The next time the sun rises is the hop out to the Rub 'al Khali to help my father. It could conceivably be one of, if not the, last time I go to that house so far out into the badlands of eastern Colorado. Apparently, this is not going to be as much of an excavation as either of us had initially anticipated, and I'm rather fine with that. My father told me he'd pay for my fuel and make supper. Apparently, the day of the week we're doing this thing is rather hard on him, and he likes to have dinner company.
My feelings on this excursion are rather mixed. I look forward to seeing my father. It's always nice to listen to music with him and share a meal. I do not look forward to the work and the context behind it. I catch myself wondering if, even if just in metaphor, my mother's phantasm will be about, watching us get my father ready for what could be the ending, or maybe even the beginning, of his exile.
04 June 2010
28 May 2010
Little Pagan Angel and the Oracles of Zen and Enlightenment
Getting on about nine years ago now, one of my best friends was, I guess, seeing this one little Pagan angel with electric blues eyes. Actually, seeing each other might not be the best description, given my friend. It would be more honest to say they were just fucking one another, quite athletically, from what I was told. But that's another story.
Still, the little Pagan angel and I got along. At the time she was in charge of a once a month event called Pagan Night Out. She thought it would be just corking if I came along.
"Um, you know I'm Buddhist, right?" I said. It was possible my philosophical and heretical theological leanings had not come up in conversation.
"So?" She said. "Come along anyway."
Well, my friend, the one she was fucking, offered to give me a ride, and I found myself curious. And it wasn't as horrible as I dreaded. Although, that one observation oracle that was cast in my direction was creepy enough to get me to growl and want to go for my dagger. But that's another story. I decided I might check out the next month's.
Hey, it was something to do...
That something to do lasted around three years, give or take. It wasn't too terrible a time. I would hang out, sometimes rather briefly, with the little Pagan angel, who had long since stopped fucking my friend and gotten involved with someone else. There were a few other cats that went I got along with. I did learn a thing or two, like the fact I could only handle being around that many Pagans for about two or three hours-at most-before I started entertaining murder thoughts.
Sometime during my acquaintance with the little Pagan angel, she took to calling me Zen Rob. I found it an amusing moniker, due to the fact the Buddhism I practiced, however heretically, was Tibetan, not Zen. Still, that's what she called me, and I dismissed it as just being in reference to being the token Buddhist that showed up at the odd Pagan Night Out and ate shrimp fajitas.
One of the last oracles that was cast for me was by the little Pagan angel the night before my grandmother's memorial. I was more than a little depressed. Aside from the fact my grandmother had just walked on, there was a girl, who I was wondering for what was not the first or last time if I really needed to be involved with. When I was greeted with Zen Rob, I could barely force a smile, because zen was not something I was really feeling.
"You know why I call you Zen Rob?" The little Pagan angel asked me after she laid down the cards for my oracle.
"The whole Buddhist thing," I said plainly, if not a little mockingly. "Never mind I'm a Tibetan Buddhist."
"No," she said. "It's because that's how you are. Nothing gets to you. It's all water down a duck's back. Zen."
...Oh, bullshit!...I remember thinking...I just lost my grandmother. There's this fucking spittail I can't decide if I want to stick it out with or just shoot her and have done with it. I'm broke. If that's zen you need your head examined...
But I didn't say that. And, the zen accusation actually kind of help me maintain a level of sanity and equilibrium during that period with putting my grandmother in the ground. Even if I found myself being affected by feelings of grief and loss, and I didn't rightly feel it doing like water down a duck's back.
It wasn't too long ago I was sitting out back with my tea and a book when I caught myself thinking about the little Pagan angel who used to call me Zen Rob. I was caught up in a moment of zen, what with the tea and the book. It was a clear day and hummingbirds were trilling through the air and I kept gazing at the twelve thousand foot peak that runs behind the House of Owls and Bats, making part of the valley's southern wall. In that moment of simple, but sheer bliss, I caught myself smiling as I sipped my tea, knowing it was a indeed pure moment, which could not be taken away.
My very last oracle was from the bruja of my acquaintance. She said I would achieve enlightenment. I thought that was quite ballsy to try to divine for anyone other than a sangha or bohdisattva. That one friend who was once fucking the little Pagan angel recently told me I was enlightened, by virtue of where I live, how I choose to live my life, and who I choose to spend my life with. The only way I could pretend to agree with him would be if being enlightened meant the realization that I don't know every fucking thing and the acceptance of the fact, appreciating the beauty of a mystery.
