Good Idea: A Butcher Knife to the Gut

This is a thought piece on what a good idea is and whether you should act on it. Probably the key thing to most decisions is: Is it a good idea? Do I think it's a good idea? Is my thinking generally in line with what is socially accepted as yielding good ideas? (Not that I care all that much about social acceptance, but it's the same standard they use in deciding whether you go to prison or not.)

When we get done here, let me assure you, we will have a wonderful result, something vague enough that I can leave the decision up to you, thereby keeping me from complicity in any crimes you choose to commit based on what you read here about something being a good idea or not. To read further is to hold me free and harmless of complicity in any misuse of this teaching that you may be guilty of, now or in the future, world without end, Amen. Please keep reading, though, because maybe there'll be a mention of sex.

OK, there is an enemy you have. You've had it. You're fed up. You've reached your limit. You're at the breaking point. It's either him or me. Someone must die. What's this?! A butcher knife! An idea is born. I will take the butcher knife, you think, and (step-by-step thinking ensues) I will push the thing into his gut! No one will ever know! So the idea is hatched, the step-by-step thinking is through...

Here you are now with the butcher knife. Strop, strop, strop, sharpening it. There your enemy is! You creep up ... You see your opportunity ... You lift the knife ... There's a look of terror on his face ... When instead of going through with the stabbing, you drop the knife to the floor.

This is a critical juncture. Because it's still not too late. It was a good idea originally. Why not snatch up the knife and carry out the deed? You're thinking to yourself, It was a good idea to kill him 5 minutes ago, it's a good idea now.

You retrieve the dreadful butcher knife. There's no need to strop it; it's still sharp enough. Your enemy comes into view again, somehow oblivious to the noise and commotion and indecisiveness just displayed. His previous look of terror must have been gas. You can thank your lucky stars you have this opportunity to carry through with it. What a horrible enemy he's been. Anyway, you're doing him a favor, in a sense, dispatching him to his heavenly reward a little sooner than he's expecting.

Again, you creep up. You lift that terrible blade of judgment. You're strong. You're decisive. You've made your peace with the world; the enemy has to die! When -- and this is a key point -- you think back to the good idea of just 5 minutes ago, the second idea, that you would not carry through with it. Thinking to yourself, echoing the earlier decision, If not killing him was a good idea 5 minutes ago, it's still a good idea now. Good ideas are sometimes like that, what can you do?

You go home and have wild sex, the knife now at the bottom of the North Skunk River.

New Year: Circle The Wagons

Friends, I've taken a big step for myself. After all these years of being at everyone's mercy, being tugged and pulled, rather relentlessly, and being all things to all people, I've resolved at long last to "Circle the Wagons." From this point forward, everything changes. I'm going to make soul progress, find my perfect place.

This is a rather personal, spiritual statement, I realize. But having spilled my guts so often on the blog as to my dissatisfaction and dissolution, I feel it helpful also to note my progress, the things that will make for satisfaction and perhaps even healing. Maybe it will be of benefit to others also deciding to Circle the Wagons. I feel I owe everyone that chance.

The Wagons is my term for That Realm above. According to sources, you can profitably visualize it directly at the top of your head proper, or, as I've chosen, between two and four inches above the head. The connector, as it were, is said not to be merely imaginary, but an actual (unseen with the eyes) channel of the subtle currents of the body. Being seen in artwork as a circle made up of petals, and everything in wonderful order, containing currents/energy, those are my "Wagons," not just unconsciously but consciously Circled. Protecting and providing.

Sounds weird, I know. But, seriously, you wouldn't expect me to carry on the way I've been, not if I can make things better, whether it's weird or not. I look at it this way: Either you've got the tail wagon the dog or the dog wagon the tail. It's not just a case of six-of-one half-dozen-of-the-other; it makes a difference to the dog who's wagon who. If the tail's wagon the dog, the dog could end up permanently propped against a tree, the elimination instinct never satisfied. Whereas if the dog's wagon the tail, he'll pee and get on with his day. My dad used to say, "Piss or get off the pot," and that's good enough for me.

There is, however, a time for everything. Who knows the adjustments we go through? When it's mid-year, I might be mired down with the tail wagon the dog. But New Year is a time for a new start, and hopefully with a determined follow-through it will be so. And so, let it be stated: From hence forth, from this day, this dog's wagon the tail, the Wagons being decidedly Circled! I believe it shall be done.

I started it this morning, visualizing a thousand (alternately 10,000) Wagons in a perfect circular arrangement, a lot like in old westerns, holding off the slings and arrows -- mostly arrows -- of the enemy. "I am impervious behind my Circle of Wagons! No man -- regular guy or savage -- can pierce this line, this Circle!" (If you remember one of my earlier resolutions -- I believe it was 2009 -- I had much the same scenario, except it was based on the Gingerbread Man ("Can't touch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"), but this time I hope to keep it. And, frankly, I like a Circle of Wagons more than 10,000 Gingerbread Men; that daily suggestion led to substantial weight gain.)

There are wonderful truths at work here, much like Horatio or someone said in Shakespeare, "Something something something dreamed of in heaven and earth." Right there's the validation, all the validation I need, to press on, Circling the Wagons, and having all the defense/offense I need ... for January 1, January 2, January 3, and beyond.

My Comeback Special

Pix of me recreating Elvis' Guitar Man production number

It's been terrible being homeless and broke. I've always had trouble in my life, of course, but nothing like what came from the "Share This Empty Wallet" curse. The Curse Blob took away everything I had, short of the clothes on my back and a few incidentals. I found that life's a bitch, a real bastard. But it also reminded me a lot about myself, the stuff you don't think of till you're down and out. One pleasant surprise I got was, I'm still an incredibly fast runner, given a drumstick in good enough condition and a camp of emaciated bums on my tail. Age hasn't slowed me down.

Among the other things I learned, or was reminded of was, This is no way to live. Which is why I spent some time looking deeply into myself to find a way back. Curse or no curse! And for me, there's one constant, one source of strength and renewal, as true now as when I was 5-years-old, Elvis Presley. Just the sight of Elvis, or the sound of his voice, or being reminded of his great songs and movies, is all I need. If push came to shove, I could literally hulk out over Elvis, OK?

Then I started thinking of the '68 Comeback Special, and immediately set out after my own comeback. In one of the hobo jungles I traded a moldy (albeit well-scraped) donut for a guitar and took off. Standing at the edge of town I sang a plaintive, "Nothingville," bidding a fond farewell to my "rat's race-snail's pace" hometown. Middle finger up, "Sayonara, suckers!" Because it took me a while to get a ride, I lapsed into Three Dog Night's "Easy To Be Cruel," an old hitchhiking tradition of mine since the '70s.

