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.

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.

The truth will set you free

I have heard that statement:"The truth will....", and I think I have an inkling what that means. This week has been a dichotomy for me. I had my worst day in decades and two good days in a wintry stretch of daily blah.
About two years ago, I began sporadic research into the hidden history of this country. As I began to put pieces together, I became more skeptical and incensed. This week the pieces clicked, giving me a deeper sense of what this world is about. The horror of it was nearly overwhelming. I became very depressed. When that sat with me overnight, I woke with a different state of mind. It seems I had come to accept this aspect of reality and came to some kind of peace with it.

Brutal Honesty

Here is my private Guantanamo: First thing in the morning, before the delusions set in, I am best able to see my situation. No wonder that I dive into the endless daydreaming. However, the cure is the cancer.
I write this as a confession; as a manifesto; as an appeal. Now, you dear Reader, may have no clue as to what I am talking about. However, with some exceptions, I suspect we all suffer from the same trickery.
It began early. Belief in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, Good and Evil. I don't remember the process, I make inferences. It still runs on, though more sophisticated, adultish. In essence, it is endless Escapism. Anything but the Brutal Truth.

Perhaps it is the Voice of Conscience informing me of my particular weaknesses and shortcomings. I hear it most clearly when I wake-up. I have tried to listen to it, to stay in that state of lucidity, but I am a coward and turn my back on myself. Ouch. Lucky me, it is not insistent. It lets me have my daily fix of mental dope. From night dreams into day dreams, with the occasional blink of awareness.

In the movie "The Matrix", Neo has the choice between the Blue and Red Pill. This is the choice we make daily, hourly, second by second. Actually for me, I get the choice occasionally, always in the morning, always painful and frightening.

Layers of Reality

In discussing the behavior of a person that we know here at the cafe ( a "crazy" person), I reflected on the source of their "unease". Since I am about the last person that can afford to be inspected for traces of weirdness and I habitually run at the end of the conventional mental health marathon. I find myself stridently defending those that keep me company in this race.
Not that I am incapable of viciousness in thought or speech about the mentally handicapped. I certainly am not that crazy. And I may never get to that point, some Christ-like attitude toward the meek in spirit. However, I am able to keep some things in perspective. This is probably due to my own Quixotic nature, my witnessing people that were genuinely loving, open and forgiving. Also, I like to look at the bigger picture.
So here is the bigger picture:
This society is one wacked piece of work. Our priorities are nearly completely topsy-turvy, we steep ourselves in endless deceptions, behave like frightened cows and keep the scissors sharpened so as to shred the fragile fabric of humanity. Endless war, profits at any cost, victimization of the weak, the list is nearly endless and it is a damn miracle that anybody functions at all. Given all that, some guy with a bad case of Tourrettes syndrome, is behaving in a refreshingly honest and appropriate way.
In the words of Jesus, loosely translated for our times: "Y'all's truly fooked."

The Lesson of the Kingfisher

All is metaphor. Today I went searching for a bite to eat. Invariably that kind of search leads me to the grocery store. Invariably, I purchase fried chicken with jojos. I have written about the miracle qualities of the fried chicken from the store before, so I need not reiterate.
Searching for a spot to consume this delicacy I opted for a favorite place by the water. The wind was whistling against the wires of a sailboat and a strict sign forbade the trowing of rocks, directly across from a new pile of crushed rock. Why is it that when I see a sign like that, I get the urge to do what it forbids?
I saw a Kingfisher surface. Now I have a special relationship with that species. A number of years ago I had a dream about a Kingfisher. It was an important dream for me. Anyway, the Kingfisher surfaced and shortly dove again. He resurfaced on the other side of a pier and swallowed a fish he had caught. All is Metaphor.
It struck me. We have to dive deep to get a kernel, but to digest the experience, we have to surface (to normal consciousness). After digestion, the kernel or seed becomes wisdom.