Sort of like being called Zen so long ago. If by zen you mean the realization of both positive and the negative. Feeling happy, sad, angry, euphoric, apathetic, but also acknowledging the facts, and not being driven to madness by the if onlys. I might be able to agree then, perhaps even softly say I'm deserving of that moniker.
To tell the truth, I do not know if I really am either zen or enlightened. But maybe it doesn't matter. When I think I have an answer, another question arises, and, I suppose, there's symmetry in that.
Still, the little Pagan angel and I got along. At the time she was in charge of a once a month event called Pagan Night Out. She thought it would be just corking if I came along.
"Um, you know I'm Buddhist, right?" I said. It was possible my philosophical and heretical theological leanings had not come up in conversation.
"So?" She said. "Come along anyway."
Well, my friend, the one she was fucking, offered to give me a ride, and I found myself curious. And it wasn't as horrible as I dreaded. Although, that one observation oracle that was cast in my direction was creepy enough to get me to growl and want to go for my dagger. But that's another story. I decided I might check out the next month's.
Hey, it was something to do...
That something to do lasted around three years, give or take. It wasn't too terrible a time. I would hang out, sometimes rather briefly, with the little Pagan angel, who had long since stopped fucking my friend and gotten involved with someone else. There were a few other cats that went I got along with. I did learn a thing or two, like the fact I could only handle being around that many Pagans for about two or three hours-at most-before I started entertaining murder thoughts.
Sometime during my acquaintance with the little Pagan angel, she took to calling me Zen Rob. I found it an amusing moniker, due to the fact the Buddhism I practiced, however heretically, was Tibetan, not Zen. Still, that's what she called me, and I dismissed it as just being in reference to being the token Buddhist that showed up at the odd Pagan Night Out and ate shrimp fajitas.
One of the last oracles that was cast for me was by the little Pagan angel the night before my grandmother's memorial. I was more than a little depressed. Aside from the fact my grandmother had just walked on, there was a girl, who I was wondering for what was not the first or last time if I really needed to be involved with. When I was greeted with Zen Rob, I could barely force a smile, because zen was not something I was really feeling.
"You know why I call you Zen Rob?" The little Pagan angel asked me after she laid down the cards for my oracle.
"The whole Buddhist thing," I said plainly, if not a little mockingly. "Never mind I'm a Tibetan Buddhist."
"No," she said. "It's because that's how you are. Nothing gets to you. It's all water down a duck's back. Zen."
...Oh, bullshit!...I remember thinking...I just lost my grandmother. There's this fucking spittail I can't decide if I want to stick it out with or just shoot her and have done with it. I'm broke. If that's zen you need your head examined...
But I didn't say that. And, the zen accusation actually kind of help me maintain a level of sanity and equilibrium during that period with putting my grandmother in the ground. Even if I found myself being affected by feelings of grief and loss, and I didn't rightly feel it doing like water down a duck's back.
It wasn't too long ago I was sitting out back with my tea and a book when I caught myself thinking about the little Pagan angel who used to call me Zen Rob. I was caught up in a moment of zen, what with the tea and the book. It was a clear day and hummingbirds were trilling through the air and I kept gazing at the twelve thousand foot peak that runs behind the House of Owls and Bats, making part of the valley's southern wall. In that moment of simple, but sheer bliss, I caught myself smiling as I sipped my tea, knowing it was a indeed pure moment, which could not be taken away.
My very last oracle was from the bruja of my acquaintance. She said I would achieve enlightenment. I thought that was quite ballsy to try to divine for anyone other than a sangha or bohdisattva. That one friend who was once fucking the little Pagan angel recently told me I was enlightened, by virtue of where I live, how I choose to live my life, and who I choose to spend my life with. The only way I could pretend to agree with him would be if being enlightened meant the realization that I don't know every fucking thing and the acceptance of the fact, appreciating the beauty of a mystery.
Sort of like being called Zen so long ago. If by zen you mean the realization of both positive and the negative. Feeling happy, sad, angry, euphoric, apathetic, but also acknowledging the facts, and not being driven to madness by the if onlys. I might be able to agree then, perhaps even softly say I'm deserving of that moniker.
To tell the truth, I do not know if I really am either zen or enlightened. But maybe it doesn't matter. When I think I have an answer, another question arises, and, I suppose, there's symmetry in that.
22 May 2010
Move On
And thus, it has come to pass, my father has secured residence back within the greater metroplex. Not too terribly far from we lived up until I was thirteen years old, in fact. He remarked about the auspice of full circles. In a little over a month, he will be putting the Rub 'al Khali behind him. Perhaps forever and ever, amen.