Going all the way from the upper Midwest to Mobile, Alabama, is one ambitious hitchhike. But it had to be done for the sake of my comeback. I had so many rides with oversexed tubby men -- my least favorite variety among sexual opportunities -- that I stopped in this one joint for a decent rendezvous with the ladies. They immediately saw I had the old Presley swagger on and were on me, me encouraging them with "Let Yourself Go." "Cool it, baby, you ain't got no place to go, just put your arms around me real-tight, Enjoy yourself, baby, don't fight. All you gotta do is just ... let yourself go." Ummm! That's the sweet spot, baby.

I got stuck along the way and needed to pick up a few bucks. I've done this before -- such as with Manpower -- and you never know what you're going to get. This time I met this big bastard at a bar, who told me to come over and move some boxes for him. When I say "bastard," I know bastards very well. This guy was treating his lady badly, very typical stuff, but something that still gets me. My inner-Elvis, naturally, was riled up and I ended up in a no-holds-barred fight with "Big Boss Man." "Well, you ain't so big! You just tall, that's all!"

But it turned out his lady saw more of a future with the big boss man than a guitar man like me, even though I sought to convince her with "It's Hurts Me." "It hurts me to see him treat you the way that he does. It hurts me to see you sit and cry. When I know I could be so true, if I had someone like you. It hurts me to see those tears in your eyes." I fought Big Boss Man, but the squeeze stayed behind, foolishly choosing that lunk over me. Which really did hurt me.

Anyway, I had Mobile, Alabama in mind. I would keep going -- the highways lit up through the night with headlights and taillights -- as long as I physically could. Finally, though, I had to have a decent meal, and got it by performing at this joint that also featured a stripper called Little Egypt. One look at her and I could tell why the Egyptians have had such an enduring culture. Her dance, yummy, delicious, made me think of the shifting sands and the great pyramids.

With a bit of money in my pockets as well, I thumbed my way all the way down to Mobile, Alabama, and did a couple Elvis gigs at a club they call Big Jack's. Reflecting on my challenges since the Empty Wallet Curse, I came to embody my "Trouble." "You're looking for trouble, you come to the right place. You're looking for trouble, just look in my face. I was born standing up and talking back. My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack. Because I'm evil, my middle is misery. Yeah, I'm evil .... So don't you mess around with me." I do this real sultry pronunciation of evil like "Evolll," sneering my lip up real cool.

So that's how it went. I didn't need to be there forever. I just had to know I'd been there, I'd made the full pilgrimage. By the time I got home, I knew I'd have the answer. It worked for the original (and there's only one) Elvis Presley, my hero, my spirit guide, and possibly my true father, on the off chance that my mother met him in 1952, which she didn't. She was in the same room with Elvis, backstage in 1956, but by then I was already 3.

The Guitar Man was headed back home, awaiting his answer. Cue the music, "Also Sprach Zarathustra," for a new day's at hand! My comeback's nearly complete!

Newsletter -- Today America!

TODAY AMERICA, TOMORROW THE WORLD! -- Well, friends, I've finally done it, swept across America with my blog. It's been a long time coming, but like everything worth having, it was worth the wait. I remember a few years back when they said it couldn't be done, I took my famous vow of chastity until it happened, and now, thanks to you, it's time to let it go.

OK, I'm back.

And the real amazing thing -- among many amazing things -- about this is, I'm just one local guy. But in America, guess what, that's all it takes. One measly guy, one nobody, one big fat goose-egg zip like me, if truth be told the lowest of the low, not amounting to spit, and worthy, truly, to be ground to powder under the scrawniest weakling's feet, but now look at me. I'm the same guy, but this is America!

I remember hearing how even Abraham Lincoln started out like me. In fact he had it worse in some ways. He had to read by the light of a fireplace, I had a flashlight. He got up everyday and split rails, the worst I had were split ends. He was so dumb a little girl had to tell him to grow a beard. My face has a perpetual stubble no one likes to see, and these days you don't get letters from little girls; he was lucky to be elected, given the scandal. But he did get elected, and now it's my turn.

I've been holding off on the big word till it was complete. If you look at the map above, you can see the dots now cover the entire country, the lower 48. (The results of Alaska aren't in, because it's so vast, and I'm not trying very hard for Hawaii, because there's barely enough room for dots.) Each of those dots means at least one person -- "at least" means they could represent thousands -- is not only reading my blog but perhaps loving it. I'm guessing on that.

Just wait till they get word that there's a newsletter in the works -- with subscriptions about to be available -- and I'll be so popular I'll probably end up with my own podcast. Which will be very awesome, but I'll probably have to hire staff to do it for me. Being a nobody, my voice isn't that great for radio, kind of a scratchy, raspy, croaking noise, plus I've got a cough that very quickly becomes a nasty hacking.

I've kept my American stats quiet, as I said, but I've mentioned my foreign stats a few times. Interestingly enough, the countries I'm most popular in are kind of weird, Russia and the Ukraine. Which makes me nervous, because I have a hard time picturing them identifying with me. To tell the truth, I think they're using my site for some kind of [shenanigans]. I have my suspicions and fear for my life.

Among the other countries, I seem to be the King of France, since that's one of my biggest countries. I hope that's true, because I'd hate to see the French go down the same path as the Russians and the Ukes. France is big for me, and a few years ago I had a hit from Mauritius. Is that what it's called? That was 2010. I don't know what happened but I haven't noticed them since.

Anyway, thank you, world. And a big huge thank you, America. You did me right. I stood by you, now you're standing by me. I said the Pledge of Allegiance all those years ago, and since then I've taken part in other patriotic exercises, namely, listening to the Star Spangled Banner on sports broadcasts. I've heard a few good versions and a bunch of bad ones. That's a pet peeve. What's so damned hard about standing there, arms at your side, and singing a modest, respectful version of the Anthem? All this caterwauling and substituting different notes for the right notes -- I'm a liberal, but I'm aghast...

Speaking of 2010, a few of my long time supporters will remember when my success started, when I won the Gorton Fisherman Award for Writing Excellence for 2010. Something as modest as that got the ball rolling! A few here, then a few there, sat up and took notice. And I kept eating Gorton frozen fish, which is good brain food, and running with every silly idea I could think of to blog about, and as things went along, I started seeing much bigger success. And ever since I've had much bigger fish to fry.

Stand with me! USA! USA! USA! With a shout out to Mauritius, call me. And France. And the other countries, the Ukes, whoever they may be and whatever no good they may be up to, along with the Ruskies, which seems just weird. Stand with me! And you know, with "Bob" Dobbs as my witness, I'll stand by you. Until global warming, climate change, and the rising tides overtake our great land, which, God willing, we'll recognize before it's too late. Even if the jig's up, at least they'll still be able to play the blame game as their last gambit -- "Those damned liberals, why'd they have to send out Al Gore as their messenger; we would've listened to anyone but him, we really would've..." Hollow, folks.