Creating Beauty

Over the years, I have collected ideas and notions that I admire. Once I read a short book about a young man who traveled to Japan to learn Zen meditation. He became friends with a Japanese woman who very carefully structured her experiences so as to have a wealth of Beauty for the future. I imagined that to be something like a bank account. She would create beautiful memories and store them into this account; for a rainy day, for old age.
I read about the Hopi Indians who strive to "walk in Beauty" all their lives. I have been near to tears thinking about the power of this philosophy.

I can't seem to remember to remember to create beauty. I can't pull myself out of the morass of the mediocre to consistently Walk in Beauty. In the chaotic bucket that is my mind, as if by random chance, the realization that I can Create Beauty By Will, will occasionally slip to the top.
It would be enormously helpful to have reminders, to act on them and to Walk in Beauty for extended periods of time. The Hopis have an advantage, in that this sort of thinking is taught early and re-enforced. By comparison, I learned fear and divisiveness.

My Love Affair with Alcohol

Even though I have been flippant in the past about alcohol, I have been very concerned with the issue. It has been a love/hate relationship for many years. I have at various times gone on the "wagon" and fallen off. At times, the ride on the wagon lasted for years.
I became (once again) concerned with my reliance on alcohol this winter. With the onset of light deprivation, my normal tendency to depression is multiplied. I don't know this, but I accept that since alcohol is a central nervous system depressant, it would have compounding negative effects on me.
Instead of white- knuckling, my policy was to reduce my alcohol intake, but not terminate totally. I was hoping to not engage the automatic resistance demon that resides somewhere in my head. I would be able to drink once a week.
This has, for the most part worked quite well, without internal unrest or resentment. Though I have not stuck to the program to the letter, I have greatly reduced my natural inclination to self-medicate. I have also saved a ton of quarters.
Just writing about this has kindled the urge to drink. Fortunately today is Wednesday and I am able to launch into a drinking bout today if I wish. Which I am. Drinking. White wine.

What is notable is that the urge to drink has diminished greatly, to the point that mostly I no longer need to distract myself or agonize. Even when I deem it safe to imbibe, often I don't have the heart to get into it. I will, for example, start a glass of beer or wine and not finish.
What I have to watch out for is arrogance. Perhaps writing about this "success" is arrogant and I am in danger of a downfall. I have noticed this quite often in my life. I would like to be smug, but chances are, it bites me in the ass. There seems to be some kind of Leveler that turns the ground under my feet to quicksand if I start to celebrate my standing.

I know that it takes time to heal and that on the average, each day gets a little bit better.

Pain in the Neck

I thought it was because of a new pillow that I tried last week, this crinck in the neck. Not so, I now suspect. When it didn't go away I resorted to the old ask Dr. Rob. How this works is fairly simple, perhaps too simple. I asked the internal Doctor: "What is the pain in the neck?"
The answer did not come right away, but within 24 hours I did get a response. I had had this condition prior; associated with playing solitaire for endless hours. Just did not remember. Now I am looking for a cure other than the obvious.

I have been writing way too much about the weather. Sorry. It just seems that I get a bit of hope if I get to see that bright thing in the sky. Woo Hoo, the sun just came out!

By the way, if you have any questions for Dr. Rob, make a note in the comments and I will ask him to address your concerns. Try not to be too serious. No winning Lotto numbers, sorry.

Doors Wide Open

I woke dreaming. It was warm and sunny. It felt like an early summer morning, warm and fresh at six. I opened my door and let the morning in. Unassuming, it entered my trailer, curling into the corners and behind the couch. It comes complete, making no demands, no insinuations. Though full, it is open for more. It has presence and yet is discreet.
Coming to the cafe, I left the door open and nobody complained. Lucy the dog's fur reflects the blue of the sky and Buddy the other dog ignored my counsel to diversify his investment portfolio, as he does every time I proffer tidbits of wisdom. At least expand your bag of tricks, I gently prod; sneezing on command and begging for cookies, though honorable, do not make for economic independence. Buddy smiled the smile of the guileless and the innocent. I have only the best of intentions, Buddy, it is a dog-eat-dog world.
Everybody is making plans. I plan to wake up soon. Well, not really the Big Wake-Up, that is too frightening. I need the blanky of my particular delusions to keep me blunted. I get to work at the cafe today. All afternoon. The door will be open to let the music go outside to play in the street. What a dream I am having.