"I need to get out here," my father said. "I'm turning into an old man. I can see it in my face."
I am happy for him. He needs to move on. Out there, in the badlands of eastern Colorado...that was my mother and the life my parents had together. My mother is gone now and my father needs to keep on living. He'll be closer to my brother and sister. It'll only take me perhaps an hour, instead of the usual two, to visit. You can catch the excitement in his voice.
Sometime in the near future, I'll be making the hop to the Rub 'al Khali of the badlands for what I hope will be one of the last times. We'll be cleaning and packing. In some ways, I imagine it'll be like when we moved my grandmother or when we'd go through her storage unit after she walked on, or when we were packing up my mother's clothes; a mixture of sadness and catharsis. So it goes.
I am happy for my father. Another aspect of starting over, like phoenix raising out of the ashes of loss. It'll be nice for him to be closer, instead of a daytrip away. Still, I confess, part of me dreads the upcoming excavation, and the possible ghosts of memory it might stir up.
"I need to get out here," my father said. "I'm turning into an old man. I can see it in my face."
I am happy for him. He needs to move on. Out there, in the badlands of eastern Colorado...that was my mother and the life my parents had together. My mother is gone now and my father needs to keep on living. He'll be closer to my brother and sister. It'll only take me perhaps an hour, instead of the usual two, to visit. You can catch the excitement in his voice.
Sometime in the near future, I'll be making the hop to the Rub 'al Khali of the badlands for what I hope will be one of the last times. We'll be cleaning and packing. In some ways, I imagine it'll be like when we moved my grandmother or when we'd go through her storage unit after she walked on, or when we were packing up my mother's clothes; a mixture of sadness and catharsis. So it goes.
I am happy for my father. Another aspect of starting over, like phoenix raising out of the ashes of loss. It'll be nice for him to be closer, instead of a daytrip away. Still, I confess, part of me dreads the upcoming excavation, and the possible ghosts of memory it might stir up.
13 May 2010
Resonant Tunage
There are memories with this;
Some, go back to childhood. Back around when I saw the very first Star Wars film and it was amazing and magical. It was summer and I remember my parents drinking beer and chatting with friends whilst the song played on the radio. I was sitting in the back of silver pick up with my dog at the time.
More recently, I recall coming back from getting things for the first home cooked meal at the House of Owls and Bats. I was still in shock and awe that we had pulled off not only moving to the mountains, but to the very township we wanted to reach. I kept thinking I would wake from a dream and find myself back in the city, still fettered to a past life.
This song came on the radio, and she began to sing along flawlessly. I've always enjoyed hearing her sing. She told me she liked the harmonies, whilst I told her of remembering the tune from childhood.
It reminds me of both now; childhood and those first days living in the mountains with her. I suppose it fits, after all, her big doe eyes, which shine like abalone shells, are blue. One of those small ironies that gets me to smile.
Funny old fucking world...
Some, go back to childhood. Back around when I saw the very first Star Wars film and it was amazing and magical. It was summer and I remember my parents drinking beer and chatting with friends whilst the song played on the radio. I was sitting in the back of silver pick up with my dog at the time.
More recently, I recall coming back from getting things for the first home cooked meal at the House of Owls and Bats. I was still in shock and awe that we had pulled off not only moving to the mountains, but to the very township we wanted to reach. I kept thinking I would wake from a dream and find myself back in the city, still fettered to a past life.
This song came on the radio, and she began to sing along flawlessly. I've always enjoyed hearing her sing. She told me she liked the harmonies, whilst I told her of remembering the tune from childhood.
It reminds me of both now; childhood and those first days living in the mountains with her. I suppose it fits, after all, her big doe eyes, which shine like abalone shells, are blue. One of those small ironies that gets me to smile.
Funny old fucking world...
08 May 2010
Matriarchs
Over the last fifteen years, I have had a love/hate relationship with the holidays of Mother's and Father's Day. I think a fair amount of it is spawned from the fact my x and I split up right before our first wedding anniversary, her first official Mother's Day. In fifteen years, I have had only one full Father's Day with my daughter.
Then there's the social construct; for a few years, I noticed media would run heroic stories of moms on Mother's Day. Those who worked so hard and still made time for their offspring. On Father's day, stories were told of the deadbeats. For quite awhile, if I mentioned I was a divorced single father, I would be greeted by the what did you do? How did you fuck it up? look, because, as the social construct of reality dictates, it's always the man's fault, even when it isn't.
I'm sure those playing the home game are quite well aware of my disdain for the social construct of reality...
