I scared the living shit out of a group of about 5 teeenage boys as they were coming up over a steep (60° incline) hill and I was running atop the summit of that same hill in Dreamland (Lake View  Cemetery) 'after hours' last evening.  'After hours' implies that the cemetery was closed and, consequently, the band of boys expected to encounter no one except, perhaps in their unconsciences, their worst fanstasy nightmare.  So, the scout of the pack came up over the hill, saw me running somewhat toward/by him against a backdrop of tombstones, screamed and ran down the hill he had just scaled up and took the rest of his band down with him.  Boo.

The nfp-subconscience speaks:

I have a tremendous use for women. I simply don't have enough use of  women.

She had finally mastered the art of seduction.  She spent half of her day dressing.  And the rest of her day slowly undressing.

Happiness is never having to define what happiness is.

I am not always able to watch my own back.  But I am capable, at the most uncanny of times, of turning swiftly around and seeing surpise in the eyes of those nefariously gathered there.

Freedom.  It’s what I have.  Should this or any government ever try to deny me that for the sake of some tortured vision of security, I will destroy it (them, if plural).  I’m not merely a citizen to be managed, photographed, recorded, and controlled.  I am a warrior unbound by government. I am a defender of life-enabling culture and the enduring qualities of continuing civilization.  Any government, or anyone, that becomes obstructive or destructive of that which I defend is my enemy.  And my enemy is doomed.

 

I scale fences, I climb trees, I slap buildings, I punch trees (they adore it; and they abhor, by the way, placid hugs that convey to them no sense of gusto).  I sometimes fondle sculptures of the naked female form.   I live pretty much in the moment, dance away from the past, and ponder the future as if its my next breath.

 

I embrace friends wholeheartedly.  And now value friendship more than I have ever before in my life.  

 

I let go of false prophets, betrayers, and the unfree who would lure me into somnolence.  I have come to know people who are bitter.  I refuse to have anything more to do with them. 

 

I am looking forward to a new age and a new world coming.  Someday I will write sumptuous poetry in Chinese (Li-Po style), run bare-chested in a midnight marathon where the sun never sets (mid-Summer, Netherlands) , and cavort throughout the sporting night until the nascent Dawn of Man (swoosh!).

Ran 5 miles in Dreamland (kick-ass cemetery) yesterday.  And another 5 miles the day before.

 

I’ve determined that my post-run traditional and previously inspirational blogging spot (see profile pic) in Dreamland is inspirational no more.  So I need to find another spot.  I’m considering the following:

 

1) At the base of the largest obelisk in the whole cemetery, Rockefeller’s monument, where legend has it, if you leave a penny, you’ll some day become rich.

 

2) At a picnic table in an open field that is adjacent to two lovely ponds where ducks and geese abound.  I’d be open to the view of endless passerbys.  They’d be liable to witness a crazed blogger scribbling madly in cyberable glyphs for the endless Ages.

 

3) Upon an island plateau in a geographically-difficult (only access is up a steep, ungraded jeep trail) and nearly unvisted  (anymore) section of the cemetery.  Old bones there.   And I think there’s a dog’s grave, too, so dog bones to boot!

 

4) Upon the porch of Garfield’s Monument.  Flip back a few posts and you’ll see me there hanging upside-down on the rail leading upon to his tomb.  Upside: grandly architectural with an abiding sense of historicity.  Downside: Rock instead of earth under my butt. (Get it? Upside-down ...side.  Oh, forget it.)

 

5) Aside the Dreamland (easy-flowing) Stream in a scenic forested area accessible only by a woodchip path.   This is where I whispered to and petted a two-year-old wild wandering deer (recorded a few posts ago.).  If there are such things as nymphs and sprites and faeries (both light and dark), I believe they might come to convocate there.

 

6) Under the Evil Tree which sits upon a hill not far from my current (see profile pic) location.  I call it the Evil Tree because its foliage is symmetrically split: one half is lush (representing Life and fecundity), the other half is denuded/vanquished (representing a hangover), AND because, upon one Halloween nite when the moon was full and I was romping about in rare form (high, spirited, and poetic), it (the Evil Tree) beckoned me with a thousand voices to climb it and spend the whole night huddled upon one of its branches. (I politely declined.)

 

So what say you?  Or should I just do the rounds and visit each in a Hemingway-esque Movable Feast mode and serve up whatever inspirational instilling takes hold as a maryjanepourri?  

 

Is that a word?

 

Ah, thank you.  As a potpourri.

What fills the Sky?  Nothing. 
What fills your mind?  Nothing. 
Thus  you and the Sky are one.

 

I was so angry yesterday afternoon, I punched a tree.

It laughed at me. 

 

I ran 5 miles yesterday after punching that tree

and just before an agitated storm of thunder descended upon Dreamland.

Nearby was a Grecian-columned mausoleum.

 I took shelter from the meteorological threat upon the portico and under cover thereof.

Waiting out the storm, I found myself alone with Nature in a most intimate way.

Nature had  to keep me company. 

And I challenged Nature to instill in me a new infusion of creativity,

hoping that the creativity would strike before lightning would the ungrounded mausoleum.

 

What fills the Sky?  The Oceans merge into the Atmosphere which merges into the star-struck Universe.

What fills your mind?  Your thoughts flow from your dreams derived from an Awareness that laughs at the contrived notion of Time.

 

Time was so angry yesterday, it lashed out.
Awareness laughed as such foolishness.

And then the dish ran away with the spoon.

The goal of dreaming is to intend the energy body.

 

Let your energy body do it. To intend is to wish without wishing, to do without doing.

 

Accept the challenge of intending . Put your silent determination, without a single thought, into convincing yourself that you have reached your energy body and that you are a dreamer .

 

When you hear that—you have to convince yourself, you automatically become more rational. How can you convince yourself you are a dreamer when you know you are not? Intending is both: the act of convincing yourself you are indeed a dreamer , although you have never dreamt before, and the act of being convinced.

 

I don't mean you have to tell yourself you are a dreamer and try your best to believe it. It isn't that.

Intending is much simpler and, at the same time, infinitely more complex than that. It requires imagination, discipline, and purpose. In this case, to intend means that you get an unquestionable bodily knowledge that you are a dreamer . You feel you are a dreamer with all the cells of your body.

 

  -Don Juan, The Art of Dreaming

Ever feel set-up to take some kind of a hit?

I was in a local neighborhood bar, in a pretty rough neighborhood—half ghetto, half-redneck—the other day when I feel I fell into a well-rehearsed trap.

I considered the girl tending bar to be a friend—we had been friends for awhile.And friendly, indeed, she was that day: downing Snakebite shots with me, teasing about how she had joined Xanga and would make an unmistakable impact with a comment on my site as soon as she located some signature profile pic to represent herself, taking my hand on an occasion, smiling at me with eye contact and more eye contact and more eye contact as she moved up and down the bar tending other customers.  There was a point when I started to indicate that I was about to leave, but she adamantly urged me to stay and have another beer.

So I stayed.

And then in strolled her boyfriend, taking a place at the bar beside me.

I went to shake his hand, but he refused.  I asked: “Don’t you want to shake?”  His answer: “I only want you to quit stalking my girlfriend.”

Of course, I was shocked and outraged by such a charge.  I had to take a stand.  I went into a warrior’s battle mode.

Accusing someone of stalking is 1) accusing the person of a crime, 2) accusing the person of deviant activity, and 3) in this case, accusing the person of deviant sexual activity.