Vitamin D Farming

When I checked the 10 day weather forecast this morning, it was rain to the power of ten. So when the sun broke out of cloud jail and downloaded a ton of photons onto the scene, I got the bug to expose myself to the elements. I rolled up my sleeves and went to work. I was raising a fine crop of vitamin D and squinting like a Chinese mole in the Sahara. It felt good to be so productive. It harked back to fonder times, doors open and the perfume of sun-warmed blooms; the buzzing of bees and humming birds; the languid drone of distant lawn mowers and the smell of fresh-cut grass. Ah, summer, summer get thee here quick.
These moments, when the weather scheduling bureau screws-up and we get a break, these moments are the most precious. Though I will forget the beauty, my memories bleached out by endless days of gray and cowardly, piddling rain, somewhere in my being a small hand grips the moment in desperation, squeezing them into gold nuggets and deposited deep under a brawny hill. Each of these little treasures accrue and this hoard must last me through the ages before the harvest season, the salad days of summer.

The Transformation of Paul

Juju came breezing into the cafe yesterday with shocking news. Paul the cat is not a Paul, rather a Paulette. Eyes awide and incredulous, we took the news in stride. Could it be that all this time we fell for a simple ruse? Or was it a bit of sharpness on her part to hide the obvious; that for lack of certain chance Paul did not wear pants. Upon hearing the truth we laughed; we had been duped! Oh the lowness of it all; the lows to where Paulette had stooped.
What we thought were rivalries; the negotiating of hunting grounds at best; between Paul and a big Tom, are nothing more than the beginning, a new love interest. Try explaining that to a Human Child, those yauling sounds are just the sexy call of the wild. So now we are waiting breathlessly. Has Paulette been fixed? Will new kittens be nixed? On one thing we can all agree, this story's turning out to be, better than TV.

Call of the North

I hear them in the dark distance, the honking of North bound geese. Their calls sound comical and yet determined. Theirs will be a long travail and they are flying late. I imagine that subtle variations in their calls mean different things. Perhaps they even tell each other jokes.
Hey, have you heard the one about bird flew? Yeah, beats walking pneumonia. Haw Haw Haw Haw. Go left. Left.
The bright moon illuminates a thin veil of clouds and makes a perfect backdrop for the wing of geese and stragglers. The clouds are slowly moving north, silent, cold and resolute. A lone goose is lagging far behind, sounding forlorn. A sharp wind bites through my clothes, stripping away green hopes of early spring. I am a lone, bare tree, arms stretched into the sky, praying for the return of the sun god.

Snowy Wednesday

As I was pedaling to the cafe, snow started to fall. Always a welcome sight; something different from the gray wet of late winter. We have had some nice weather lately, blue sky and something real bright in the sky, called "the sun". I have fond memories of that thing, warmth and light and a boon to green, growing things.
I have acquired a head cold and it has knocked me in the dirt. Two days of dragging about feeling like I am dragging three hundred pounds where ever I go. I do feel somewhat better today.