"Well you're quite a mutha too," my mother would tell me jovially when we'd speak on Mother's Day. In my family, I being a single parent, I got acknowledgments on both holidays, but it didn't really detract from my dislike of them.
There is bitter sweetness that comes with this Mother's Day. All the elder matriarchs are all gone now. On days like this in times like these, the full sensation of the void comes into vivid resolve. My great grandmother, my grandmother, and now my mother are ashes, dust, bones, and memories. I suppose I should mention my father's mother too, since she has also walked on, although we were not as close.
Sure, my aunt and female matriarchal relatives on the southern side still all draw breath. Well, as far as I know. See, they only exist on the peripheral fringes of the horizon of my existence. It's rare as hen's teeth any of them enter into the mathematics of my thoughts.
My sister gave birth to my nephew almost two weeks ago. It's a strange thought to contemplate that my baby sister is now a mother. Stranger still, the fact she is now the matriarch of my family.
On Mother's Day, I will phone my sister to wish her a happy first Mother's Day. It feels like the right thing to do, despite the fact it might almost break my heart to do so, given the context of those who have walked on before. Some, far too recently for my comfort. I will also wish my sister a happy first wedding anniversary, given that date falls on the same day as Mother's Day.
An equation within the mathematics of my thoughts is a song. When my mother went into the sickhouse, my brother and I were talking. We were both possessed of bad feelings and dark thoughts, though we hoped so desperately to be wrong. For me, the only woman I've been related to by blood who went into a sickhouse and came back out has been my sister. My brother, consumed by anger and guilt, was convinced the doctors were lying to all of us as to the gravity of our mother's illness at the time.
My brother mentioned the song. One we both knew and liked. For my brother, it came out when he was an adolescent and arguing a fair amount with our mother. He told me, because of the lyrics, he would never be able to listen to the song again.
I have. I did a night or two after my mother's memorial, finishing a bottle of whiskey I had at the time. That small tumbler did nothing to restrain the mist forming on the surface of my waxmoon reptile eyes. So it goes.
For some reason, that song seems like a fitting present to those memories cast out into the either. Those matriarchs who have since walked on. There is a resonance I see there, which I cannot put into language.
"Hey, I ain't never coming home.
Hey, I'll just wander my own road.
Hey-hey, I can't meet you here tomorrow - no, no.
Say goodbye don't follow -
Misery so hollow.
Hey you, you're livin' life full throttle.
Hey you, pass me down that bottle, yeh...
Hey-hey you, you can't shake me round now.
I get so lost and don't know how, yeh...
It hurts to care, I'm goin' now.
Well I forgot my woman, lost my friends
Things I've done and where I've been,
Sleep in sweat - the mirror's cold -
Seen my face? It's growin' old -
Scared to death, no reason why
Do whatever to get me by,
Think about the things I've said
Read the page its cold and dead
An' take me home!
Yeah! Take me home!
Oh-oh... take me home
Take me home, yeah.
Take me home. Yeah, oh.
Say goodbye. Don't follow..."-Alice in Chains
Beyond that, I find I have no further words...
Then there's the social construct; for a few years, I noticed media would run heroic stories of moms on Mother's Day. Those who worked so hard and still made time for their offspring. On Father's day, stories were told of the deadbeats. For quite awhile, if I mentioned I was a divorced single father, I would be greeted by the what did you do? How did you fuck it up? look, because, as the social construct of reality dictates, it's always the man's fault, even when it isn't.
I'm sure those playing the home game are quite well aware of my disdain for the social construct of reality...
"Well you're quite a mutha too," my mother would tell me jovially when we'd speak on Mother's Day. In my family, I being a single parent, I got acknowledgments on both holidays, but it didn't really detract from my dislike of them.
There is bitter sweetness that comes with this Mother's Day. All the elder matriarchs are all gone now. On days like this in times like these, the full sensation of the void comes into vivid resolve. My great grandmother, my grandmother, and now my mother are ashes, dust, bones, and memories. I suppose I should mention my father's mother too, since she has also walked on, although we were not as close.
Sure, my aunt and female matriarchal relatives on the southern side still all draw breath. Well, as far as I know. See, they only exist on the peripheral fringes of the horizon of my existence. It's rare as hen's teeth any of them enter into the mathematics of my thoughts.
My sister gave birth to my nephew almost two weeks ago. It's a strange thought to contemplate that my baby sister is now a mother. Stranger still, the fact she is now the matriarch of my family.