No, I'm not part of that number. I'm part of the good side, the side that says ... at this point, what can you say? We made our bed, now we have to lie in it. That's no lie. That's my biggest fear. Someday all those places that are now covered with dots, my readers, will be uninhabitable, and I'll be back to what I started out as, a guy in the beautiful Midwest, which by then will be overrun with refugees.

Go Whole Hog!

My family's philosophy when I grew up was, Anything worth doing is worth doing whole hog. Go long, go deep, or go home. Lukewarm doesn't cut it, we'll spew you out of our mouth.

Now I'm old, and kids come to me for advice. (It's true, here and there you find stragglers.) And I tell them, much like Joseph Campbell's "Follow your bliss," whatever it is, go whole hog! They look at me, with doubt in their big innocent Walter Keane eyes. But I get a stern look on my face, and in my agitation point toward the door, snarling, "Now!"

I've been going whole hog all my life, and except for the dangers of always being ALL IN, it's been a fairly good ride.

But, let me say, I used to have a secret grudge against some in my family. Even though we believed in going whole hog -- and this is literal -- I'd still catch them buying half an animal. Know what I mean? That's one of three things: Shortsightedness, absentmindedness, or hypocrisy. I don't think it was hypocrisy, because they still went whole hog in everything else.

I'd think, "What's the use of buying half a hog or beef? Especially if it means letting the other half go to waste. Buy the whole thing!" And lockers back then were meant to handle the whole thing. These were people who went through the Depression. When times were good they built meat lockers like you wouldn't believe, the size of football fields.

In more recent years, though, as you'd probably guess, some of our sicklier friends stopped eating vast quantities of meat, and that didn't help. Guys at the locker threw up their hands and went out of business. The enormous freezer units were pulled out -- electricity also went up, taxes went up on the larger buildings, etc. Leading me to one conclusion: Life is nothing but a big conspiracy to screw us out of decent sized meat lockers.

There were still folks who needed lockers -- thank God -- but they had to do with smaller ones. My family, I regret to repeat, had a part in this devolution, buying half an animal when a full animal would've been better.

You never know what your actions might be if you don't go whole hog. But I've seen it happen. That's one of the benefits of old age. The wisdom of going whole hog. The chief detriment is they think you're crazy, depriving themselves.

A long-haired (bald on top) guy marches around the square with a protest sign, "Buy the whole animal." But across the lawn, a bunch of PETA women are stripped naked and painted like tigers. You tell me, who draws the crowd? The old man can do nothing but go home in tears. That, and prepare himself for even smaller lockers. Tell you what I'll do, I'll double down on buying personal freezers, energy crisis be damned!

Sorry I went on and on about it. There's very few things I care passionately about; meat lockers just happens to be one of them.

Anyway, people come to me. And that's what I say, Go whole hog. The ironic thing is, I myself have never ventured very far from my old comfort zone. But when I chose this path, I went whole hog. And so here I've been, in my comfort zone, at my grandparents' old place, vegetating and chilling, chilling and vegetating, but always doing it, strictly, whole hog.

Vigor Vivus Makes Absolute Horse Sense

I sincerely believe my posts on Vigor Vivus, the active principle of life in a person at its utmost quality, are what I was born to write. I'm always touched, in return, by the many cards, letters, emails, comments, smoke signals, tweets, and proposals for marriage I get. Your kind remarks mean so much to me, more than you know, although, as you would guess, I cannot answer each one, as I hate wasting time and money. But be assured, I take them into account in later posts. Today, for example, is an answer to someone who suggested that the horse, foremost in the animal world, is the personification of Vigor Vivus. I completely agree!

It's been three months, meaning it's time to check my Vigor Vivus levels. That's a great discipline, by the way, in case you've let yours go. Seriously, I don't think there's anything better you can do for yourself, be it a yearly physical, flu shots, or monthly prostate exams. Or be it going to church, furthering your education, taking care of your family, being kind to neighbors, donating to charity, adopting orphans, buying winning lottery tickets, praying for China, or stopping after you've been in an accident and/or yielding for the ambulance. Vigor Vivus is Number 1. I for one have kept up on mine, and I have to say, I feel healthy as a horse.

I can't think of any horse I've ever known that's been sick. They gallop right along, right through life, living in the sunshine, in the hay, in the clover, feeling their oats, staying frisky, raring back with cussedness, with nary a saddle sore. It's their spirit that leads us to handle them right, keep them groomed, tend their stalls, and never leave them to suffer without provender. I've always believed, and I've reiterated it a thousand times: The horse, foremost in the animal world, is the exact personification of Vigor Vivus, its express image.

Part of my discipline with Vigor Vivus goes back to my own upbringing. Also recalling the horse, Mom would brush me down, and of course Dad kept me trotting to accomplish some little task or other, both teaching me good values for riding tall. They were great and didn't nag much, raising me from the small pony boy I was to the full grown man I am today. I also owe it to them, the desire and ability I have today, to teach others, you. You can thank my parents, regrettably now deceased.

Without Vigor Vivus, the great life principle, the source of psychological and physical health, I'd be nothing. Yes, without it, I might stumble along, probably, well enough for a while. Just like the horse might stumble along, were it a lesser animal, but not win the race. You know the drill; it'd be in last place, going downhill, then kaput, fizzzt, like a wire shorted out. Am I right?

We must never forget Vigor Vivus' dreadful yet very real opposite. There's a scale that goes from the life principle, devolving to its opposite, Rigor Mortis. And even in Vigor Vivus, Rigor Mortis is still there in some quantity, however minute. That why we can say so-and-so has greater Vigor Vivus and how we can say there is a scale. The life principle can be lose the lead and Rigor Mortis can gallop ahead. God forbid! But that explains how a Hercules, Samson, or Jack LaLanne can die at peak health.

Would you like pointers on checking your Vigor Vivus level? If you say no, you either know how, or your levels are so low you're hopelessly lost in Rigor Mortis. I have a good discipline on how to do it. Put on some soft music or something with a good message. This morning I went with the old song by Tony Bellus, "Robbin' the Cradle." With the great lyrics, "They say I'm robbin' the cradle, little darling. Is it strange for true love to be so young?" Very inspiring. As that played a few times I sat quietly, head above, body below. For a while I closed my eyes, then opened them. Then one eye closed and the other open. Then switched. Last of all, I scratched any itch. Which, my mom always reminded me, horses also do, making a big production out of it, rubbing it against trees.