Choosing a career

Now that I am all growed-up, it is time for me to pick a career. I have asked some of my friends to help me decide on what sort of work I would excel in. Oddly enough, after asking the question they tended toward pensive silence, followed by maniacal laughter. I took this to be a good sign, assuming that they hit on something truly stunning. This reaction happened often enough that I became somewhat hurt and jaded. When a suggestion came, it was something obtuse, like:"have you considered therapy?" or "do you enjoy traveling?". I soon saw the futility of asking for advice; nobody was taking me seriously. I became quite befuddled and my self-esteem went underground. Then I remembered the wise words: "when life gives you lemons......".
Yeah, that's it, I'll make lemonade and make a fortune! I'll be rich and famous and loved by all. My lemonade stands would stand the test of time and for thirsty humans, even in the very center of the vast and arid Sahara, lemonade would be freshly made; new friendships made too. What a dream it was and everything was going great until I came across one obstacle. Myself.
The truth is that I don't want to do anything. I am as motivated as, well, ........ . I do like spending time at the cafe; I have a near-perfect attendance record and am able to face the grueling task of an eight hour day, coffee in hand, witty and chipper with a certain air of sacrifice and martyrdom that lends me ( so I have been told ) a saintly visage.
Now that's all good and fine, but love doesn't pay the bills. We need MONEY. How to get it is the rub and most options are simply too mundane.
That's when I stumble upon a brilliant scheme. Let me explain. Most people get paid for being somewhere and doing something. The limitation is that you can only be one place at a time; a rather obvious failure of three dimensional life. Now, you can be absent from many places, doing a ton of nothing, without much effort. That's it! That should be my tack. I had finally found something that I can do well!

to be continued.....

Fried Chicken Blues

Paul had a weakness for fried chicken and it boxed him in. Yep, our resident feral feline, also know as "Chairman Mauw" got carried away. I will explain those puns.
But first, some history. He appeared and took up residence in back of the cafe, where there is a over-night rental. Paul was named "Paul" by JuJu (Judy Jones) when she volunteered to give Paul a home on the plains at her house. Great spot for a semi-social kitty. He would blend in well, looking kinda like a rabbit due to his veryshort, curved tail. He could sneak up on birds better that way. Anyway, the rub was getting him to his unadopted home. Paul had a nasty habit of getting frightened when picked-up. Mike and Jack found that out for us. Gretchen used gloves, but Paul made short schrift of the "grab 'im by the back of the scruff" notion; Paul GETS gloves. For fear of a good clawing, Paul spent quite a bit more time at the cafe than intended. Smart Kitty.
It was the fried chicken that ultimately did him in. I knew the secret to Pauls' soul. I offered my wisdom, my full understanding of the seductive nature of the fried chicken from the local store. I scored samples twice, thanks to my incessant affirmation of the delectable nature of that fried chicken. Thanks, JuJu.
So they got a live trap. I never thought it would work. I had forgotten about the near magical power of the "substance". On a cold, rainy afternoon, Paul was trapped. Paul was also pissed. Cold, wet and stuck in a small trap, no more fishing expeditions underneath Calico Cupboard , no more excursions into the Moore-Clark Rat Reserve. No more fried chicken.
No more No Mike Open Mike.

The Dead Robin

On my path between my trailer and the gate to the outside lies the body of a Robin. I have not picked it up and disposed of it yet. I have thought about it several times, but I have left it there. Why?
When I first saw it, it reminded me of my own death. In death, that Robin gives me something. I have learned that this world, this weird and strange place, full of dark loneliness and bright miracles of friendship and love, acts on me in dreamlike ways. It offers me these tidbits, because I can't eat much, my mind is too constricted; it feeds me carefully, little bites.

I am sorry for all the times I have not stood my ground and for fear of being belittled; have laughed at the discomfort of another Human; the butt of jokes or other viciousnesses. I am sorry for all the times when I held back and not told a person that I just had the thought that I appreciate them. I am sorry for all the times when I have kept quiet for fear of being laughed at by small-minded, provincial bullies and their games of one-upmanship. I am sorry for all the times when I hadn't told the assholes that they are twisted dwarfs and trolls, dripping with slime. Mostly, I am sorry that I have not stood next to myself and offered encouragement to my own true self.

I am crying as I write this. I can't see through the tears. I will leave that Robin there until I have learned all that I can from a dead master.