On Mother's Day, I will phone my sister to wish her a happy first Mother's Day. It feels like the right thing to do, despite the fact it might almost break my heart to do so, given the context of those who have walked on before. Some, far too recently for my comfort. I will also wish my sister a happy first wedding anniversary, given that date falls on the same day as Mother's Day.
An equation within the mathematics of my thoughts is a song. When my mother went into the sickhouse, my brother and I were talking. We were both possessed of bad feelings and dark thoughts, though we hoped so desperately to be wrong. For me, the only woman I've been related to by blood who went into a sickhouse and came back out has been my sister. My brother, consumed by anger and guilt, was convinced the doctors were lying to all of us as to the gravity of our mother's illness at the time.
My brother mentioned the song. One we both knew and liked. For my brother, it came out when he was an adolescent and arguing a fair amount with our mother. He told me, because of the lyrics, he would never be able to listen to the song again.
I have. I did a night or two after my mother's memorial, finishing a bottle of whiskey I had at the time. That small tumbler did nothing to restrain the mist forming on the surface of my waxmoon reptile eyes. So it goes.
For some reason, that song seems like a fitting present to those memories cast out into the either. Those matriarchs who have since walked on. There is a resonance I see there, which I cannot put into language.
"Hey, I ain't never coming home.
Hey, I'll just wander my own road.
Hey-hey, I can't meet you here tomorrow - no, no.
Say goodbye don't follow -
Misery so hollow.
Hey you, you're livin' life full throttle.
Hey you, pass me down that bottle, yeh...
Hey-hey you, you can't shake me round now.
I get so lost and don't know how, yeh...
It hurts to care, I'm goin' now.
Well I forgot my woman, lost my friends
Things I've done and where I've been,
Sleep in sweat - the mirror's cold -
Seen my face? It's growin' old -
Scared to death, no reason why
Do whatever to get me by,
Think about the things I've said
Read the page its cold and dead
An' take me home!
Yeah! Take me home!
Oh-oh... take me home
Take me home, yeah.
Take me home. Yeah, oh.
Say goodbye. Don't follow..."-Alice in Chains
Beyond that, I find I have no further words...
17 April 2010
Planet Africa
Upon strong recommendation, I am reading Lonely Planets, the Natural Philosophy of Alien Life by David Grindspoon. I'm finding it interesting and engaging. Of course, I'm fascinated by this sort of thing. I do believe the prospect of life in the universe beyond this world is not only possible, but probable.
Reading this tome, along with John Muir, and my walkabouts in general has lead me to finding aspects of Pantheism filtering into my Buddhism. This does not bother me in the slightest. After all, I've always been a little syncretic in my practice, and Buddhism is, at its heart, a philosophy. A system of thought. Such a thing can evolve and change. Whereas with religion, one finds themselves kind of stuck in an obstinate dogmatic theme.
I am fascinated and humbled when I look up at the stars. There is an aspect of time travel, seeing objects as they were millions, if not billions, of years ago. It seems to me to be an act of ignorance, as well as arrogance, to believe this is the only world that harbors life. Although, I realize contact might still be a very long time in coming.
Something I truly believe in is the exploration of space. In fact, I think humanity's next evolutionary leap is to step off world, and begin to live amongst the stars. Much like that first group of hominids who went on walkabout out of Africa, some hundreds of thousands of years ago, and proceeded to colonize the rest of the world.
That wasn't too long ago, on a cosmic scale. When it comes to brass tacks and bedposts, Homo sapiens are but a baby step out of the stone age, and but a crawl from when they were still more quadrupedal and still hanging about in trees.
If I could live for an infinite amount of time, I would like to witness those first permanent steps off-world. To see the species expand throughout the solar system and out into others. The idea of what kind of civilization that would create is, in the here and now, the providence of science fiction writers, but I think it is no more fantastic than those first steps out of Africa.
Sometimes, I can get lost in the looking up at the stars. When I hear of the wars or political pettiness, I catch myself thinking this world is but a very small island in a very vast ocean, and no one should be pissing about over lines that were drawn in the sand back in a time when everyone was ignorant enough to think this was the center of the universe. It goes beyond being American or Muslim or Socialist. Every single lifeform on this planet is Terran, and that's that.
Or, to simplify, as a bumper sticker I once saw read; "Oh, evolve!"
Hundreds of thousands of years from now, but a baby step from the here and now, I hold out hope that the great evolutionary leap into the cosmos has been made. That the species pulled its collective head from its collective ass. I wonder about the civilization that will be spawned from that and how it will view its history. Whether they'll see the Homo sapiens of this timeframe in much the same way those early hominids who went on walkabout out of Africa are viewed here and now. I wonder if the motherworld, the planet Africa, will still be inhabited, or if it'll be some far-flung myth of some futuristic religion.
