finally, he handed to paper back to Red. Red grinned, relieved, all the way to his desk.

Making Rent

After two hours of work at the cafe, I pedaled home and put the ten dollar bill into the used paper cup on my shelf. Two ten dollar bills cuddled together, waiting for more bills, waiting for enough to migrate to my landlords' house. The two dollars and fifty cents in tips will buy a loaf of day-old bread and some over-ripe bananas. What a great day.

The Golden Rule

"He who has the gold, makes the rules". That by way of introduction to my most recent area of study. Slowly unwinding the Gordian Knot, getting to the core of the vile vipers which cast a dark and darkening shadow on the Garden of Eden. What a story to the history of Banking. It is so mind-boggling that it is just unbelievable.
Guess what is carved on the headstone of President Andrew Jacksons' grave?
"I killed the Bank"
It is a most profound warning.

Tulip

I saw a red tulip, a ruby on a green stalk. I saw the mystery, the marvelous transience of life. The dark eons before and those to come. Now we bloom, soon we'll fade. Winters come and go. Endless. Forever and ever.

The Voice of God

In my teenage years, Southern Baptists got their hooks in me. Teenagers, especially from a dysfunctional family, are dreadfully vulnerable to propagandizing. Unless there is some longterm intervention, they are lost in the swamp of Fundamentalism. For me, rescue came by way of disillusion, curiosity and chance encounters with guides. I fully understand the mentality of Cristian Fundamentalism and their stubborn denial of Christs' teaching.
At that time, I was a fervent convert. I was "On fire". I was frightened and it was a scary world, one owned by the Devil and even my own body was corrupt. Bang and Dang, besieged and confused. It took years to extricate myself. Even today, the programming wisps about, like some unidentifiable stench. Thirty-some years later!
What is frightening about "Them" is their callous disregard of the teachings of Jesus. In the Words of Jesus, one can find clues to the nature of this world. I have a high regard for those teachings, though I willfully neglect them, when it suits me. After all, I am a Backslider. My callus disregard is therefore explainable, if not justified.
I kid you not; I desperately wanted to have a chat with God. If longing has any weight at all, I carried on my shoulders a gargantuan sack and even Santas' bag of toys for tots a fraction beside mine. To no avail. No voices. Nothing. It never dawned on me that God may be bored to talk with a closed-minded, wimpy and pimply teenage boy.
Years later I did hear a Voice, an attempt to establish a conversation. I was somewhat out of the grip of the indoctrination, yet I still was frightened, fearing the Devil. Dang. It never came back; I never heard it again. I knew it was kind and concerned. I felt it. It tried to start a dialog, hesitant and careful, gentle and aware. Given the winning lottery numbers, I refused to listen.
Now I hear God in my surroundings; chance snatches of conversation of strangers in the street, advice from friends, co-incidences, Freudian or Jungian slips, behavior of animals, my early morning adviser, dreams and daydreams and "shit that irks me". Lotta irking going on, let me tell you. Never knew that God would turn out to be so garrulous.

Something is Shifting

There is no reason why we can't go into battle crying and shaking. It is the only authentic response to the situation. If we are not lamenting and frightened, it is not battle.

Morning with the Dogs

When I get to the cafe, Lucy and Buddy greet me. Dog greeting is very physical; hugs all around. Their excitement is infectious. The two of them mill around me, brushing up against my legs with an urgency that is unmistakable. They are glad to see me.
Ricks' dog Tug, gets even more excited. On Wednesday evenings, for "open no-mike", Tug is just a blur, wiggling and shaking so much and so quick that his outline becomes indistinct and he morphs into a fast, soft and quivering ball of dog hair. He quickly greets everyone and then heads for the dog toy box to start the evening of fetch, take-away and find the treat. More than anyone, Tug loves open no-mike. I know that he is somewhat disruptive, especially if he gets his chompers on a squeeky toy. I like that I am no longer irked by his doggyness. I have learned a lot about democracy from those dogs.
In the morning, Lucy becomes Nurse Lucy and treats Buddy's wound. He has an open sore on his chest that she delicately cleans every day. I want to put one of those old fashioned nurse caps on her for the treatment. She didn't go to doctor school. Did she get her license off the internet?
I take Lucy and Buddy for a walk. Not much of a walk, mind you. Just enough to get to where the juicy grass grows down by the channel. I play tourist and they play cow.

Just be yourself!

If you want to get me going, mention 911 or: Just Be Yourself! Just be yourself especially gets me, since I haven't a clue as to who I am. Or rather, which self is the authentic self. I don't know if this is a difficulty for you, Dear Reader, I don't know my own zip code.
Perhaps this comes as a result of personality splitting due to childhood trauma or from having to "watch myself", "act like an adult" and various messages that implied that being "myself" was something shameful. So, here I am and having taken inventory of the store, can not find the light bulbs.
Today, in my internet readings, I came across an article about the genesis of depression as a cultural phenomenon. Seems it came on the scene about 400 years ago. It was profound enough that it was written about by some astute observers, at that time. What brought it about is not a mystery. At that time there was a remarkable cultural shift that birthed some remarkable trends, including the Protestant Reformation, Capitalism and a new sense of Self. This Individualism has brought us many things, one of them is the sense of isolation that seems to be the core of the epidemic of depression.
Basically, before the 17th century, people identified with their community and participated in endless communal rituals, also known as: parties. Yup, they were party animals and that gave them a sense of wellbeing. Even as the change was happening, the loss of party affiliation was lamented.