First Denial, then Ridicule, finally Of Course!

Have you heard about the idiot surgeon that suggested hand washing prior to surgery? He was just Hated in his day. For fifty years after it was proven to the British Royal Navy that scurvy was due to a nutritional deficiency, not a personal choice, the Royal Navy continued its policy of flogging scurvy victims.
Now you are probably wondering why I offered those delectable foibles of mankind for your enjoyment. Just a teaser, an appetizer; there is a veritable banquet of these facts.
Anyway, I am sick. No, no, not THAT kind of sick, the step on a puppy sick, rather ILL, like in headcold or flu. I got it yesterday. That was a day after I so foolishly chose to upset the apple cart and engaged in a highly questionable activity: Spring cleaning. Yeah, now I am wondering if there is any connection between the two.
Of course, I am aware that this is foolish thinking. Colds are a result of virus infections and the virus I got about a week ago. Cut and dried. No argument. Picture me sulking about, pouts and all. Now, I KNOW that there is plenty of unexplained phenomena that points to a reasonable counter argument to many medical explanations.
I really like the ones about the guy that never smoked, ate well, exercised daily and died of lung cancer. Hee Hee. Shadenfreude.

Spring cleaning

It was beautiful yesterday, my doors were wide open and I did some spring cleaning. I even vacuumed the floor and sorted through my closets and cabinets. I threw out most of my collection of cassette tapes. I was amazed. Nearly half a garbage can just in tapes. The thing that I was struck with most is that I hardly listened to any of them. I just had a collection. Perhaps I will go through my books next. There is a full recycling container just in books, easily.
I have a penchant for good sheets. I have come to appreciate the feel of high thread count cotton sheets. I own three sets and always look for more. I don't need more than three sets, though. I just like the thrill of improving the inventory. Actually, I have that packrat disease. It is classified no longer as compulsive, rather it has its own category. I read about that recently. I have been agonizing over this "compulsion" for about a year now.
Yesterday I got on a web site about internal anarchy. Here we go again. More of that woo-woo stuff. The gist is to carefully observe what the contents in the ol' noggin' are and to discard what doesn't serve the self. As I was ditching my tapes, I was repeatedly thinking about how my internal state is reflected in my surroundings; that my mind is cluttered and full of useless crap.

On my path, going to my trailer, there rests the dead body of a Robin. I have yet to pick it up and dispose of it. It is there to remind me of something----

Downloading, uploading and rebooting

Well, I have had my new computer for about five days now. It is somewhat a Greek Tragedy. There is comedy and loss. I have been intensely fooling around with it, frantically stripping programs and effects like a refugee trudging to safety, discarding what he doesn't absolutely need; like peeling an onion, layer after layer. (By the way, I am expecting some problem and will need to re-boot shortly.)
The difficulty is that I am a shallow computer user. I am never going to master this technology, it is moving far out of reach even as I write this. I just want the internet portal to work, so that I can write my blog entries, read about weird and strange stuff, broaden my horizons. I am impressed with the scope of the whole internet phenomenon and the promise it holds. (I am now due for some software incompatibility and a frozen keyboard.)
I have spent a solid week hanging out at the cafe, reading and researching the intricacies of this operating system, now known as the Gates to Hell. I have not even scratched the surface of this convoluted, tied and twisted puzzle. Now doubt, for the inclined this Rubic's cube is a delightfull source of pleasure and money. (I am overdue for a crash and I am becoming concerned that somesthing horrible is in the works.)
Even as I read and pick-up bits here and there, I move further and deeper into Computer Kansas. And I have benefited. I have had the experience of deep frustration, with visions of hammering the machine to pieces, bouncing it off the walls and floor, launching it into the air off the rainbow bridge and hearing the satisfying splash that seals it's fate. Oh,the delicious endings that I have visualized.
What gets me is the smugness of Apple owners. How often have I heard the honking of drivers while I, broken down on the side of computer road, near tears, have had to endure:"My Mac doesn't do that." (What is going on? Why hasn't the operating system crashed yet?)