Reading this tome, along with John Muir, and my walkabouts in general has lead me to finding aspects of Pantheism filtering into my Buddhism. This does not bother me in the slightest. After all, I've always been a little syncretic in my practice, and Buddhism is, at its heart, a philosophy. A system of thought. Such a thing can evolve and change. Whereas with religion, one finds themselves kind of stuck in an obstinate dogmatic theme.
I am fascinated and humbled when I look up at the stars. There is an aspect of time travel, seeing objects as they were millions, if not billions, of years ago. It seems to me to be an act of ignorance, as well as arrogance, to believe this is the only world that harbors life. Although, I realize contact might still be a very long time in coming.
Something I truly believe in is the exploration of space. In fact, I think humanity's next evolutionary leap is to step off world, and begin to live amongst the stars. Much like that first group of hominids who went on walkabout out of Africa, some hundreds of thousands of years ago, and proceeded to colonize the rest of the world.
That wasn't too long ago, on a cosmic scale. When it comes to brass tacks and bedposts, Homo sapiens are but a baby step out of the stone age, and but a crawl from when they were still more quadrupedal and still hanging about in trees.
If I could live for an infinite amount of time, I would like to witness those first permanent steps off-world. To see the species expand throughout the solar system and out into others. The idea of what kind of civilization that would create is, in the here and now, the providence of science fiction writers, but I think it is no more fantastic than those first steps out of Africa.
Sometimes, I can get lost in the looking up at the stars. When I hear of the wars or political pettiness, I catch myself thinking this world is but a very small island in a very vast ocean, and no one should be pissing about over lines that were drawn in the sand back in a time when everyone was ignorant enough to think this was the center of the universe. It goes beyond being American or Muslim or Socialist. Every single lifeform on this planet is Terran, and that's that.
Or, to simplify, as a bumper sticker I once saw read; "Oh, evolve!"
Hundreds of thousands of years from now, but a baby step from the here and now, I hold out hope that the great evolutionary leap into the cosmos has been made. That the species pulled its collective head from its collective ass. I wonder about the civilization that will be spawned from that and how it will view its history. Whether they'll see the Homo sapiens of this timeframe in much the same way those early hominids who went on walkabout out of Africa are viewed here and now. I wonder if the motherworld, the planet Africa, will still be inhabited, or if it'll be some far-flung myth of some futuristic religion.
16 April 2010
Backward Glances
Every now and again, I find myself going over things I have documented before. Reviewing the archives, as it were. An excavation of memory and perspective, looking at the stories, omens, riddles, hymns, lessons, and observations contained therein.
It is an interesting little exercise, to say the least. Looking back with twenty-twenty hindsight. It's queerly amusing to see what was important back then compared to the here and now. The style and tone of metaphoric voice. If one tries hard enough, it can almost be heard, echoing within the vacuum.
There was a period of about six years where I did little documentation upon paper in black India ink. The medium was almost all electronic. Upon the strands of the spider's web, there are fantastical stories and fairly personal musings. I also catch the little hints my past life left for my present incarnation. Since I am the only one in possession of that Rosetta Stone within the walls of my skull, I am the only one who can rightly decipher those riddles, hints, allegations, and things better left unsaid. There are just silly little trivialities. All shards of the complete whole.
Snake casing its tail, things come full circle. The form of medium has changed. Once more, I concentrate more upon pen and paper. I find it satisfying. A little more personal than even this, although I still sometimes speak in my riddle tongue of dragons, as to insure my privacy. Call it a quirk.
Oh, I keep in touch. There are still stories and observations I would like to share. And I am always watching, because, well, I like to watch. I just don't know, and, can longer promise, the frequency, or, lack thereof, when it comes to the medium of the electronic.
It is an interesting little exercise, to say the least. Looking back with twenty-twenty hindsight. It's queerly amusing to see what was important back then compared to the here and now. The style and tone of metaphoric voice. If one tries hard enough, it can almost be heard, echoing within the vacuum.
There was a period of about six years where I did little documentation upon paper in black India ink. The medium was almost all electronic. Upon the strands of the spider's web, there are fantastical stories and fairly personal musings. I also catch the little hints my past life left for my present incarnation. Since I am the only one in possession of that Rosetta Stone within the walls of my skull, I am the only one who can rightly decipher those riddles, hints, allegations, and things better left unsaid. There are just silly little trivialities. All shards of the complete whole.