Not only did I rightfully deny the charge and all its implications, I challenged “the boyfriend’s” truthfulness, intelligence, and manhood in making such a charge without being able to present any evidence whatsoever.

I called for him to take it outside the bar and settle it like men.  He refused to respond.  I called him a stupid fucking idiot making baseless charges.He failed to respond.  I told him he didn’t even measure up to my manhood and that I could cut his balls off with a knife and hand them to him before he realized what was happening.  He didn’t respond.  I looked deep inside him.  Saw hatred.  Saw drugs.  Saw his shock and indecision in my calling him out and calling him to war.  He returned my stare for some small multitude of silent seconds, but finally broke it off.  He couldn’t stare me down.  And I believe he feared (and had good reason to fear) what he saw in my eyes, the windows to my warrior-heart.

He just kept repeating “I want you to quit stalking my girlfriend,” as if an actor with a single line needing to nail his part in a staged scene.

I had said enough.  And finally I told him what I wanted.  I told him I wanted him not to talk to me anymore unless he wanted to go to war. 

And then I turned back to the bar only to hear him repeat again: “I want you to quit stalking my girlfriend.”

“Last time,” said I.  “No more talking unless you want to go to war.”

That’s when he turned to his girlfriend and petitioned her to tell me, in his words to her: “tell him to back off, tell him to quit stalking you, tell him how you called the cops…”

She had nothing to say.  Nothing at all.

In disgust at not being able to sway her to gang up on me, he left in a huff.

A buddy of mine came up to me and said “You’re the man, not him.He’s the one who left.”

But I wasn’t concerned with “being the man”.  I only sought clarification from her about whether she ever “called the cops” on me.  For if so, I would have desperately wanted to know why, for god’s sake, for certainly that odious charge of stalking was entirely ludicrous and baseless.  She said that she hadn’t, that there was only “some talk”.  But I supposed it was the same talk I had just witnessed: the boyfriend trying to cajole her into stabbing me in the back.

I felt reassured at the time that it was just her boyfriend who had flipped out.I left in a good mood, saying good night to her and other patrons.

Next day, I got an email from her:

“A lot was said last night and you should know I did have people check my house for cameras. Some things you said creeped me out. There were a lot of strange coincidences and I was getting uncomfortable. I think it would be best if you stayed away from me.  I don't want you to come into XXXXXwhile I'm there.  I don't want anymore contact with you.”

My response, in email, to her:

“As you wish, of course. 

It's just too bad you weren't more forthcoming with me - all of this could have been avoided so easily.  Funny how one moment last night you were taking my hand and talking about me recognizing you on Xanga when the moment would come, i.e., "you'll know it's me" and now this total estrangement flip to the other extreme.  Talk about creepy.  That's really creepy.

And cameras?  Oh my god, you have got to be kidding.  Not my style.  Not in my heart or being.   I would never disrespect you (or anyone else) so.  If you have a worry about surreptitious cameras or surveillance of your premises, then please stay wary for your own sake.  But you'd better look elsewhere for some other potential culprit.  I'm shocked, outraged, and disappointed that I would ever become implicated in your mind with such disgusting activity.

I wish you well.

Do me a favor (only if you care to) and wish everyone else 'there' well for me for I won't be returning under any circumstances.”

Now, several days later, I have a deep psychic postmonition that her flirting attentions (the persistent, rapid, repetitive eye contact) and her insistence that I have another beer (though I was preparing to part) were premeditated to keep me there until her boyfriend showed up to make “the scene” that was pre-rehearsed by him and her as some surreal, warped-world stab at psychological domination (perhaps, first me, others down the road).

I also feel that their “scene” went out the window when, instead of becoming some pickle in the middle, I stood my own ground prepared to do total battle for the truth and my own reputation.

I could be wrong.  But I have a deep psychic postmonition otherwise.

I’ve seen it before: some really cool people get warped into doing/saying strange things by the fling of a bizarre relationship.   It’s just a shame when good people cease to be real.

I like warm rock that trembles with your weight as I press against your bones in the moment of our need. I like the cemetery rain that dissipates the crowds yet leaves us clinging in passion, then washes the lust off. I like the errant fragrance of blossoms blowing in the breeze that then touch upon the ground as gentle as you take me on your knees. I like the moment of impulse that shakes the whole damn earth when you appear for me just so— as innocent as birth. (repost) or (riposte) ?!

Just going to sit back, metaphorically, for awhile and enjoy the beauty around me. 

 

I could (instead) rant, rave, and make claim to ‘my share’ (totally contextual) at any and every given whim of need.  Or I could hit big on all the hotties I run into and make them all smile and get coy in deflecting my erotically meta-poetic advances.  Or I could concoct great elaborate schemes and promulgate them skillfully, taking some in with persuasion, making the rest shut-the-fuck-up in disbelief of my rat-tat-tat-tat eloquence.  Or I could ‘be the man’ and conjure excitement from the jaws of a yawning donkey exclaiming “boredom only exists in the minds of the boring.”  Or I could run around screaming “the world is whacked, the world is whacked, the world is whacked,” and probably win enough converts to my crusade to populate a newly-improvised mental institution.    Or I could study earthquake prediction and probably become so proficient at it that I could run a marathon and win, knowing beforehand that and where and just when a 9 on the Richter would release, and expecting everyone else in the race to desist-cease as I intrepidly jog along (hopping faults) to the finish line.  Or I could invent things in my mind that nobody’s ever thought of and amuse myself with them while laughing at the veritable truth that an unexpressed mind is a wonderful waste.  Or I could hack terrorist Muslim websites and deface their Allah-bingeing portals by proclaiming the Papacy as the unvirtual Dark Star that gravitously sucks all spirituality into its dooming slurp.  Or I could drive halfway around the world to find a Red Lobster Restaurant, don’t eat but imbibe suitable liquids copiously at the bar, flirt madly with the sexy bar girl, scream like a banshee when the penultimate premonition of imminent cosmic victory overcomes me, and then mop the floor at the end of the night to redeem myself in the eyes of the God-fearing.  Or I could just sit in the dreamy cemetery at sunset upon the steps to the tomb of the Unknown President  and imagine what nobody else could ever imagine, knowing that they are imagining me imagining what they believe they themselves never can.  Or I could “Or I could” nearly almost forever…

 

But I’m just going to sit back, metaphorically, for awhile and enjoy the beauty around me.  Instead. 

 

I was lounging inspirationally in Dreamland

under an incredible spring blue sky and dominant Sun,

upon a Whitmanesque expanse of uncountable blades of grass
(urging me to give witness with deep breaths and exaltations),

affront a massive granite obelisk soaring to the beyond,

about to compose a poem upon ‘Serious Play’,

when a girl in a pink thong and matching pink bra

came up to me to say: “Dream happy in Dreamland, baby.”

 

Considering that my thoughts about serious play

and the vision of a girl thonged-pinkly precisely overlapped

(sexual desire being the source of much playfulness,

attention to all the intricacies of pleasure requiring some seriousness),

I offered her a beer and beckoned her to stay

(never can too much of such inspiration ever get in the way).

 

“Would love to, baby.  Would love to…”
 Then, like a surge of cogent energy in rapid transit, she simply disappeared. 

(As quick as a text message on a cell phone flashes on, flashes off.)

Holy fuck.  I almost gave a beer to an apparition.

 

Yet her wishes of happy dreaming remained

as I drank her  beer and imagined her pink bra and thong cast

passionately aside upon luxuriant blades of grass.