progressing backward

There is an apparent illusion when being last in a race; feels like being first. That moment comes when you are about to be overtaken (lapped) by the front runner. Yikes, what does this have to do with backward progress? Well------
I just got a new computer. (New to me). It is one-step up from the bottom Toshiba, running XP. I should be blazing through web pages and smoothly downloading documentaries, photos, etc. I am not. The whole reason for a new computer was to improve on the excruciating slowness of the dinosaur that I had before. What I now have is a super complex machine and a questionable operating system. It is no more reliable that the compusaurus that I was riding before, just more frustrating. I have made great progress backward.

Neck-deep in water

"It is hard to stay dry when yer neck-deep in water". These wise words from Bill, who channels the ghost of Tzu, who is the legendary ancestor of Vinni the Tzu. If you are confused, if this makes no cents, don't worry, follow the money.
By following the yellow brick road, we can get an overview on the 'controversy' vis-a-vie climate change. It is no longer about IF, now it is about who is at fault. Which is progress, as until a couple of years ago, before the weather disasters blew in some convincing evidence and the heavy hitters over at Allstate started complaining that they were no longer making money hand over fist, but actually having to pay out----well, poor duffers.
Not that something as abhorrent as endless WAR is a problem; Gee wonder who makes hand over fist on that one? If we restrict carbon dioxide emissions, it is going to cost US money. It will be bad for Bidness, and as we all know, what is good for Bidness is good for US.
Just before we started this fools' errant, now known as the Whack in Iraq, the weapons inspector Hans Blix chuckled over WMDs and trembled over Climate Change. Well, he is no scientist and therefore shouldn't be listened to. Nor should we listen to scientists, if they warn of run-away climate change, obviously they are biased and Chicken Littles. The sky is falling, the sky is falling. I am highly suspicious of the scientists that get their money from Exxon-Mobil, though I am sure they are ethical and their funding comes with no attached strings.
So this is my quandry and here is why I brought up the words of Tzu. Tzu wasn't always so clear, having written that weird book and all, but speaking through the nervous system of simple Bill, he is understandable. My advice is to keep your cigarettes dry.

A Spectator Sport at the Cafe

Here at the Cafe, the undisputed heart of the universe, a favorite spectator sport is watching the dogs play. Now, dogs are mostly adolescents all their lives. They love playing keep-away, fetch, tug and romp. They are definitely smarter than I, in many respects. Yesterday I watched Lucy and the newest dog on the block, Tug (Tugger), play 'get the stick'. There is a lot of growling and running. Mostly, Lucy stays on the sidewalk, which makes us feel better, as we are concerned about them getting carried away and running into a car.
Tug gets driven here by Rick, in Rick's Toyota truck. Tug is about half the size of Lucy, but makes up for it with lots of energy, speed and determination. He gives Buddy a break, as Lucy buggs Buddy into playing when he would prefer to keep the sidewalk warm. She does that by chewing on Buddy's hind legs until he responds and starts a little roughhousing. She has learned to use her hips and slams them into Buddy (or me). She definitely throws her weight around.
Tug gets offended when a big truck drives by. Big trucks growl and Tug chases them to let them know he is not even a bit intimidated. He looks like a Tasmanian Devil, or a racoon. Buddy on the other hand gets offended when a car with a barking dog drives by.
The other spectator sport is 'rate the park job'. More on that later.