A very important part is to move thoughts around in my head. Move them to the left, then to the right, then distribute them back to their place. These are mental movements, you understand. There's hundreds of them. Any image with motion, any real life correlate, is useful. You might think of reining in a wayward, excited horse, and keeping it in a small pen to let it cool down. Whatever you do to check Rigor Mortis, Vigor Vivus pays off greatly, sometimes 40 to 1.

Vigor Vivus! Win, place, or show, it's all good. That's all I got today, no mare, no less. All of it making great horse sense.


Other great Vigor Vivus teachings:
My Vigor Vivus Health Plan
The Dawn of Vigor Vivus
Teens Reject Rigor Mortis
Vigor Vivus -- I Command the World
Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Your Basic Problem is Rigor Mortis
Unveiling the March of Vigor Vivus
The Unremitting Shield of Vigor Vivus
Vigor Vivus at the Dentist
Teen Talk: Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Rigor Mortis Nix, Vigor Vivus Best Way
Bin Laden Mortis vs. Obama Vivus
"For Entertainment Purposes Only." Added at the recommendation of a doctor friend.

Little Old Fantastic Me Strikes Again

I'm remaking society in my own image. Isn't that great! Always thinking, always tinkering with things behind the scenes. Very nefarious, potentially, but always meant, strictly, for good.

On Twitter I've become something of a wild man, casting away all the norms of propriety, and I've struck out on my own. I whittled my "likes" down from something like 3,500 to 40. Making everyone crazy, no doubt. But to me it's fantastic, giving me something manageable to work with. Feeling great. I currently have 81.155555 times more followers than folks I follow, meaning I'm in huge demand, for once in my life.

Lest you think that's simply vain, let me assure you, it's not. Because in my way of thinking, this means I'm on to something, not being content merely to rest on my laurels. Instead, I'm contributing to world progress, happiness, and peace. After all, the more content you are, the more you are able to contribute in positive ways. I continue it today, through my peaceful writings.

You remember my post yesterday, to give an example, how I re-imagined what driving (traffic) could be like, virtually heaven on earth, if only we had something like a commandant/peon system, people like me being the commandants, with freer access to the roads, and peons like 81.15555% of the population, with more restricted access. I came up with that!

Then, as I recall, I also imagined the same commandant/peon system for the adoption of children and pets, both. That's radical, yes, and entirely level-headed at the same time. You can see the efficiency, and dare I say compassion, of such a system in an instant. What I'll be thinking of next, even I don't know. I only know I'm always thinking. And using tricks to jog my memory of everything I haven't thought of yet. See that? That's radical! And level-headed at the same time.

I can tell you a few of my mental tricks, things that give me the edge.

1) Tarot cards. When I get up in the morning, after having about a half cup of coffee, I shuffle the major arcana of my deck and draw a card. Let's say one morning I get the "Temperance" card. Every time I look at it I think of something new. There's a big angel with one foot in the water and one foot out. I'm always secretly hoping the lobster from "The Moon" card might come over and pinch his toe. Put those two cards together and you'd have something!

2) Meditation. One of the things I used to think was ideal was for meditation to empty your mind. Since I could never manage that, I went hog wild the other way. When I'm meditating -- and my exact routine is top secret -- I'm forever delving into some new way to enhance society and make humanity happier. My latest project involves Republicans and guillotines, but I haven't yet fully perceived the fullness of the ultimate goal. Only time, more meditation, and the availability of guillotines will tell!

3) Miscellaneous reading. I pick up at least 25 different books every week, intending to read each one. But I never get far, because the next one always looks more interesting. In this way I never actually finish a book, but I learn everything you can learn from the first 10-15 pages. This generalized smattering of knowledge doesn't do me a lot of good, but in guessing what I might have missed, I think of unexpected things. One plan I came up with for society is stocking the world's libraries with only the first 15 pages of each title, because the library would then be able to hold 100s more books. And if you get them on Kindle, the free sample usually covers the first 15 pages, so it's super cheap learning!

Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me! Which I've adopted as a daily affirmation, reading precisely like that: "Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me, little old fantastic me!"

People in Chains

At the risk of inflaming an already troubled world, I have a few comments to make. Further, I know I am putting this blog and my reputation at risk as well. For I have very sensitive readers, most of whom have told me time and time again that anything that rocks the boat doesn't sit well with them. In other words, they've threatened to "hit the doors" if I ever say anything evenly the slightest bit controversial, in anger and rage abandoning me out of revenge.

But I shall be bold. I've weighed all the different factors -- and others I'm too afraid to list -- and have decided, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." If my readers, precious in my sight though they be, are so super sensitive, so supercilious, to anything that even might rock their world, and however slightly at that, are they really worth having? In that case I'm as much in chains as the poor folks seen in my illustration.

Anyway, being bold, here's my sincere contention, Everyone's got something going on, some problem, let's say, something that's holding them down. It may be a complex, a behavior, a predisposition, a habit, or longings, not yet acted on but enslaving them every bit as much. I will simply lay it on the line: I feel sympathy for them and want their lives to be better, to enhance them as much as I can, if I can.

I will make a few comments on each one, expressing myself in sympathy and grace, thankful that it's not me, for There but for the grace of God go I.

Let's go left to right. The older lady's chain is LUST. I've known several people on the chain of lust, true story. They're always on the make, sniffing the air for whatever opportunities there might be to get their jollies. As I'm given to understand, lust is a terrible taskmaster, capturing first your attention, then keeping you firmly on the hook until you've gone the full mile demanded. For the lady here, as sad as it is to say, there's no turning back. She will either grab the guy next to her, RUDE as he is, or the PRIGGISH guy. Who, being PRIGGISH, might put up quite a fight.

Then there is RUDE. I really hate it when people are RUDE. Their biggest thing is they've given up on human sympathy. See the connection? If you have sympathy for other folks, you will bend over backwards to understand them and to accommodate them. But being RUDE is to show a lack of sympathy, showing itself by acting mean. Have I ever been RUDE to someone? This is something that, yes, I have done. But my sympathy is such that it's never gone on for long. I get over it very fast.

PRIGGISH.  I've actually been accused before of being PRIGGISH ... because I believe in clean living and I don't allow blue material on my blog. Me PRIGGISH? Ha! Let me say I'm a little turned on by the lady in the pink dress. The little BORED kid looks like she could almost be my daughter -- if Pink and me got married, then did it, 40 years ago when I was young. I see she's MOODY, which can be good, if she's clawing cat MOODY.

HELLION - All boys are potentially little HELLIONS. I used to be a boy, and still use the HELLION attitude as a boy does. But it's never misbehavior, or used in being RUDE. I'm not a vandal or anything like that. I use the HELLION nature if I need the confidence to do something, like jump over a creek, climb over rocks and boulders, something hard. I think "I'm a boy!" and dive right in, fighting and going at it like a tornado.