(…Whitman himself would have roaringly admired

the resulting embracing lust of us.)

I don’t know what was naughtier—

the fact that you misbehaved with me so deliciously

serving me up my long-awaited taboo communion

or the fact that you laughed and boisterously recounted all

so immediately to all who took a listen (later at the bar)

when evidence of our panky was still fresh upon

our sated though unshowered bodies.

 

o baby, you rolled like a dancing dervish into this occasional tinsel town

and I was so surprised to see you I figuratively exclaimed “Fuck me!”

which you, literally, actually proceeded to do

and I was so thrilled by that  I allegorically shouted out “Fuck me!” again

which you, essentially,  factually arranged and when done proclaimed

“déjà vu”.

 

and when I said “I love you, baby.”
and you said “Shhhhh……

lust me now, love me when I’m gone.”

I right there then

decided I’d never love again

but just keep you around

as my belusted

(ever-lusting friend).

I’m now filled with as much positivity as the bumbler bee that’s buzz-buzzing the garden I’m sitting in.  The energy of life-affirming inquisitiveness justifies itself.  The world is abloom.  May no flower go unvisited.

 

 

No more awesome Spring have I witnessed in my lifetime than this one, this year.

 

Mid-seventies on the North Coast (Lake Erie) today in Dreamland  and already many of the blossoming fruit trees (the weeping cherry, for one) are giving up first petals to warm breezes and carpeting my running paths like a bridal aisle leading to an inevitability of a honeymooning marathon without a line of finish.

 

I lay about the fields of Dreamland, post-run, casting my heart-soul to the uncaptivation that is the freeness (and freshness) of Life.  Even now in late April, when showers should be about to bring the earliest of May flowers, the summery-like sunshine-heat is already pushing the May flowers (which danced like faces out of the ground in early April) aside and inducing summer wild things into precocious emergence.  That goes  not only for flowers, and buds, and bugs, but even asteroids falling out of the sky.  Or maybe this last mention was just the gimlet sighting of an alien spaceship with a fiery tale coming to Earth to check out the wicked pubescence of a Spring that’s already lost its virginity bigtime.

 

I’m playing my part: already running, yearning, howling like a (wannabe) madman entrained by the imminent march of a summertime orb Sun-Ra across this odyssey called Unleash-Me Sky.  Twenty miles fleet-footed (ran, in the common vernacular) over the last three days.  My feet are dancing, dancing.   And there is a spider orchid (Brassia) blooming somewhere observing from afar my most peculiar vivacity.

 

Are you doing your part?  Are you craving?  Are you crazed?  Are you pregurgitating the beach-baked pheromones of love?  Are you jolding (Spanish, for holding) hotly yet with the one that yearns (that you yearn) to jold (you) tight? 

 

Better in this accelerated season of effulgent life to be too alive to be scripted than predictably described as the one who methodically turns off the last house light at night.

 

written from Dreamland, mid-day April 30.

Bottles

 

I’d blog in a bottle, if I could—

from the bottom of a quart of a lime-stuffed Corona I’d blog

while slurping it up inside out.

 

Never hit anybody with a bottle.

Held one tightly once, in a bar,  to better smash someone’s head.

But the offender smiled at the last instant and

my grip loosened as we shook

hands (with free hands) and laughed instead.

 

Never thought about collecting, owning bottles,

never considered them anything to prize or to display.

Initially thought of them just as containers—keepers of volume.

Until I found, as a child, filled with air

they shoot in a watery salute

like rapidly ascending submarines

from tub’s nether bottom to micro-ocean’s surface.

 

Always thought ships in a bottle were stupid

especially after my childhood sub-realization that bottles were ships.

Why would you ever put a leash on a leash?

Or lock combination locks in a safe?

 

Was always enchanted by the notion of messages in a bottle.

Came to believe that true lovers –distant- would always,

if practicalities permitted,

come(m)union with each other just so.

 

Had a message in a bottle wash-up in the middle of my night:

Love you my deer-whispering

god of all things

sensual.

 

After born of sunrise, dispatched a bottled-message back:

Your sensual deer-whisperer

wishes his sexy god-pleasing baby

a good morning.

I was just about, as we tightly cuddled,

hearts beating together,

to sweetly whisper to you in assuring breaths

of my forever enduring love when –

 

God barged in, took me aside, and said:

 

“Dude.  I just thought I should let you know—

all of life, the whole world, ended over 5 billion years ago.”

 

And He explained...

“You see, there was a supernova chain reaction

that enveloped all and banished matter right out of existence.

Now all there is is the Cosmic Glow of what had been—

It’s just a faint remembrance, this Golden Cosmic Glow.”

 

Cuddle (momentary) interruptus.  And then I realized,

as I melted back into what had been,

that we were just a puddle of shimmer

together in that Glow,

and all that we had ever intended for one another,

all our pledges of “never ever letting go of you”

had, my love, come true.

here.  there is a lesson to be learned.

 

a wisp of beer; a eord typed;  converstations overheard.

 

today, talking with a hook-up (I would say ‘friend’ but that reeks of xanga’s rather lame social networking), the conversation turned on “getting old”.

 

“What is old?”  I asked.  Then immediately furnished this insight from a most brilliant observer of all things vital:  “May my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living; whatever they sing is better than to know; and if men should not hear them, then men are old.” (e.e.cummings)

 

As a follow-up, I offered my timely analysis that “If  you don’t hear the birds, either you are old or all the birds have already died from bird flu.”

 

At that point (or shortly in the interchange thereafter), my hook-up recalled once observing two nondescript birds, clearly of the same unidentified species and similar in size, interacting with one another: 

 

“There they were—just doing bird things like chattering between themselves—and I just happened to be watching when all of the sudden one bird bites the other bird’s head off.”

 

“You’re kidding me.  It bit its head off?  Really?  And it was the same species?”

 

“Yep.  It just bit its head off.”

 

“Wow.  That’s sounds like a Black Widow spider consuming her mate after copulation.  Maybe the two birds just had sex…”

 

“Yeah.  And she didn’t want him sticking his little birdie dickie in some other girlie birdie.”

 

And just then, a eureka of a realization overcame me:  “OMG, she gave him head.  That’s how birds give head!”

 

haha. ha. ha.

 

The lesson: Birds do it.  I bet bees do it.   Why shouldn’t we…umm.

 

i will never understand how we lost that moment

—you and i—

though it was destined to slip away with the mortal trail of eventual discard,

so soon, too soon (it was and then) no more.

 

what use is a heart, they say, because it breaks?

i don’t know—it seems i lost mine long ago.

perhaps, if akin to cats, we had nine hearts,

breakage would become like a coffee cup shattered on the floor.

 

you held me inside you, you did, and i

your only heart swore never to forsake.

I put my ear to your chest and heard the thumping—

thus creature-raptured in our moment of inexpressible partake.

 

now like drunken Li Po falling, drowning in a faraway lake

while reaching, stretching, embracing a watery reflection of the moon,

so am I transfixed by what of you remains:

a perpetual smile darkening to starlight much (so soon, too soon).

How tranquil and unruffled is Dreamland (Lake View Cemetery) in the evening at this time of year when the gates lock early and no other living humans are roaming about.

