Individualism

That word is a description for failure. We've been taught that the self-made man is the hat on the statue, the pinnacle on the pyramid. Self-made is a myth, a lie, a piece of propaganda. The truth is that isolated humans are hardly human. They are spiritual dwarfs and excel in psychopathic endeavors only. I fear that we have come to a point in our evolution that due to an excess of niceness, that kind has not only a foothold in society, rather are directing the course of human evolution. The time will never come when 5% of humans are decent, kind and loving. Once we get to the tipping point, all kindness will be eradicated and what will be left is a race of human reptilian robots. They will make the perfect slaves, powerless in their monumental numberoneiosity, unable to plan together, forever ratting each other out for the slightest reward. That is Hell.

Bird Feed

One of my stints in Mexico was at a small town on the Pacific Coast, south of Puerto Vallarta. There I met Felix, a "Prieto", dark skinned, late seventies, made of indestructible wood and terribly addicted to alcohol. Felix took a liking to me. I diligently worked at learning Spanish, made the best coffee around and I was quiet, nearly invisible. He let me stay in a spare bedroom, which was probably on par with a Monks' cell, minus the decor. It did have a bed and a mattress, first-class, wink wink.
Felix combined his penchant for beer with a way to scrape together a few daily pesos. In the late morning he brought out some tables and chairs and a cooler of iced brew. He was a daily stop for a horde of Canadians, who would spend their money with him, play cards and argue. I would be long gone before that action began and I returned after he fell into bed.
Early morning was the best time. We got up before the town began to stir and I made Cowboy Coffee. I would buy some coffee from the woman at the corner that sold good beans delivered fresh from Guadalajara. In a cheap ceramic pot, using my immersion heater, I brewed a thick, tasty elixir that stood up to copious amounts of evaporated milk and enhanced with raw sugar was, if not a meal, certainly a righteous start.
These mornings were precious. Felix and I would talk, sip coffee and watch the towns' morning routines. Felix talked about his life and once about the utter viciousness of alcoholism. At a table across the way, three men met to drink coffee, ate the grainy and tasteless sweet rolls that I avoided, and had a bottle next to a table leg with which they fueled their get-up and go.
At some point, a flock of black birds began to gather on telephone and power lines overhead. When there were the requisite number, they began to chatter and screech until Felix walked to the small corner store and bought a little bag of white rice. Emerging from the store and to the chagrin of the proprietress, Felix scattered rice onto the ground, carelessly as if the bag emptied itself against his will and his face transformed into that of an ancient child, a bad boy, the Trickster and the Saint.
I think that this was the high point of his day, a compact with the birds and by extension all of nature. This daily ritual, when he allowed the birds to call him and bring about the scattering of rice, Felix aligned himself most closely with the Natural Universe.

The Odiferous Nature of Dogs

Jane has been suspended as one of the occasional dogwalkers at the cafe. Why? The last three times she returned Buddy in a somewhat questionable state. Buddy, of course, comes back from a jaunt with Jane as exited as a kid who just ate three Twinkies washed down with a quart of Coke. I can just imagine that he is beside himself with pride over the gift he is about to share with the pack of coffee sippers.
Breathtaking is one way to describe it. Just about brings tears to the eyes. His altruism turns quickly to shame as he gets excommunicated from the cafe and rejected and dejected, pouts outside. Any attempt to share the pungent gift with the Humans is rudely shouted off. He never learns. Dog manners and Man manners have taken different forks on the evolutionary trail years ago.
Now, that makes no sense to me. If you find a certain scent that is pleasant to the nose, why not rub yourself onto someone else, so that the effect, like a potluck, is enjoyed by all. Dogs do not suffer from the delusion of separation that plagues us. Which is why the patron Saint of the Cafe is Saint Bernard, brandy keg included, natch.