The descending bicycle seat

So here is a little lesson from the insignificant. My trusty and rusty bike has been slipping. Precisely, it is the seat that had started to reluctantly obey the law of gravity, unbeknownst to me. It wasn't untill my knees were nearly banging on my chest with every petal, that I figured out that over the months the seat had migrated in the direction of China. Tiny increments daily, over the course of months, and I, none the wiser.
Now I, being a wacky tacky, read into this a whole lot more than necessary. The tale of the frog in heating water comes to mind. I think about our descent into Fascism, ala signing statements. From "We're #1" to "We're # 10", a cheer about our status economically. I think about my own body and how my seat has slid down a bit. Yeah, nothing like a overly connecting brain.
Now that I have readjusted the seat, riding my bike is much more comfortable. Next? The tires need inflating. Speaking of inflation------.

Welcoming the SS into the paranoia club

From the files of the New Paranoid: Dan Tilli, a 81 year old man living in Easton, Pa., was "visited" by suspicious SS (Secret Service) men, after he wrote a letter to the editor of the local paper expressing that "they hung the wrong man", referring to the execution of Saddam Hussein (or his body double). Nothing in the letter inferred that Mr. Tilli made a threat to the life of our prez'dent.
So, if I you find yourself discussing landscaping plans with your neighbor, avoid such phrases as "we need to kill that bush" or "cut the bush down to size", especially if you are a elderly, defenceless person.
Just trying to be helpfull and explain the new rules vis-a-vie your free speech rights.

1984

Somebody moved the clock on me and it is 1982. What was I doing in 1982? I don't remember. Two years to go. Of course, fellow sleepers, you know what I am talking about and you are just as dumb(founded)as I am.
Perhaps it is my keen sense of paranoia, but here are some tidbits. No caviar on supremely thin and crunchy wafers. Just dry facts. Go down best with copious gulps of vodka.
Recently something unprescedented has happened. Scores of Federal Prosecutors have been asked to resign. Many were involved in cases having to do with Government corruption. Most long before their terms of office was to end.
I dont know how many web pages there are, but a Google search can return 2,800,000 hits in less than a tenth of a second. Google is a big company, but it is small potatoes compared to the NSA. Those guys have quick machines, not creeping server farms like Google. Do you know what a server farm is? Picture a corn field. A big corn field. Each plant represents a powerfull processor diligently sifting through mountains of data. Ants on an anthill. Billions of ants. Data like account balances and financial transactions, internet logs and library loans. Credit card purchases and underwear choices. If you say that there is too much information, you are badly misinformed. Todays' computers are blazingly fast and there are a lot of them. Complex programs for voice and face recognition. Stress analizers, de-encryption software, traffic tracking, back doors, etc.
A high quality digital photograph of an anti-war demonstration will reveal the faces, and therefore the identities, of hundreds of thousand demonstrators. Our Government is very curious about what goes on with these subversive anti-war-ites. No? They go after the Quakers--and you know how threatening those guys are!
Yes, I remember a time when it was inconceivable that all communication could be monitored and sifted. Not any more. Remember that ultimately, a Government out of control will seek to gain more and more control of every aspect of society. Big Brother is watching over us. Now go back to sleep.

What!? No far-fetched conspiracies?

Dang. Nobody has offered any wacky conspiracy theorems for me to disect in the light of my twisted little brain. Nothing better than some nutjob inference with coffee and a croisant in the morning. So, it is up to me to, once again, charge into the fray and offer some ridiculous presumtion. Who better than I, who have nothingto lose, since my research methods are ambiguous and my self-respect long lost in a gutter outside a grimy ginmill.
Let me start by sacrificing common sense and economic truth and offer this far-fethed one. Gas prices are manipulated to favor the bottom line of the energy companies! Good one, huh. Goes right against those that say that in a capitalistic system the price of commodities is set by supply and demand! There is no conspiracy as, any child should know. Hah, I say, and offer one word. Enron.
You be getting enroned every time you fill your gas tank. How does it feel?