Snake casing its tail, things come full circle. The form of medium has changed. Once more, I concentrate more upon pen and paper. I find it satisfying. A little more personal than even this, although I still sometimes speak in my riddle tongue of dragons, as to insure my privacy. Call it a quirk.
Oh, I keep in touch. There are still stories and observations I would like to share. And I am always watching, because, well, I like to watch. I just don't know, and, can longer promise, the frequency, or, lack thereof, when it comes to the medium of the electronic.
10 April 2010
Homecoming Anniversary
A shot of my personal Kilimanjaro...
It comes up on our homecoming anniversary. What a wild ride we've had. One I'd not trade for godhood. It's been a couple of years now that we've lived in our Kashmir, after stumbling upon it, almost by accident.
My daughter and I went for a walkabout along the Notch. Being along north-facing slopes, there was still snow. In places, at least knee deep. But walkabouts like that remind me why over the last few years I stopped smoking and my alcohol consumption has dropped to the levels it was six or seven years ago. Why when I take in the views of towering peaks and grand rock formations, I see, hear, and feel the Divine.
I truly enjoy this and don't want to miss a moment of it. Here is where we belong, there is no doubt. This is our Kashmir.
05 April 2010
Leaving the Badlands
...Around a year ago, we were all out in the badlands, the day before the holiday, because of other family or professional obligations the next day. She never liked that. She liked to celebrate a holiday on the day it falls on a calendar, but what can you do?
It was or month or so since the last bouts of chemotherapy. Her hair was slowly starting to grow back. Although neuropathy made her shuffle when walked, giving the appearance of locomotion of one much older than herself, she was feeling better. In good spirits. Her daughter was going to be walking down the aisle in less than a month and she was excited.
It never occurred to any of us it might be a last time. It never does, because you never really, really know for sure. But what can you do?
So it goes...
My father speaks of leaving the Rub' al Khali of the badlands of eastern Colorado. Oh, sure, back when my mother first walked on, he put on the bravest face. He was staying out there. Just as I love living in the mountains, he loved living on the badlands. He was still waiting to see John Wayne come riding up over the next rise. It was quiet and no one bothered him.
It's hard to say who he was trying to convince; all of us, or himself, but it probably doesn't matter...
Whether it's the loneliness or being snowed in during one of the last heavy storms is both debatable and irrelevant. My father told me he wants to move. To be closer to all of us, relatively speaking.
My father is sixty-two years old. In the last sixteen years, he's had two heart attacks. Out there, his nearest friend is six miles away. Since my mother has walked on, the dogs-save two-chickens, and sheep have been gotten rid of. There's really no more reason to have sixty acres of land.
We all agree it's for the best. My father's age and the possibility of something health-wise happening. Back when my mother was dying in the sickhouse, that was something my brother would talk to me about. My sister echoed some of the same thoughts when we chatted after Easter supper. I agree with both of them, although, even though I have assurances, I still sometimes worry that loneliness is going haunt and chase my father wherever he goes and he's one day going to crawl into a bottle and never come back out.
Of course it's all wait and see. See what the time and seasons hold. That house out in the Rub' al Khali is more isolated than where I am in the Sahel. With my mother gone, it might be fair to say that the badlands are not his Kashmir, and that perhaps leaving them might do him a world of good.
It was or month or so since the last bouts of chemotherapy. Her hair was slowly starting to grow back. Although neuropathy made her shuffle when walked, giving the appearance of locomotion of one much older than herself, she was feeling better. In good spirits. Her daughter was going to be walking down the aisle in less than a month and she was excited.
It never occurred to any of us it might be a last time. It never does, because you never really, really know for sure. But what can you do?
So it goes...
My father speaks of leaving the Rub' al Khali of the badlands of eastern Colorado. Oh, sure, back when my mother first walked on, he put on the bravest face. He was staying out there. Just as I love living in the mountains, he loved living on the badlands. He was still waiting to see John Wayne come riding up over the next rise. It was quiet and no one bothered him.
It's hard to say who he was trying to convince; all of us, or himself, but it probably doesn't matter...
Whether it's the loneliness or being snowed in during one of the last heavy storms is both debatable and irrelevant. My father told me he wants to move. To be closer to all of us, relatively speaking.
My father is sixty-two years old. In the last sixteen years, he's had two heart attacks. Out there, his nearest friend is six miles away. Since my mother has walked on, the dogs-save two-chickens, and sheep have been gotten rid of. There's really no more reason to have sixty acres of land.