The Dandelion

The Dandelion's strategy for species survival is fairly straightforward. Make a lot of seeds and get them scattered as far away as possible. Be tough. Taste like crap. Make more seeds.
At my friends Jeff's house, lives a big specimen, flower stalks nearly two feet tall. I imagine that the seeds, some of them might drift as far as China, on a windy day, in a righteous updraft. That's a lot of trust, sending seeds halfway around the world.
I am reminded of the Lillies of the Valley that Jesus talked about. He assured us that this world is a good place, or if not good, at least neutral. The meek shall inherit the earth. Don't believe it. Jesus wasn't talking about anything political. He was talking about how we can enter into a genuine relationship with the world, or the "Kingdom of God". Like the dandelion. Trust and perseverance. A humble attitude; childlike. Gawking, not jaded or sophisticated. Open minded and bright eyed. Natural and wild.

Dogs of the Sky

Saturday morning my eyes popped open at five a.m. Nothing had woken me. No dreams, no noises and certainly no alarm. It was getting light out and I was startled to note that I am now burning more daylight than ever. I got up and made tea.
I have the need for some kind of morning ritual, it seems. The transition from sleep to wake is, let's say, traumatic. ( Linguistic note: Traum is German for dream ). At the cafe, I do like the dogs do, greet everyone and check to see if there is any pleasant distractions to chew over. I could have pedaled to the cafe and let myself in, made some coffee and flexed my mental muscles into action there. I didn't. I bundled up and sat outside on an overcast morning, listening to the early risers tweet and whistle.
Nothing especially noteworthy to report. No orange sunrise, rays slanting into the world. No deep blue sky. Just the warm green tea, my patio and me. Except for those crows.
Their song is akin to a badly tuned violin. Grating and raucous and repetitive. The Death Metal of the bird song world. Like cutting into a car with a skill saw. There was some kind of concert going on at Pioneer Park, a couple of blocks from my humble mansion. Craw, craw and craw, over and over and over.
I heard the whistle of a eagle, a twittering, frightened sound, a stark contrast to the size and abilities of that raptor. They sound lost and sad and lonely. More barking crows. Another whistle. More shredding and ripping and scraping. Finally, the eagle drifted along overhead, floating, wings motionless, out of sight. The crows damped down their throat clearing a notch. One arrived in the fir tree that towers over my humility of a house. Here we go again. Another joined in. Before long, I was even trying to crow. Can't ignore 'em, might as well join 'em. I went back to bed.

Feeding the Fire

When the flames begin to flicker and the fire is going out, what do you do?

The cafe fire is going out.
That which warms us, is going bye bye.
At some point, when there is that chill in the air, we will wish we had done something......!

You know these times are precious, these cafe times. Heated and gentle talk, sharing, friends, new relationships, help, ideas and the best coffee anywhere. Potlucks, art openings, Open No Mike, breakfast with the Beattles. Reading the paper, a good book and questions posed and answered.

If only there was something we could do.........

The Group Mind

I have written about this before, what Carl Jung called "the collective unconscious". I have indicated that, in my opinion, the group mind is being manipulated and that by extension, this is the cause for the apparent apathy of the American People vis-a-vie the current political cesspool. Don't worry, we have the best minds (available) on the problem. Go back to sleep.

If you are still awake, realize that you are one of those (best minds) who we rely on to scrutinize this difficulty. With furrowed brow and smoking ears think about what can be done to deflate the atmosphere of fear that was brought on us. When you have done some thinking, throw a tea party for the neighbors.

Deeper into the Mediocre

Those of you who read these scratchings and are living in other parts may not know that there are changes happening at the Cafe. What were rumors and fears have taken substance, like a spirit conjured in the sorcerers' pentagram. Yes, Dick Cheney is buying the Cafe. The President of Vice, he who uses the "F" word with impunity, the man with a taste for little chillun (unsubstantiated rumor, though he has yet to deny this), is buying Gretchen out, as her benign presence just doesn't help in the War on Error. To Err is Human, therefore the War is a war on Humanity. Dang it. We are in trouble.
Well, it was bound to happen. Nothing lasts forever, though those Pyramids take a long time to erode. Me, I am being stoic and keeping my fists clenched.

The fist thing to go will be the good coffee, I'm sure. I'm already demoralized. So much for a stiff upper lip.