MOODY - As said above, I like a certain amount of moodiness. It gets old, though, if it's constant. Variety is the spice of life. Mix your sullenness with good cheer, grumpiness with bubblyness. Keep me guessing, but not so much that I'm perplexed.

BORED - Little girl, why would you be bored? You have your whole life ahead of you. You know next to nothing about anything. Everyday should be a day of excited discovery for you. I want to see you bouncing around, going from one project to the next. Let's set you up with finger painting activities, kite flying, origami, reading cool books at the library, and going to various fun outings -- touring museums, theme parks, and going on trail rides. As for theme parks, though, I'm BORED by them, so I'd skip that. 

I'm More Than My Squarish Body

Jane is often invited to visit groups and give talks at meetings. Most people are interested in her squarish body and features. That's all understandable enough, of course, since who isn't curious about anyone with something immediately different about them? But she also wants all of us to realize that she's more than her squarish body. She is not a zoological specimen, pinned to a black mat under glass, only to be labeled, "Squarish."

In regard to the differences people have -- when I heard her talk before a church group -- she said she'd recently had the opportunity to meet a guy with three ears. His two ears are naturally in the ordinary places, but, due to a developmental issue, he has a third ear in the middle of his forehead. Not as great as eyes on the back of your head, but still distinctive. She says he gave a talk on himself and took questions, and was able to hear even the most soft-spoken folks in the back of the room.

"He saw me sitting there," she said, "with my squarish body, and it seemed like he was wondering about me. But probably because of his third ear, his own difference, he wasn't fast to blurt it out. I would say I was probably the most accepting person there of him and his third ear."

In the course of her talk, Jane said that way back in the old days, kids in school were merciless. But now with everyone grown up, she gets a more sympathetic reception. I nodded, because I had issues as a kid, too, like lots of kids, but now I'm Sympathy Personified. I wanted to give her an "Attagirl," but those kinds of extraneous comments are frowned upon by the group, which has to hear my comments every week but only has this one shot to hear a woman with a squarish body.

Anyway, she said she's given this same talk numerous times, in schools, for civic organizations, and even for coffee clubs and in prisons. She varies it -- which is all very understandable -- for the group hosting her. "School children do a lot of staring, but of all the people, they're the closest to true understanding. One little roundish boy told me, 'You were born squarish, I was born roundish!' I needed kids like that when I was a kid!"

When it came time for questions, I thought, Should I ask her something about her experience with a squarish body, or something more process-oriented? I actually know better, I swear, but I went with the process question and amazingly got a squarish body answer: "Do you like giving these talks?" I believe she picked up on what I was getting at: Why subject yourself to this kind of carnival, the whole thing highlighting, really, what is extraneous to your basic humanity, your shape?

She gave me the usual rigamarole mumbo-jumbo answer you might expect. She knows people are curious, etc., and she has nothing to be ashamed of... I'm looking like, "Yeah, but..." Then she got down to brass tacks, and I believe I perceived an underlying hatred of the whole process, when she said, "My biggest problem with it is I think of myself as normal, just another person. And since I'm more than a person with a squarish body, sometimes I wonder why I'm dwelling on that one thing. Does that make sense?" I nodded, and she declared, "I'm much more than my squarish body. Just like the other guy is more than his third ear."

I felt pretty good with her answer. Although I got a dirty look from our group's leader. Since I'd very clearly subverted the whole session, bringing forth from her a proud proclamation that she's more than her squarish body, the very reason we were sitting there listening to her. We dismissed in shame and rolled our roundish bodies home.

I've Always Been Impotent

The older you get, the more you reflect on your life. What has it all been worth? What have I really accomplished? Is there anything left to be done? Or, like the wise men of old, like Socrates, should I simply be content to live out my years with whatever happiness life affords?

I can certainly tell you -- after bitter years of endless striving, most of it apparently pointless -- that the world as a whole doesn't think much of me. Just the other day there was an article in the paper, full page, about all the impotent men of history who've visited or lived in our town. The only ones I can remember now were Jesse James and Jack Benny. But they're great examples. Jack Benny was a funny guy back in his day. And Jesse James was one hell of a criminal. Of the two, obviously both were impotent, but I think it's a shame that we pay homage to a skunk like Jesse James. While I'm sitting here ... overlooked.

I don't mean I'm angry about being overlooked. Really, who cares? The glory of the world is so fleeting that it's meaningless. "What have you done for me lately? More, more, more! You must be this high to be ride the roller coaster, with all its ups and downs!" The world's glory is not worth having. And that gives me a great deal of peace of mind. Because I can do exactly what I want without striving. Like everyone else -- everyone with wisdom -- I can hide in my home, hoping that modern day skunks of the Jesse James stripe don't get me. Or identity thieves at Target.

Don't get me wrong. There's plenty of good impotent people out there still. Forgive me if I don't give examples. Our society is so polarized that no one can agree on anything. Like global warming. Yes, it might kill us but we're going to be obstinate. We can only be thankful that hurricanes, tornadoes, mudslides, and house fires have a long established legacy, lest our stupider fellow citizens deny their existence and we all die tomorrow.

I spoke of my age. I have a birthday coming up in the next few months, at which point I'll be over 60. Pretty old, huh? It is, but with years comes wisdom. Especially with someone of my intelligence (I have called myself "The Brain" on more than one occasion). A big part of that wisdom is simply the intelligence to be content with myself. To tune out the rest of the world, as much as possible. And accept it -- even insist on it -- that to me I am the most impotent man in the world! There, I've said it.

I don't read celebrity news, gossip columns, or watch red carpet bullshit like Joan Rivers and her daughter, Dick Clark (RIP), or Ryan Seacrest. To me, Rona Barrett and Kitty Carlisle are just has-been, dried up prunes and I don't care what they say. The world's A-list of VIPs, to me, are just a bunch of nothing. And the only autographs I want are on the signature line of a check. To me, none of them has any impotence beyond simply their impotence as a human being in their own right.

This mindset is of great help to me. I recommend it. The Very Impotent Person of the absolute greatest impotence is me -- me, myself, I. I will go where I want, I will do what I want, I will drink what I want, I will hoard incandescent light bulbs if I want, and I will take in stray animals and eat as I choose. In short, when I look for "What's impotent?" and "Who's impotent?" I will never look anywhere beyond myself.

Plus, now I can look back and declare, I've always been impotent ... I just never knew it!

I Caught Myself Nodding

Yesterday, I began reading a self-help book at the library. It doesn't matter what it is, I need all the help I can get. Going along, I caught myself nodding in total agreement: "Yes! Yes! Yes!" How is it that I myself didn't come up with these everyday, commonsense understandings of the situation at hand? It'd seem that almost anyone could write such things. The fact that it resonated so much with me, and indeed I was very enthusiastic, means any old idiot could've come up with something as good.

