Cold toes and old prose

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

White Rain

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

power out(age)

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

meta 4 s for everything

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

Manufacturing Consent

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

thanks for all the challenges

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

Community

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

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

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

Protracted Adolesence

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

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

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

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

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

In between worlds

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

Fall is coming

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

No mo newspaper

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

another sweet spot

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

A local treasure

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

the black cat and the fog

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

Where is Mr. Denis

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

Something new on the block

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

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

get the sweaters out!

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

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

I'm about sick of it

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

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

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

on the road to hell (ena, Montana)

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

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

Vampire Rotisserie

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