 

Yesterday, after running 7 miles, conceiving and recording the poem below, and watching the Sun set, it was time to leave Dreamland.  Since I was in the very heart of the cemetery, the normal road path to the perimeter would be about  a ¾ mile jaunt.  However, I decided to take a short cut (only ½ mile) through a patch of woods that hugs a stream in the valley of Dreamland.  I’ve often felt that, if indeed, such spirits as sprites, or water or wood nymphs, or faeries existed, it would be in this wood patch, along the stream, and at twilight/night that I would most expect to see them.

 

Well, as I walked along the wooded path, I suddenly heard some thrashing coming from the woods behind me.  Turning about and expecting to see a beautiful nymph?!  No, a red fox, perhaps, …  instead I encountered a fawn upon the path I had just traversed.

 

Grabbing my camera (after fully anticipating that the act itself of rummaging through my backpack to get it would scare the fawn away), I took a first quick snap and the flash detonated.  As you can see, the quality is ever so bad.

 

 

 

But the fawn didn’t flee.  So encouraged, I set the camera to available light (no flash) and started whispering to the deer—what else?—words of endearment, such as “Come here, baby.”  “Nice, baby.” at the same time as I attempted to approach it for a closer photo opportunity.  To my total surprise, this wild fawn let me caress it as would a touch-hungry kitty or puppy.

 

 

This stand of Dreamland woods at twilight/night is magical, I tell ya.  There’s a sublime hover of energy there.  And a timelessness devoid of fright.

it was you in the springtime I awoke to

(the slumber of dark months never having been my friend).

it was, in fact, Easter midnight when

on the margin of a shopping mall’s parking lot,

cars few,  but drive-in stars above abundant,

we cheered each other with edible jewels of enchanted strawberries

-ensconced in settings of 24-karat chocolate-

 and then moaningly bit in, licked our chops, and kissed

(or was it the other way around?)

and thus joyously smashed that still-wintering fast called Lent.

for when I then grabbed your ass

and wrapped you in my arms

and told you I never would (ever want to) let go,

it was the sap of springtime itself flowing freely from my lips.

(do click)

Some souls spend time's expanse in more awesome accomodations than most of us will ever get to live in.  Garfield's Monument.

I merely sit alone on the patio, drink beer, watch the Sun course towards its set, and write (but only when the mysterious whispers of intimacy touch my heart). 

 

I am punctured by your beauty,

whiplashed by your trancing radiance

that smashes like a solar flare against my fragile psyche.

 

how many times, in my verse, have I  surrendered to you?

how many times a night, in my heart, am I slayed and rendered?

I can never (sur)render enough.

 

I know what I must do:

I must fortify myself magnificently,

endow myself most intrepidly,

enhance my worth ever ingeniously,

and then dare to surrender again—almost worthy of your touch,

the closure, the hush of assimilation.

 

the moon shall not howl, the wolf shall not shine,

just as I will not live until you are mine.

 

Spring surprises Dreamland.  The awesome brutishness of disbelief  relents..

Hoping your world is as or is more beautiful than what your heart seeks to find. 

A Man’s Ditty, For a Lover

 

there are days when I feel like a genius;

there are days when I feel like a dunce;

there are days when I am so damn horny,

I’m sure Hell must be the absence of cunts.

but of all of the feelings I harbor

one stays constant day in and day out -

and that's the need that I feel to hold you

and make love to you, if only just once.

I did not have a great time of running in Dreamland yesterday.  My energy wasn’t right.  Uncharacteristically, I stole away early from work and got to Dreamland well before the regular closing hours.  There I found cars and cars of scene-takers driving around the cemetery taking in the bloom of springtime flowers.  Damn, the cemetery association even has posted signs for the “Flower Tour—this wayà “  And that’s alright.  My sense of psychic disagreement  had nothing to do with the flowers or tourists.  Just me on me.  I had a figurative bitter taste on my tongue. Or maybe my tongue felt stung and was numb and just imagining a figment of bitterness. 

 

Anyway, while running I remembered a book of poetry from my youth entitled “The Man Who God Forgot”.   Immediately I, for some goddesss-forsaken reason, transcribed that personally to myself as  “The Man Who Goddess Forgot”.  Well, that’s worth exploration, isn’t it? 

 

So I returned to Dreamland, after-hours, with laptop/backpack and a couple of beers, and sat on the stone patio of Pres. Garfield’s gothic medieval castle-like monument and birthed the following poem about “The Man Who Goddess Forgot”.  . 

 

the names on the tombstones might vie for my attention

if their need for recognition were greater than my own.

but they are eternalized (as near as can be) in granite

while I scurry about, forgotten, flagellated skin, agitated bones.

 

so though literate beyond repair,

I heed not of chiseled accolades, births and deaths,

but let the names of the dead blur as I sprint past—

too busy sucking my own never-guaranteed very next (maybe) breath.

 

realizing I’m already discarded by the Goddess in this life

like a connoisseur of a dog, with a great sense of taste, would a flavorless bone,

I am dangerous to the point of a return to the nameless void,

a sense of deep cosmic destruction churns inside of me.

 

but if I could love…  yes, if I could love,

and have a goddess-lover for my very own,

forgotten henceforth, perhaps, I would not pass

(if only remembered for a howling moment of rapture firmly clasped).

 

I hear that billions of goddesses strut upon this earth—

I simply want to be the most potent man yet alive

one of them—undoubtedly the most beauteous ever in my eyes—

has (and will ever know).

In the summertime, Dreamland (LakeView Cemetery) remains open until dusk to all visitors.  Only at dusk do the dual 20-foot tall ironclad gates get padlocked, keeping those out who are out and those who are in in, until sunrise signals the time of reopening again.

 

During the rest of the year, however, including these days of Spring, Dreamland closes its gates at 5:30 pm sharply.

 

Unlike past springs when I’d compliantly observe the posted hours, this Spring I have taken to running in Dreamland after-hours with virtually no other living human souls for proximate company.

 

My modus operandi: I hop a low fence at the dead-end of a old Italian neighborhood street to get in.  I run 4-6 miles.  I reward myself with a beer and contemplative moment (which may last anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour) afterwards.  Then I hop the fence out and rejoin the throngs of the living.

 

I crave the solitude provided by this routine since it affords me unique moments for self-discovery and sometimes even provides me with inspirational insights into some ageless unsolved mysteries (like why the fuck we are here), the nature of precisely what is, and the course of things to be.

 

I left a comment on MarnieMarnieMarnie’s post this morning that expresses what I get out of it most succinctly:

 

when i run in dreamland, i am alone, except for the grey geese and the red fox that share the running paths.  the company is interesting, self-challenging, and life-affirming.  but i don't ponder whether i like the company i keep.  it's not a matter of liking or not - but one rather of unconditionally embracing the world  thusly manifest.

 

When I do leave Dreamland, however, I also covet the company of the living.  For without the company of the living, there is no cavorting.  And cavorting, after all, is one of the reasons we are here.

This past weekend, on both Saturday and Sunday, I ran six-mile jaunts through Dreamland (cemetery).  But afterwards, instead of resting atop my favorite glacial ridge that provides a dramatic view of both the estates of the dead and Lake Erie (my current profile pic was taken from that vantage), I hiked on down to a wooded area that hugs a gentle stream that issues from Lake View Dam which is at the geographical heart of Dreamland and that constituted, at its dedication in 1978, the largest concrete-filled dam in the U.S. east of the Rocky Mountains.  

Aside the stream, on both days. I watched the sun set and speculated upon the odyssey that I’m upon.  ‘Odyssey?”  you say.   Yes, that may seem like a strange and ancient way to view one’s course through life.  Stranger even than having a vocation, or “calling”, which was something that was supposed to be in store for all good kids when I was growing up.  Yet, indeed, such a sojourn I am upon.  And where has it taken me? 