We all agree it's for the best. My father's age and the possibility of something health-wise happening. Back when my mother was dying in the sickhouse, that was something my brother would talk to me about. My sister echoed some of the same thoughts when we chatted after Easter supper. I agree with both of them, although, even though I have assurances, I still sometimes worry that loneliness is going haunt and chase my father wherever he goes and he's one day going to crawl into a bottle and never come back out.
Of course it's all wait and see. See what the time and seasons hold. That house out in the Rub' al Khali is more isolated than where I am in the Sahel. With my mother gone, it might be fair to say that the badlands are not his Kashmir, and that perhaps leaving them might do him a world of good.
01 April 2010
An Instrumental Thought
There is irony in the fact that I'm the only in my family who doesn't know how to play a musical instrument. I've often said it's because I lack the ability. However, I don't think that's quite right. In fact, I think it's a bleed-over of lack of patience from my adolescence.
What? I'm not able to play like Jimi Hendrix or Slash straight away? Well, fuck! I must lack talent.
And that self-imposed stigma stuck for well over twenty years...
I have lost track of how many times I've been asked if I'm a musician, what instrument I must play, or the name of my band. Seriously. All on account of the fact I have long hair, some tattoos, and a few trinkets. A judgment made based strictly on my appearance, and assumptions like that are a sickness.
Of course my father's convinced I have the ability if I'd just set my mind to it. He tells me I need to get over being self-conscious. Almost every time we talk, this somehow comes up.
"No child of mine is without musical ability," he says. "And especially not the first of my loins."
Well, lately, I've wondered. Even kicked around the idea. Apparently, when I decide I want to do something, it seems the only thing that prevents me from doing it is if I decide I no longer want it. At least that's the general observation. Although, it is said generalizations can be dangerous. Even and especially this one.
I could covet the banjo I got for my companion a few years back, since we're both left-handed, but that would be impolite. A guitar springs to mind. It would be kind of fun to do acoustic blues. I could even fashion a slide from a wine bottle's neck. With a guitar, if I learned, I could go to the locos jam and do more than just watch, even though I like to watch.
However, I guitar is not really speaking to me. Neither is a banjo. What does is a sitar.
Yes, a sitar. I'm sure one of my oldest and dearest friends would say this is a case of me being different just to be different, and sometimes I just can't help myself. Although I'd could mention George Harrison played the Sitar, and I like cats like Prem Joshua and the elder and daughter Shankar.
Here's the one I want;
http://www.amazon.com/Mid-East-Sitar-Lefty-Standard/dp/B0009IC3HQ
Only four-hundred fifty in paper-yes, I rounded up. I have already let my daughter know that Father's Day is coming up, and this is on the list. She gets an allowance, after all. The prospect does intrigue me, even if I don't have the paper for it.
Well, not yet...
What? I'm not able to play like Jimi Hendrix or Slash straight away? Well, fuck! I must lack talent.
And that self-imposed stigma stuck for well over twenty years...
I have lost track of how many times I've been asked if I'm a musician, what instrument I must play, or the name of my band. Seriously. All on account of the fact I have long hair, some tattoos, and a few trinkets. A judgment made based strictly on my appearance, and assumptions like that are a sickness.
Of course my father's convinced I have the ability if I'd just set my mind to it. He tells me I need to get over being self-conscious. Almost every time we talk, this somehow comes up.
"No child of mine is without musical ability," he says. "And especially not the first of my loins."
Well, lately, I've wondered. Even kicked around the idea. Apparently, when I decide I want to do something, it seems the only thing that prevents me from doing it is if I decide I no longer want it. At least that's the general observation. Although, it is said generalizations can be dangerous. Even and especially this one.
I could covet the banjo I got for my companion a few years back, since we're both left-handed, but that would be impolite. A guitar springs to mind. It would be kind of fun to do acoustic blues. I could even fashion a slide from a wine bottle's neck. With a guitar, if I learned, I could go to the locos jam and do more than just watch, even though I like to watch.
However, I guitar is not really speaking to me. Neither is a banjo. What does is a sitar.
Yes, a sitar. I'm sure one of my oldest and dearest friends would say this is a case of me being different just to be different, and sometimes I just can't help myself. Although I'd could mention George Harrison played the Sitar, and I like cats like Prem Joshua and the elder and daughter Shankar.
Here's the one I want;
http://www.amazon.com/Mid-East-Sitar-Lefty-Standard/dp/B0009IC3HQ
Only four-hundred fifty in paper-yes, I rounded up. I have already let my daughter know that Father's Day is coming up, and this is on the list. She gets an allowance, after all. The prospect does intrigue me, even if I don't have the paper for it.
Well, not yet...
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