Cultivating Uselessness

If you don't know about it, one book that I highly recommend is the Tao De Ching, written by some trippy dude, Oh, about 3000 years ago. It is said that the guy, named Lao Tzu, got sick of Chinese society and decided to get away from it all. At the border, a guard recognized him and appealed to him to write down what Mr. Tzu knew for the sake of posterity. From this came a very short book. At least that is the ledgend.
Now if you enjoy conundrums and puzzles, this book is for you. Just about nothing in it makes any sense. Nor should it make sense, as Mr. Sneezy (Tzu-Gesundheit), points out. If it makes sense to the ordinary T.V. watching, money grubbing, stabyouinthebackforabuck guy, it is dellusion.
Most of it goes against the grain for me, but I am staring to get some of it. One of the concepts I just recently figured out. Lao Tzu (bless you) urges us to make ourselves useless to the world. By inference, we are somehow usefull to the world (culture) by living an ordinary life. Lao urges that we become usefull to ourselves instead. That we don't buy into the common belief system and avoid getting hooked by the "fluff" of our society. For me the implication is enormous. I feed something by acting and thinking in a certain way. By going along with the hoopla, I add to it and lose something of myself. It is better to pay attention to something else. Mr. Tzu goes on to enigmatically hint at what that might be.

the all-new paranoid

Once upon a time, entrance into the paranoid club was a fairly simple matter. Not much was expected, I mean one did not have to create fantastic scenarios to qualify. Things have changed; gone are the days of simple conspiracies and vague suspicions.
Now, I resent that. I am some people's favorite paranoid (natch, can't give names nor even think about who they might be)and I take this status seriously. I have always disliked keeping up with the Jones's, it is a waste of time. However, this new situation is just abhorrent. It has to become a race to the bottom, best I can see.
For those of you who don't even have one paranoid bone in your bodies, let me try to illustrate the seachange in the field of pop-paranoia. Used to be all that was required was to intimate that we are being "watched" would get you into the club. You didn't even need to go hollerin' about it or have a wild-eyed look about you. Not any more. Now, if you say that the Gov'ment is listening to your phone conversations and reading your mail, you are not paranoid, YOU ARE JUST WELL-INFORMED. That wild-eyed look, well, you can get that at Starbucks and it is called a double-quad latte, hold the milk. Damn. What is a former Paranoid to do?
Now that I am no longer a Paranoid, rather a Realist, I am fine-combing the dark recesses of my cerebrum for some outlandish shit to take to the secret meetings. It is exhausting and I am resentfull that I can't even think of weird enough crap to impress my fellow skulkers. I have searched and searched and the old littany of stolen elections; lied into war; false flag operations; enroning and swiftboating; the old standbys just make 'em yawn.
So, help me out. I need to come up with really impossible stuff so that I can recover my status. So help me out, please. A lot is at stake here.

Torture by guitar

I have been teaching myself to play the guitar; going on four weeks now. It is a painfull process and it is going ever so s-l-o-w-l-y. The guitar is an instrument of torture to the fingertips of the left hand. There is no way that you can play for very long, unless you have metal digits. The guitar I have has a narrow neck, so the precise placement of the fingers is important. I have little room for error.
By the time I tune the guitar, I am already in pain and there are guitarstring channels pressed into my fingertips. It is then a matter of just building caluses. Guitar string caluses are tough and shiney. They look alien like somebody got sloppy with the fingernail polish. I inspected the fingertips of a guitar-playing friend of mine. His fingertips are hard, shiney and pointy.
Intellectually I know three chords, but I can't switch from one to the other yet. I have to memorize the precise hand and finger placement to get all the strings to sound good. Buzzing sounds come from touching a string in the wrong place and a flat sound from not pressing down on the strings hard enough. I get alot of buzzing and thumpy sounding notes.
I have a C.D. of Spanish Guitar music and I have come to respect the rythm and precision of the guitarist. It has become awesome to me, how well that guy plays. This would never have come about unless I started this course of torture for my fingertips. Meanwhile I continue to whince and dream of playing "Amazing Grace". Maybe I should learn to play "Amazing Calluses" instead.

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.