As I stood in the dwindling sunlight last night tendering a beer, listening to the stream gurgle, and taking wilderness notice of the emergence of things-Spring,  I realized that becoming a real and entire man in this world is something I had just in-that-moment mysteriously accomplished.  And strikingly so in solitude and apart from any intense involvement in a relationship with a woman.  Yet not entirely apart from the influence of womankind altogether.   

And so I was led to reflect in-that-moment  upon all the relationships I’ve had with various women in the last several years.  Though all, in ways, had/have been somewhat intimate, none had/have led to the ultimate experience of sexually exploring each other in playful, releasing, reciprocal fullness.  In other words, all friends and no lover.

What was the significance, I pondered, of having had just female friends and no lover for years on end now? 

Lovers blow your mind.  Friends inform it. 

I have been specially informed for the last several years by many enchanting women.  As mentors-in-relationship, they have, upon this odyssey—my life, helped point me the way. 

I have now arrived in the very moment.  And find myself a man. 

What’s next?

A man should not speculate idly upon “what’s next”, upon where life may vicariously lead him.   Let him move simply and swiftly to action when the time for action comes.

I'm just learning about love and how to live.

But I am learning every day.

Don't ever imagine anything to be other than it becomes.  Never just fly with the imagination alone. 

Always start with the unimagined world (yes, there is such a thing, imagine that).  That is our thesis.  Ground yourself ever so materialistically in it.  You are gravity and gravity is all and gravity is down. 

Then summon the imagination to bring light to all matters and affairs.  This is our antithesis.  Your thoughts are then as light as a feather, a feather that's assisting a phoenix to soar into the eye of the Sun. 

Now fuse the two, the thesis of the unimagined world and the antithesis of the imagination into a synthesis of imagination-in-the-world, something that is not simply a surrender to stark reality or a conjured flight of fancy, but the infusion of vision into a world thus becoming.  And thusly you will discover that what you imagined to be, becomes.

This is my new philosophy.  It is entirely energy-driven.  It is (in)fusion.  Call it dialectical soaring.

Last night while waiting in a state of high anticipation in a college campus coffee shop for an important cell phone call and figuring it was a good opportunity to catchup on commenting around here, I accidentally spilled about 12 oz. of hot coffee upon my laptop's keyboard.  I wonder what the look on my face was as I watched green hard drive lights turn to amber and green power lights turn to red?  Of course, I immediately turned the laptop over to drain the keyboard, but it was too late: dying, red flicker, dying, red flicker, no flicker, dead.

When I got home, I took a hairdryer to it for half an hour.  That managed to get the power-on lights to flicker green, but no boot ensued at all.

Yet this is Spring, right?  A time for rebirth, renewal, and resurrection, right?

Well, damn it, I'm typing this post on that very same laptop right now.  It took all night to further dry up on its own and I further disassembled it and blow-dried the interior components this morning.  I'll tell ya: I've been fuckin' lucky lately. (No, not fucking in a lucky fashion, just 'fuckin' lucky'.)

Oh yeah, spilled some of that hot coffee on my own lap, too. 
*looks down, hoping for a similar miracle of renewal* 
fuckin' lucky!

“He’s back to the Net,” the voice declares.  A from-the-void voice.  A wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night voice.  An alluring, sexual-energy-compelling, seat-of-female-intuition voice. 

 

It’s true.  Was briefly in the real world.  Entirely.  Had a glimpse of beauty’s magnificence.  Had an expectation of doing something.  Something with someone intimate.  A vision of fun and freeflow.  A because-it’s-Spring-everything-might-and-anything-will-go moment (if a week can be a moment) of being crazy, impulsive, wild, and thorough.   Yes, thorough: erotically detailed, no juice unreleased, no passion unspent, no regrets, no repent.

 

But I’m back.

 

You say: “You jest.  You never left.”

 

ha ha.  I was the One.  I was the One.  Out there.  So deliciously prepared for us as we’ll never be able to imagine with imagination alone.  It would have been…what?  “Unbelievable” is much too mundane.  “Incredible” much too lame.  It would have been just us.  Just fully revealing gazes into each other’s eyes.  Just laughter so deep our bellies would burst.  Just hands-never-releasing, hearts-never-doubting, desires-ever-indulging ….  Us.

I'm feeling entirely energized for Spring this morning.  (It was rough being a cast-out dreamland warrior running through the Winter and I'm glad to now abandon that role.)  

 

Is every life not a story worthy of record?  I must believe so!  Otherwise, how can one find the courage to dance this dance of life?! 

 

So yesterday when I left my 'regular job' (govt.-type web security guy) and proceeded to go do some 'kitchen work' (side-job painting bedrooms, but in this case, installing the home wireless network, too), I had the opportunity to help a little old lady open two cans of chili.  Now that may not seem momentous story-wise, but you see, this woman is the mother of the woman I'm painting for and she has just moved in with her mother (in fact, I refinished an entire bedroom in anticipation of her move-in).  Well, her daughter wasn't home and mom wanted to prepare chili for dinner but had no clue how to use some new-fangled can opener.  So while I was wandering through the house with my laptop assessing the signal strength of the wireless network I just established, mom told me of her dilemma—that she had been trying for over an hour to open the cans without success—and she petitioned me for assistance.  It turned out that the can opener was indeed strange—cutting the top off from the side of the can instead of the traditional cut 'down'—and it had me confounded, too, for a time.  But I persevered.  And triumphed!  And I became an instant hero in mom's eyes:  supper, after all, could now proceed.

 

I was just thrilled to help and see her mom's eyes light up with "our success".  I guess this story is really mom's story over finding joy in little things, little victories.  As for me, a man almost never feels more manly than when mastering a foreign tool.  ha!

 

For some reason (not fully self-analysed), relating the little ditty above reminded me to remain mindful of the wisdom imparted by e.e cummings below:

 

"Life,for eternal us,is now;and now is much too busy being a little more than everything to seem anything,catastrophic included."

And they’ll all ask: “Well, how was it?”

And I’ll have nothing to say.

Spending the night alone drinking Dancing Bull wine in the cemetery, attuned to every creaking tree and occasional whoosh in clustered bush and expanse of monument-ridden grass, watching the stars re-constellate the fate of all, ignoring the ghostly gossip which is no more interesting than that of the living human variety, imagining a lover cuddled aside me on the grass under the tutelage of a moon-aspiring obelisk, I planting kisses first just above her right eye and then on her temple and onto her ear, there more kisses and soft licks purring and little nibbles and dirty whispers, fingers lightly tracing letters in intricate sensuous patterns upon her cheek, neck and shoulders, spelling out the words ‘love’ and ‘fuck’ in an ancient arcane cuneiformic ritual—feeling being more important than the meaning of the words to the mind, spinning her around, spooning and cuddling more for a time, and then kneeling behind her, reaching around and unbuttoning and slipping off her blouse, and embedding little rows of barely-touching kisses upon her neck and shoulders, then down along her shoulder blades and back, licking not her skin but only the tips of her soft back fuzz making her back tingle with the hover of my attention, my hands having held her around the waist firmly now massaging her between her ribs, slowly working down to her pelvis, roaming fingers scouting in loops of progressive circles the v-zone in her panties just above her genitals—ah, she’s excited as I’m excited and she begins to moan and moan and moan…

 

And they’ll all ask: “Well, how was it?”