So let's say I have an idea for a great self-help book, "How to Read a Self-Help Book," and want to get it published. Would the publisher say, "That's a great idea, here's the money," or offer me some lame excuse, such as, "The very nature of self-help books, being the easily grasped truths of daily life packaged as grand principles, is that they're already easy enough to read. You feel you're benefiting from them even though they're merely telling you what you already know." ?

OK, if that's their final answer, Screw Them (!), I'll just publish the pointers on my blog ... free of charge. And then I'll stand back and receive the payoff. The only payoff I need is this: If I can help just one person -- just one person -- then I will have helped everyone who reads these posts from start to finish. Which, I hate to say it, is actually me, since not only do I write everything here, I also proofread it a couple times. So it's to my own personal benefit to remind myself of things I already know. For me, that's royalties enough!

Here then are a few of the pointers on "How to Read a Self-Help Book":

There's no need to read every word -- Skim it. You're not reading it for pleasure. But for one of the following reasons: 1) You feel desperate in that area; or, 2) You want to enhance what you already know. The self-help books we read are always about things we already know. But it's true, you can feel desperate. Please don't. Life has its ups and downs. Take a break, a breather, maybe a nap. Work through your problems one by one, the hardest stuff first. Be deliberate and disciplined, maintaining a calm assurance that everything will be all right. Look at it this way: They barely execute mass murderers, you're likely to live through it!

Scan the book before starting -- Is it a lot of everyday illustrations masquerading as profound truth? Do they mention the profundities of the Wizard of Oz on every other page? You already know that. Are their principles based on the great success of Warren Buffett? Skip those pages. Warren Buffett's already bought everything and you're not likely to be in his will. Be very discerning. When you get really good at this, eventually you'll be reading nothing but the cover and the blurbs on the back. But beware of the blurbs on the back. These are usually other self-help writers scratching the back of the author, knowing the author will one day scratch theirs.

Ignore any practical exercises -- Practical exercises, pausing 20 minutes to take stock of your life, and this and that, all that bullshit, are the book equivalent of breaking into groups with strangers at conferences and seminars. No one likes doing it. It's worthless. Plus, it's awkward and uncomfortable, at least the way I do it. It sucks to be elected "scribe," who then has to stand up and tell your group's "findings." There's two basic problems with "findings." 1) It's likely another reporting group will steal your thunder, leaving you floundering and looking stupid, and, 2) The "findings" are always so obvious that you're only wasting time, giving the presenter a break. The presenter, meanwhile, is thinking, "I'm getting paid for this and we just chewed up 20 minutes!"

Perform a sacrificial ritual before reading -- I think this is an obvious pointer. In life, if you're looking for any benefit, you need to give something first. I generally see this point as a mental "putting your inner all on the altar." But if you feel the need to go beyond the mental, you could always enhance it with something more physical. Of course, cutting is always an option (which I do not recommend), or offering a pint of blood extracted from your arm by any accommodating doctor. For something like this, however, I think it's preferable to offer up a sacrificial animal, killed according to religiously pure standards.

Read the bold print -- An author usually puts a few lines of bold print. These are like headers. They more or less sum up what follows. I've even borrowed the technique here. You will do just as well reading every other one. But please, definitely read the one about the sacrificial ritual; it's wild.

Remember the three most important words of self-help: 1) Application, 2) Application, 3) Follow through. You'll never get to your destination without the first step. And the journey of 10,000 miles is best taken by plane. Remember the famous musician Arturo Toscanini? Most people don't, but he was very big at one time. Toscanini knew music like the back of his hand. He could read most of the notes, he knew which instrument was which, and people paid good money to hear his performances. Well, one day someone -- a young aspiring musician -- asked Toscanini how to get to Carnegie Hall. I'll never forget his answer: "Look on Google Maps ... not Apple."

Our First Word, From Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

So there you have it, the first word of the New Year goes to a famous thinker of long ago, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I always like the idea of the New Year getting off to a profound start. You shouldn't just blurt out any old crap, especially on a blog like this. It needs to be classy, like when you land on the moon. The first thing should be something major.

And who better -- unless it'd be Whittier -- than Emerson? Who always had profound things to say, and he was able to say them in a 19th century way much better than I could ever manage. I actually know this, because I've started to read his essays at least 20 times. I get up to about page 12 and that's it till next time! So what little I might know about it in terms of content, I make up in my absolute knowledge that it's profound and hard to understand. Emerson has philosophical authority up the gazoot chute, forward and back.

Now, though, that the first word for the New Year has been given, and you've had some time to ruminate over it, I can write anything. First, however, I'm a little embarrassed, I haven't actually read the quote! Seriously! I googled his quotes and this was the first fairly lengthy one. I was thinking, the bigger the quote the less I myself have to write.

So let's see what it says. "Finish each day and be done with it." Maybe not a great first word, since he's talking about the end of the day and not the start. "You have done what you could." How true, how true. Emerson isn't expecting perfection, just do what you can. I need that, because it's in my nature to appear the coolest guy in the room, when, realistically, I'm not. "Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in." I can relate to that easily, big blunders, massive absurdities. "Forget them as soon as you can." Done!

"Tomorrow is a new day." I resolve tomorrow that I'll be massively competent. "You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense." I shall begin it serenely, I shall begin it serenely, I shall begin it serenely... Probably not. As for having "too high a spirit to be encumbered with [my] old nonsense," it's not true that I'm totally unencumbered with my old nonsense, but the older I get, the more I how little it matters. But that has less to do with my spirit being high and more to do with just a realistic outlook. That no one really cares.

This is pretty good progress I'm making! If I'm not mistaken, I think I halfway understood that quote. Maybe I'm just about smart enough to try and muddle through one of his essays again. Later in the year, if I'm not doing anything else.

Our Hungry Feathered Friends

I'm updating everyone on how my feeding of our feathered friends is going, which I mentioned two months ago.

I would say everything has gone apace, pretty much like you would expect. When our fine feathered friends get the taste for food, it's very hard to shake them of it, and I haven't tried! They're still here eating! All I can say is, What an appetite!

It's even starting to look like maybe I'm now the only thing between them and extinction. Because they'd probably starve quite literally to death if it weren't for me. They're all so lazy, all they do is hang out in the trees and wait for me to divvy it out. Which, as long as my health and my budget hold out, I will do. But if something happens to me, they'll probably all die. Of course I'm very proud to know I'm so necessary to nature's continuation as far as being alive, not dead.