And I’ll have absolutely nothing to say.

We mostly all live in a large part in the future, the elusive future, that upon some ill-appointed day holds for us a disappointing date with … well, you fill in your own notion of doom.

 

Yet, if we did not cast our sights upon tomorrow, if, instead, we chose only the very now to live, breathe, and move in, could we ever muster the enthusiasm, frolic in  the anticipation, or conjure the imagination to enjoy any date at all?

 

Take imminent birthdays, soon-to-be anniversaries, upcoming sports playoff events, or property rights to killer concert tickets.  The meaning, significance, “going-to-live-for” factor of any projected date at all disappears for those living only in the now.  And, yes, that special date with doom also disappears for those living in the moment.  Hence, the most accomplished masters of the immediate, the Zen masters themselves, never died but moved mysteriously and nirvanically beyond death through the discipline of now-focused heightened awareness.

 

But the Zen masters also never knew the stirrings of passion that approach, slam, and overwhelm a guy in having a hot date, either.  To say “It’s a date.”  with a beautiful girl does make it a date, doesn’t it?  But that’s not the same thing as “being on the date.”  Yet to “have a date” with a hot chick before actually “being on the date” with her is a hell of a lot more than just a calendrical projection.  Just as great foreplay usually precedes great sex, so the lead up, the build-up to a hot date, let’s call it the foredate, often matches with imagined anticipations the actual fun and excitement of the date itself.  We dream our finest dreams in expectation of what may be.  Who gazes upon the sunset and hopes tomorrow’s sunrise not to see?

 

That is, unless you are so cool.  Are you that cool?  Are you really that cool?  Are you Zen?

 

This is unfinished.  I’m too close to feeling and so not in the now being just-the-now.

Peep Abuse.  Are you guilty?  I am. 

 

Pre-born Peeps that stay wrapped intact within their primordial translucent gaud of aloof cellophanic undisturbability are so asking for it.  Take a look.

                             (click for closeup)

On the right, begging for defamation, mutilation and even annihilation under a squishing finger and iron grip, are the pitifully world-unhardened Peeps, metaphysical cousins to first 2 of the 3 Little Pigs (straw and sticks), taunting us as if to say: “Not by the sugar on my soft bellybutton!”

 

On the left, weighing in at a buff 8 grams, well-oxygenated now for weeks after their post-placental cellophonic birthing-rupture, and thoroughly hardened to the vicarious travesties that ever-swirl throughout this cruel, open-aired world of ours, are the Peeps Apparent, metaphysical cousins to the 3^rd Little Pig (bricks), standing stalwart as if to say to their neighboring still-sheathed pink punk uninitiates: “There are worse things out here than vampires.  Like what?    Like me.“

 

Of course, some of the purple Peeps are missing.  It happens.  Birth, that start of the journey to fulfill one’s destiny, does have its risks.  Some think that stale Peeps taste better.  Blame the Purple Peeper Eaters.  But if these exoskeletonically-enhanced Peeps avoid such cultish consumers, they are likely to end up in the rubbish, with a subsequent trip to the landfill, where, given their near ever-preserving potassium sorbate and carnauba wax composition, they will likely accompany plastic Pepsi and Coke bottles upon a journey into pseudo-immortality. 

 

Peep Abuse.  It is actually pretty kinky. (Hint: the soft ones make better sex toys.)

Ever-softly wrapping her body around mine -

curvaceously bending, descending, taking me right out of time.

 

Once in the hazy light of an ATM.  Once in lights flashing bright from a nearby stage.  Once when I was so drunk she had four boobs.  Once when I closed my eyes and fell simply to bliss.  Once when she looked in my eyes and said “Do you like this?”  Once when I looked in her eyes and then stole a kiss.  Once when the earth shook—no wait, that was us.  Once when she blew in my ear and I followed her yea.  Once when I grabbed her so tight I felt her bones grind.  Once when we had nothing else to do but laugh away hurts.   Once when I was romantically waxing in rhyme.  Once when we were both conniving to make dough on the Net.  Once when it felt like a crazy coaster ride.  Once when the cops were checking us out.  Once when I was sad and had started to pout.  Once when she was so hungry her stomach was growling.  Once when, so horny, like a wolf I was howling.  Once when we knew once would not be enough.  Once when I tried to show her how tough was my stuff.

 

Once upon, once upon, vanquishing time,

Ever so softly her body … and mine.

These are the thoughts I can never write—or, if written, never share. How could I ever admit that I’m crazed beyond control just by the imminence of feminine energy? No, not just sight—though women always make the scene, for the spectacle of femininity has no compare. Nor just touch, nor soothing voice, nor enchanting fragrance. Though just light accidental brushing against women can thrill me with chills, and a woman’s unexpected whisper too near to my ear can claim my mind, and a girl’s blossomed fragrance ever compels me to fantasize myself as Pacino playing the blind Lt. Colonel in Scent of a Woman. Of taste? Don’t get me started—I can’t dare talk about that. Yet not one of these alone, or even the compilation of all, ever approaches—or even constitutes—the mysterious allure that female energy has for me, in and of itself.

I’ve been on battlefields with spectacular histrionics, in fights of gallant kinetic involvement, awash in the ocean surf’s captivating and rippling rhythmics, at times soothingly intellectually massaged to my mind’s core. Immersed, engrossed, wrapped up, and absorbed in drugs, extreme sports, dark missions, far odysseys. No match. There’s no match throughout the abundance of all…to one moment of exposure to the vibrancy of a woman.

So what comprises the source of this captivation? This magnetism which can be even empirically meager? This essence disembodied yet pulsing from the incarnate? So am I driven and ensconced in endless reflection…but reflection, like Narcissus, merely shows me myself. What Echo is there that I now long to hear, the actualization of which was clearly once near…but dispelled and now latent in reverberation’s valleys?

Ah! Valley Girls, I muse (in response to myself). Probably as close with this answer as with anything else.

Well, you never know.  Or do ya?!

One evening as the sun went down
and the jungle fire was burning
Down the track came a hobo hiking
and he said boys I'm not turning
I'm headin for a land that's far away
beside the crystal fountains
So come with me we'll go and see
the Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
there's a land that's fair and bright
Where the handouts grow on bushes
and you sleep out every night
Where the boxcars are all empty
and the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees
and the cigarette trees
Where the lemonade springs
where the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

• About five weeks ago when I talked with John he mentioned that Xanga was coming out with some new and revolutionary SN (social networking) features.  I urged him to call any 'Friends' feature 'hook-ups' .  He thought that 'hook-ups' might have too much of a sexual connotation and so (as is now obvious) stayed with a safer 'Friends' interface.  In my mind, hook-ups are not at all sexual.  Now, sex-ups, those just might be sexual.
  
  
  
• There's a blogsite just for teenagers 13-18, that's right-you got to quit at 19, named yFly.com.  Of course, I'm only 16 so I can join and hang for a couple of years (looking for hook-ups).  Anyway, they are supposed to be "all about safety for youngsters".   Just listen: "Yfly is only for teens. That means if you are 12, you have to wait another year. Sorry. That also means if you are over nineteen you're not welcome either. We'll be watching for people who might be underage and for those who are older than they say. And we'll need your help too. You can report an underage user or someone you think is an adult posing as a teen at our abuse report page. If we find an adult using our site without our okay, we'll report them to Parry Aftab and WiredSafety.org. She may report them to the cops. We're serious about this. You're worth it."
  
  
  
• Y yFly.com has a SN feature called "Pimp My Pages".  wtf?!  They have "Pimp My Pages" and we only got "Nudges" and "Friends".    Xanga!!!????
  
  
  
• Parry Aftab.  WiredSafety.org.  Calling the cops.  Could she be the Nemesis that compelled Xanga to shutdown its pro forma  underage sites without warning?  John says: "I cannot go into details here other than to say that it was something we had to do."  Yeah, I even wrote John and he wouldn't spill the beans to me.  Damn it, John, it's your longest-time antagonist, nfp, and you can't spill the beans?  Could you, maybe, just knock 'em over accidentally?  Sounds like Xanga's under a court order to remain mum.  I wonder if they were threatened with a civil suit and taking the action they took and remaining mum on the terms of agreement was part of the settlement they made to avoid the lawsuit?

numanga is right: TheTheologiansCafe is the loudest voice on the block outing Xanga's social networking beta.

At this point, I think Xanga should say something about the SN beta.  Keeping it quasi-private (that is, without any official PR) is probably going to rub some people who don't chance upon it (one way or another) or chance upon it the wrong way, the wrong way.

The emails announcing invitations are becoming annoying.  Xanga has an opt-out for it, but I also think they may be re-thinking email notifications for invitations altogether.

My thought is that having more SN features on Xanga may diminish true blogging activity as some people will more naturally embrace those features to express themselves.  But that's fine with me because those who will blog less and network more are probably almost all crappy, boring bloggers to start with.

Goodbye, crappy bloggers.  Go Nudge yourselves.

Word is out.  One of Xanga's more extensively read bloggers, numanga,  published the link for Xanga's early beta of new Social Networking features.  So I imagine that within days it will be rampant as common knowledge throughout the realm.

I know the beta isn't prime time yet.  I've been testing it for about a week and sending bug reports and some of my impressions about it to John.    I sure hope too many people don't embrace it now without understanding that there are still some serious big-time bugs in it and other functions that will likely be changed/enhanced before the 'official release'.

Personally, once is goes mainstream, I won't be using the new SN features at all (just in it to help test the beta).

Currently: studying Chinese along with attending to my daily work responsibilities ( I work, I glance at the text, I work, I glance at the text, etc.); will attempt to get a run in at Dreamland later; just got this from a co-worker I did a favor for:

I cannot truly fathom 'forever'.  That's why I almost always referrent 'one day short of forever'.  Truth is, today is one day short of forever.  And tomorrow will soon again become today.

 

Today is the last day of Winter. One day short of a forever frigidness that luckily eludes us.   I assured you (yes, click here for my vision, duly completed) that we’d make it this far.  Those of you who have ridden on my shoulders on incessant 7-mile jogs through the blizzardly wintertime of Dreamland (the cemetery) may now dismount.  Spring Eve and life scuffles out of the shadows and prepares to parade about.  And the most amazing things yet—us—are about to prance the vernal strut and join the carnal dance.  For, when faces called flowers…

 
float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)
    - e.e.cummings 

okay, it’s still March (madness. badness, resist the sadness).  But the mountains are dancing, nonethe(maddening).  (will we do less; will we do us?)

 

oh yes: Dreamland update. 19 miles covered by the quick-of-foot over the last three days (by me, lessthenone).  Grueling.  Exquisite.  Anticipating you.   And upon this very evening I risked getting locked in Dreamland (as in, gothic gates closing and spending the entire night with the dusty remnants of the once living/loving)  to assist two vagrant, incognizant wandering tourists intoxicated with this Sun-spelled Eve of Spring and apparently unawares of the shafting of the lock.  I am a hero!  (but just for two vagrants, and just for one day).

My mind is sex and I’m becoming more intelligent.  It’s true.  It’s the most sex thing within my grasp.  And I’m finding a renewed and revamped capacity to learn, (a capacity of the order that I’ve not commanded since my teenage years), entirely fascinating, involving, engaging, engorging.

Carrot.  I just closed my eyes and saw a carrot floating in the darkness.  ha!

On the agenda: Relearn the names of all the stars I’ve forgotten and their place in the sky.  Then learn of more I’ve not heard of before and would never know if my mind weren’t sex.

On the agenda: Learn to speak Chinese in the shower once again.  Learn to say in fluent Mandarin – “Are there any delicate French misses wandering through Tianamen Square harboring carrots?”                                           

On the agenda: Explore the controversy, from both the botanical and culinary perspective, of what is a real nut, and what, often referred to as a nut, just isn’t.  (Hint: the key distinction has to do with a fused ovary wall – more sex.)        

On the agenda: Fathom all the possible scenarios that could ensue in the Iran nuclear eventuality and embrace the least Dr. Strangeloveliest.   Don’t be misled by the cries of political opportunism and self-aggrandizement. Insist.  Insist.  Insist.

On the agenda: Invent a rollercoaster with a multiplicity of randomized switches to alternate track paths during the ride so that the chance of ever riding the exact same ride is about 1 in 1000.

On the agenda:  Finish my ghost-written prophetic memoirs featuring the totally timeless Rumya and myself as an intellectual protagonist.  Get past the sex scene.  Or maybe end with the sex scene.

On the agenda: Write a best-seller called “The World Without Chicken”.  Destined to be a hit after the bird flu pandemic sweeps.

On the agenda: Find a cure for bird flu.  Stop the pandemic before it starts.  Suffer tremendous financial loss as a result of the book “The World Without Chicken” being an unsold laughingstock.  Laugh all the way to the bank since a huge investment was made in KFC just before releasing the cure when the future of poultry was just abysmally b(l)eak .

Off the agenda:  Any more preoccupations with getting sex.  Damn, my mind is a wonderful thing.                           

 A compliment to just1moreReason for guiding me to properly deserving uses of the trans-expressionistic descriptor – sex.       

I've never put music on my blog before, but the X-Files Theme song has been constantly coursing in my head for the last day and my hope is that if I externalize here that I will cease to internalize it "here": *sticks finger in mouth and gestures as if pulling a trigger*

It all started yesterday while running 7 miles in Dreamland and feeling more alone than I have felt, well, since forever.  While thus running and about halfway through, I started to reflect on all the good things in my life that nurture me, keep me alive, and found: so little.  "How can that be?" I wondered.  We're all nurtured, aren't we?  But the short list that screamed at me was: 'the Sun, nature-weather, my daughter's daughterly love, and a non-descript alien energy form.'  What the fuck?  What is 'a non-descript alien energy form'?  And that's when I realized that the X-Files theme had been saturating me subliminally for at least the entire run.  Just then becaming liminal and remaining so since.

After the run, the distinct feeling of being a Roman soldier, a general, took hold of me.  I surveyed the cemetery hill I was upon, found a tree in the sunlight, and took under it laying down in the Sun, closing my eyes...letting the Sun nurture me, feeling truly ancient and mystery-bound, while continuing to listen, to listen, ... listen.

A part of life apart from life:
I am a warrior-watcher awaiting.
If my destiny goes unfulfilled, the world will be a better place  - since I was born to lead in the endgame.
Like the Maytag repairman, should I grow old, discarded and idle, it will signify that all of creation yet avoided a meltdown - a very good thing, indeed!
Can I remain still until my moment for action?