This is my vow to our feathered friends: As long as there's a hungry feathered friend anywhere in the world, my job is not done. I don't care if it takes me to every continent, to every country, and to every city and town, and every backyard in every town, they are going to eat. And as to the food, I don't care what it costs. I'll take out loans if I have to. I'll hold fundraisers. I'll sell pancakes to the neighbors, anything to get the seed, whatever it takes.

You want to hear my lowest point in this whole thing? I had a terrible rash -- a terrible rash -- break out on my left arm, the underside. I treated it myself for a week but it kept getting worse. I put Listerine on it, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, and tons of soap, but nothing would help. Then it suddenly occurred to me. Maybe in feeding our feathered friends, I had come in contact with some kind of bacteria, the creeping crud. I said one morning, I won't feed them anymore. Because it might've gotten worse. But then I went to the doctor and he said he didn't think the feathered friends had anything to do with it. He gave me medicine and it's clearing up very well, except for some red discoloration (scarring?) that's still there.

So the upshot to that is, I didn't stop the feedings. Our feathered friends are getting their daily portions. And there's a ton of them! I want them to use the honor system, not to sit and eat more than they need, as long as others are waiting in the trees, but it's real hard to regulate.

Everyday I'm up before they are, getting the feeder filled, etc., and refreshing the water, and everyone is very very happy. I've done a lot for them, but they've also done a lot for me. They've certainly taught me the importance of breakfast, which doctors say is the most important meal of the day. That's obviously true for our feathered friends. It's so important they literally fly in for it.

I'm A Gentleman And A Scholar

I was the recipient of a rather great honor the other day. In one of the picture-sharing social-media sites where I have an account, I complimented a guy for one of his pictures, and he messaged me back, "You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar!" Read that again ... It's awesome!

Of course I was floored. I honestly never heard anything so nice, in addition to it being unexpected. I probably don't need to say it, since it's something you can obviously guess, but I've thought about his statement over and over ever since. Remember, this is a guy who's never actually met me in person, and somehow, some way, he was able to capture something of my essence and compliment me in such a great way.

Really, it affirms some of my own thoughts, even though, as they say, we're always our own worst critics. And it's true. I'm always getting on my own case about something. Maybe I left something undone, or I put off a needed task, or I let my usual perfectionism get in the way, blah blah blah. I'd love to be two separate people in those moments, at least split myself off temporarily, so I could kick my own ass. But then, whatever criticism I might offer myself, when it gets right down to it, I'm also an unabashed fan. I stand back and survey my accomplishments and think, "Good God, man, you've truly got it going on!"

But to have some other person like that, someone I complimented for a photo -- I think it was a colorful sunset, or maybe a rustic oak barrel snapped in black and white; it was something -- to just come right out and lump me together with two classes of extraordinary individuals, gentlemen and scholars, that's really quite an extraordinary honor.

Also, it actually came at a point in my life where I was feeling a little down. I have regrets about childhood. I was such a typical kid, playing outside, having a good time with friends, riding bikes, messing around at the creek, fishing, etc., that I didn't always have time for academics. Rather, I didn't take time. Looking back on it, I really wish I could've been a prodigy, like a kid they promote out of kindergarten straight to college. Brainy like that. That's a scholar!

So what was the problem? I guess the honest-to-God truth is I was very much a typical kid, with the average intelligence of a kid about my age. You could probably say I was even lagging behind where I should've been. In sixth grade I probably had the mentality of a fifth grader. Then in seventh, a sixth grader, etc. So about a year after graduation, I went, "Oh, that's what they meant in 12th grade." If I was a scholar, it was very much hidden, buried, a hidden potential.

As to being a gentleman, that was my upbringing. Saying goodbye to people when I left. Saying please and thank you when there was a pressing need, like when someone needed to get the hell out of my way and finally did. As I recall it, I always got high marks for being a gentlemanly boy, then teen, then young adult, then older adult, and now, as I am, standing at death's door. There's no reason to be a bad ass now!

OK, I thought you'd like to hear about the compliment I got. And if you have any other compliments for me -- like if you think I'm a third thing in addition to being a gentleman and a scholar, you can leave it in my comments. But what could it be? A gentleman, a scholar, a great blog writer, a friend to animals, a compassionate person to the down and out, a live wire, a coffee-lover, or all that and more!

I Pour Contempt On All My Pride

It's time for a whole new life, of course strictly applied first to myself. No more pride! Bring out the buckets of pride killer, that I may pour contempt on all my pride! From here on out, my richest gain I shall count but loss.

Realistically, I don't have that much to be proud of. And that's not the declaration, the bitter words of a guy down in the dumps, because I'm not. By any true measure, I'm on top of the world. It's just that I've suddenly realized -- call it a much needed awakening, a kick in the spiritual pants -- that pride is basically worthless. I'm saying it by proxy for everyone else, too. Forbid it, that any of us should boast!

Am I guilty of overweening pride? I sure am. Like I just said, I believe it applies to everyone but I start with myself. All the vain things truly have charmed me, along with everyone else. So much so that I was essentially blinded to it. That's a weird thing about pride. It gets hold of you and it becomes your nature, it seems natural. But then you suddenly wake up and go "Whoa!" This isn't how it should be.

At least that's what I'm discovering. I'm in the process of discovering how deep it goes. It appears to go very deep, right where you dwell, to the most central part of your being. You start struttin' like a peacock, and everyone else is gagging. So you start thinking, "Bring in the buckets!"

That's a very vivid way of putting it, "Bring in the buckets! Summon the Bucket Brigade! Fill 'em up to the very brim, the buckets! And not just the buckets, but pots and pans, too, anything that serves to hold pride killer and contempt!" This is great stuff. And how about this? Cook it, too! Cook it! Put it on the fire! Crank up the heat! Get it good and boiling! This is going to burn, it's going to scald! Sounds terrible, really, but that's what I need!

I'm making it a public thing, the rigorous dousing I'm taking. It's right here in public, something that anyone with internet access can witness. Please link to this blog post. Let me be the guy who put it out there. I might be able to inspire others to pour contempt on their pride. I'll take the first step. The pride killer and contempt is boiling hot; please, turn it up some more!

Yes, I know this is going to hurt like bloody heck. Because I have all the pans totally boiling, so they're even starting to melt a little around the edges. The handles are piping hot. You'll need two potholders to get a grasp on them. And now here goes nothing...

My pride is getting the biggest scalding of its pathetic life! The cure demands my soul, my life, my all!

I've Got The Razzle Dazzle

I completely covered the fact that my instincts are always spot on. And I believe I did justice to my contention that I always bring it. Today, just for these few moments, briefly, I want to highlight my character, and particularly the nature of what I accomplish, such as you see in my blog posts. For that, the words that come to mind, the key words, are razzle dazzle.