15.
[They] ...  were subtle, mysterious, profound, responsive.
The depth of their knowledge is unfathomable.
Because it is unfathomable,
All we can do is describe their appearance.
Watchful, like men crossing a winter stream.
Alert, like men aware of danger.
Courteous, like visiting guests.
Yielding like ice about to melt.
Simple, like uncarved blocks of wood.
Hollow, like caves.
Opaque, like muddy pools.

Who can wait quietly while the mud settles?
Who can remain still until the moment of action?
Observers of the Tao do not seek fulfillment.
Not seeking fulfillment, they are not swayed by desire for change.

 I feel ridiculously yet immensely and life-alteringly betrayed.  An immediate Now.  That was after a Before.  That was after another Before.  That was before a Before perhaps dating back to the stars in the constellations of the sky deciding my horoscope at birth.

There have been exceptions.  The exceptions have been ... what else? ...exceptional!

Thank all of you exceptions.  The tryst of your soul as it sojourned with mine has set me sailing forth with my heart beating to the end of time..

Now... back to the moment. 

I'm fine.

Just unbelieving that the female psyche seeks anything else but self-serving disruption and chaos upon this earth anymore.

Bitter?  No.  No more than if you eat just the almond meat and chew not on the almond shell or its embracing, encompassing sheathings.

 Just immensely observant.

Just rumors? 
If Xanga sold out, would you miss the old xangagods?

Scouring the Web for hot takeover candidates International Herald Tribune, France - 20 minutes ago ... Others in the category that are eliciting interest include xanga.com, a community of online diaries that had 7.2 million visitors in February, comScore said ...

Hungry Media Companies Find a Meager Menu of Web Sites to Buy The Ledger, FL - 2 hours ago ... Others in the category that are eliciting interest include Xanga.com, a community of online diaries that had 7.2 million visitors in February, comScore said ...

Monday Newspaper Review - Irish Business News and International ... FinFacts Ireland, Ireland - 4 hours ago ... Others in the category that are eliciting interest include Xanga.com, a community of online diaries that had 7.2 million visitors in February, comScore said ...

I wandered into a local neighborhood bar called the Croatian Tavern last night where, to my surprise, there was a local sketch comedy and improvisation group call The Public Squares performing.  Being improv, throughout their skits they solicited suggestions from the audience in terms of topics, or notions, or single words. 

 

My contributions, from a stool where I was sucking down Coronas (with lime), were:

 

1) “Does any one have a favorite adjective?”   nfp: “Intrepid.”

 

2) “Give me one of those unforgettable sayings you learned, for instance, from your momma, when you were young.”   nfp: “Learn of Die.”

 

3) “Name an activity of profound interest to you.”   nfp: “Blogging.”

 

I think, on the whole, my contributions were not entirely appreciated by the troupe.

 

The first (1) response they used, along with a series of other volunteered words, in a half-spoken, half-pantomined charades-sort of scenario.  Whereas, some of the other contributions, “vomiting”, “amusement park”, etc., took them but seconds to act out, “intrepid” took them practically 5 minutes to stumble upon.  Trouble.

 

The second response, “Learn of Die”, they used merely as a spoken fill-the-empty-slot phrase in another skit.  Actually, as inserted, it was so off-the-wall that it drew almost unanimous laughter from the crowd of about 100.

 

But the third response, “Blogging”, was the one that chilled the troupe.  One on the comedians was supposed to run with the topic and just quip about it everything he knew.  Trouble was, he and his compatriots didn’t seem to know much about “blogging”. 

 

The first sign of discomfort was that he tried to turn “blogging” into “logging” and talk bout Paul Bunyan.  I didn’t let him get away with that and vocally restated: “Blogging.  Blah-blah-blah-blogging.”

 

Eventually, he and his comrades did address “blogging” but only in terms of “sexual predators seeking teenage-girls on MySpace.com”.  Yep. that’s what blogging reduces to when it sails into the currents of offline pop culture.  Trouble is, although I “got it” and found it hilarious because I was able to reinsert their parody into a broader context, I bet that for a lot of the ever-so-quiet audience that this was either their first  exposure to the notion of “blogging” or just a becoming-familiar reiteration of what they’ve heard about blogging in the news.

 

God, that troupe must hate me.   I can imagine them bemoaning me as that "damned blogger."  But, truth is, I pay next to no attention to the blogs of teenage girls.  (I like older ... )

Wearing sunglasses today in the office at work.

They are related to the three drugs I took yesterday before running around in Dreamland Cemetery. I’ve run for 5 of the last 6 days there (about 20 miles), yesterday conceiving of myself as ‘the Rundertaker’. It started to rain chillingly and I didn’t complete the 4 miles I had envisioned. I ran only 2 and then drank a beer instead. Oh, that made it 4 drugs. Decided to curtail my visit, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open on the ride home from the cemetery. Though not tired or fatigued, I actually had to keep the eyelids of my left eye manually-held open to see. Didn’t even bother with my right eye since it was swelling shut. Got home and went to bed early. Got up in the middle of the night, could open my eyes, but didn’t dare since I had, in the sleeping meantime, developed an ultra-sensitivity to light. Even looking at a dim nightlight felt like a stab in the head. That experience provided me an empathetic appreciation of what a vampire must feel like caught out in the rising of the Sun.

I'm wearing sunglasses today in the office at work. Oh yeah, I already said that.  (Must be repetition for effect then.)

There’s still some minor light hypersensitivity. Swelling is gone, but the right eye looks horny-red in the mirror. Lucky I don’t have a hot date tonight or I’d be sure to freak the girl out - she wondering why I’m only half-horny.

Today I called the doc and described the side effects of the drugs he prescribed me. He was amazed and considered my experience rather strange. Just goes to support what I’ve always maintained: almost all drugs affect me rather differently than most people. I’d surely trip psychedelically on grass and just get the munchies on LSD; caffeine is my mind-numbing aphrodisiac; alcohol my mental stimulant, and love the ayahuasca I’m always thinking of.

years ago, instead of busting a passed-out Army private discovered with a baggie-full of Panama Red in pocket, confiscated the stash instead.

 

at the end of that 24-hour stint as charge-of-quarters, changed out of the sergeantly uniform, and got into running shirt and shorts with baggie in hand.

 

headed hard-paced out of barracks, down nether roads and up a jungled hillside.

 

heard the monkeys howl and spread the Red ( so many seeds, so many seeds) about, upon the tropical (Panama) lush jungle floorbed.

 

wonder now: how tall the plants, how high the monkeys are?

Growing healthier daily.  And it feels like there’s no end to it.  At this rate, gonna be a legitimate god-challenger by year’s end.  Well, yeah, maybe that’s overboard. 

Actually, may not be getting healthier at all.  Probably just feeling better because the days are getting longer and the Sun’s sitting ever higher in the sky. 

Being a rabid dog of Ra howling at the rays. 

If could be the first, would jump off the Earth and plunge into the Solar core. (How’s that for seeking a niche in the Guinness World Record book?) 

With the onset of rapidly intensifying insolation,  feeling like a flower preparing to bloom.

Curse upon you vampirish darklings who have clung to winter’s shadowy gloom. 

Still stretching more, running more, working more, drinking less beer, and losing weight. 

Advice, if you want to take it out: Agitate and let your pheromones drift and hover seducingly  about.

Meet at sunrise.  Hold hands at sunset.  Dancing in the earthshine and frolicking in the moonglow.  Till tomorrow.  And tomorrow's morrow...  even unto one day short of forever.

Victory now lies within.
Cagier.  Stronger.
I shall not lose this moment, any moment
of genuinely becoming
again.