Other people have said it about me, this isn't just my belief or me tooting my own horn. Really, I'm just trying to catch up with the nice things that they say about me. Such as people who write me at my actual email address (give it a try!): dbkundalini AT gmail DOT com. Hope you can figure it out...

It's all quite unsolicited, the comments. But you probably know as well as I, people like to be nice. They really do. It's odd. I don't see five nice people in person on any given day, but the ones who write me are usually nice, almost always. And the ones who aren't I believe are just jealous of me.

What have I taken away from other people's comments? That I'm as effervescent as a glass of Alka-Seltzer. Now that's razzle dazzle! Have you ever had a glass of A-S? I actually haven't had any since I was a kid. Grandma used to let us kids drink all of it we wanted. We seriously would drink A-S for the fun of it. And it was good, especially when you consider we were making it with water from our own well, pure and cold.

The razzle dazzle has definitely been there for me! I agree with them! Because I stand back and look at what I do objectively. And I like what I see! It's only the coolest stuff, always with an edge, and always based on some kind of almost superhuman inspiration coming from God knows where! The process might not be pretty. I brood over it. I labor over every word, more or less. I pace myself. I don't use the phrase "of course" twice in a paragraph. That kind of pacing is always good.

So what we come out with: Let's say I'm describing a situation. It's all killer stuff, from the first little green sprouts of thought all the way to the mature tree ready to be chopped down. Really, no one can touch the razzle dazzle. And that's the way I want it to stay!

Thank you for your kind words!

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Note: I'm sorry if this post is kind of flat, lacking the razzle dazzle. I haven't been feeling well the last couple days, and today has been especially bad. Very blah.

I Always Bring It

In addition to my instincts being spot on, I'm always able to bring it. Which I'm very happy for.

It stands to reason that bringing it would have to be the next step. It's the same as delivering on your potential. It'd be vain to be able to do XYZ -- with spot on instincts -- if you somehow failed to bring it. It'd be like a delivery truck that never left the warehouse, the epitome of worthlessness.

That's not to say that sometimes I don't debate with myself exactly how I'm going to bring it. Sometimes, frankly, I don't know. Then other times, my ability to bring it is immediate and without hesitation. Of course I love those occasions, even if, honestly, sometimes afterward there's a letdown. Whereas, on those occasions where bringing it is not immediate, afterward I feel more a sense of relief than a letdown. The key thing is, whether it's immediate or with some strained labor, I always somehow manage to bring it.

I was watching a team practice their sport tonight. I wasn't watching it closely enough to know what the sport was, because I only saw it out of the corner of my eye as I drove by. But it was a mix of women and men, practicing some kind of field sport -- it might've been soccer, field hockey, lacrosse, rugby, or even football; there weren't any horses so it couldn't have been polo. In those seconds as I drove by, I wondered, "Are they bringing it?"

And if I'm being totally honest about it, I also started thinking about what they might do after practice, as sweaty bodies and raging hormones can make an interesting situation. My thoughts ran wild -- I probably should leave this part out -- and I started picturing how it'd be if they were to motion me over and attack me. It's something that might happen to Hugh Hefner, but to the rest of us ... not as often. Had that occurred, certainly I would've learned by now what their sport was, and whether they could bring it. But I drove on, alas, without noteworthy incident. I'm sure I could've brought it!

Part of the ability to bring it in a confident way is established through past success. Sometimes I review my past accomplishments and it keeps me certain that I'm going to keep bringing it. So I always know, until senility strikes, I'm likely to succeed. Again, it's not happening in a vacuum. Not only is there the past success, but the spot on instincts are working themselves out in a natural, profitable way.

What does all this mean to you? Maybe you can look to my example for your own confidence and abilities. We're not so different, you and I. Except no one had to tell me how it was done. I never had to stand on someone else's shoulders. I simply had the drive, the spot on instincts, and the ability to bring it merely followed. But that's not to say that you, with a little secondhand knowledge and a boost up, can't also attain part of that, perhaps, if you believe it can be done, maybe. Just tell yourself, "Stranger things have happened."

Being able to bring it is important to me! How about you? Bring it! Bring it! Bring it!

My Instincts Are Spot On

I really believe I live a charmed life. It's amazing. My instincts are spot on.

I've thought this so much and so long, all my life, that it was the greatest discovery to me a few years ago that not everyone has the same sense. I was like, "You mean to tell me those folks are not spot on?" And that's exactly what they meant. Which was very weird, because since my instincts are always spot on, it seems like I should've known. I'm chalking it up to some grace in my psychological make-up meant to protect me. Buddha went through the same thing. Then, finally, it was judged by Providence that I could handle the shock and my eyes were opened.

But I'm not looking for thorns in the garden of my existence. I don't think thorns would even grow in my special brand of soil. They'd be choked out by the profusion of blooms, the sprays of foliage everywhere, and the utterly bright sunshine that makes up my environment. It's all spot on. If others are damned to a bitter existence while I've known only Providence, beneficence, and the charms of life, that's their business. Enough said! I'm not even going to try to imagine the terror of their lives. I will only hope there are fewer of them in the world all the time, since the Republicans have already given us enough troubles.

Let's get back to me. And what I have. A charmed life, as I said. I just basically will a blessing, like in the twinkling of an eye, or between random breaths, and there it is, all very spot on! And along with that, enough pure-minded instinct to keep me in the sunshine of prosperity for as long as I live ... and it always seems to work. It's never failed yet.

Spot on instinct! We think of instinct as how animals do what they do. And that's a good meaning of it. A dog is born with instincts, so it barks, howls, eats dog food, and so forth. My dog Underbrush is a great example. I saw a documentary one day that said she was descended from wolves. So when I looked at her, I thought, "Down there somewhere are the instincts to tear me apart." But my instincts, being spot on, and my ability to smooth talk her, along with her routine of eating food provided by me, has thus far kept me safe. And I probably wouldn't do that much worse against an actual wolf!

An average day -- it doesn't have to be anything special -- is enough for my spot on instincts to be on display. I sleep perfectly. I fall asleep just like that. I don't wake up in unpleasant ways, like having to go to the bathroom. I have good enough sense not to drink coffee or quantities of anything before I go to bed. When I wake up, I'm ready for the day. I read the fan mail for my blog (dbkundalini AT gmail DOT com), and usually answer them with a blessing. Everyone likes to hear from me. And I appreciate all your 'Attaboys.' I enjoy three meals a day. Nothing gets me down. I check mousetraps and throw dead ones to the road. And so forth.

I hope life is always this good. My spot on instincts tell me it will be, that it has to be. There's no clouds on the horizon, not one. And I'm not expecting any. Steady as she blows! Clear sailing! Life is good, very good, when your instincts are spot on!