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.

You Were Divinely Led To My Blog Today

That's right. Today's the day. I have this weird weight in my soul, whereas you'd think it'd be incredible lightness. It's a strange burden, an overwhelming conviction I can't shake, that on this day of all days you were divinely led to my blog. What a thing! Great, isn't it? It just happened, I didn't do anything to make it happen! It's wonderful, I suppose, like the Magi.

It didn't just hit me today. I started getting a sense of it a couple days ago. I had a rumbling in my belly. Like anyone would assume, I just figured it was a problem with one of the six faces of the Rudra-linga, being out of sorts. But everything checked out fine upon examination. This was no ordinary cosmic fart, but an order to receive guests. A massive inflow.

Then yesterday I reacted badly, in prolonged doubt, imploring the heavens to find a more suitable vessel. Surely somewhere on the vast internet, already fabled in world history, there would have to be someone more worthy than me, someone who would be able to handle an influx of this kind without completely freaking out. Just the idea of it is enough to send me over the edge. Call me reluctant. But it's an honor, an honor, an honor...

I'm trying to look at it that way. What? It's one damned day, right? So far. It's not going any farther than that, surely. Because I'm not going to have the time for it. I'm here and I'm busy with my own life. The toaster hasn't been shaken out for three months. I have a mousetrap to empty. There's a small limb in the yard from the last tornado. Such devastation. It's endless.

Anyway, like it or not, today's the day. They're all here. Divinely led. It's a big deal, something not to take lightly. Heaven has opened. The Magi are breathless, they've done this before. The ordinary manger is exalted, through no fault of its own. I won't be able to walk for the press. Before the day's out, some visitor will reach out to touch me, maybe needing a leg extension to cure a limp, hoping virtue will flow from me to them. They'll be cured, maybe, and I'll be wasted. It'll be nothing to do with me personally. I keep telling myself that. I'm just writing a blog, and I usually something to offer. What a responsibility!

Unfortunately, on this day of days -- this is embarrassing -- I'm standing here empty, I've basically got nothing for you, nothing really. The whole thing is like a massive kick in the pants, it knocked the wind out of me, and I'm going blank. The more I strain my brain, the less gets through. Nothing? Something? Anything? I've been going through my notebooks, nothing. I'm watching TV, it just makes it worse. I despise sitcoms. La, la, la.

Any other day I would've been fine. That's how it is usually. I'm striding forth, with my rhetorical shitkickers on, slaying fantastic one-eyed giants, lots of piss and vinegar. But those days I'm not expecting anyone, certainly not on this scale. I don't know who comes here. No one, really. I think they've got links to me on Chinese gambling sites. They don't even read English. Why they'd come here, I don't know. Unless the Chinese gods are leading them everyday ... could that happen? Without them telling me?

I guess I should see that as a comfort. I actually prefer not knowing. Because when I know something like this, I don't really know it. I merely suspect it, then it messes up my day. I'd rather just look back and be amazed that it happened, past tense. Then I could say, At least I had a nice idea that day, the day they all showed up. Whereas, this is torture -- enhanced interrogation, I mean -- to have such a platform, divinely ordained and all, and to come up empty...

If each one of you could send me a dollar, that would really be nice.

Brady The Coroner

Here's an idea for a sitcom I sent to Hollywood, "Brady the Coroner," the life of a coroner who'd rather be doing anything but coronering.

The background is this: His grandfather was a coroner as was his father. So he felt somewhat pressured to go into coronering, he was coronered. But his true love, what he's got his heart completely fixed on, his one passion, is anything but that. He works out the conflict by living every variation of the secret life he can think of, selling antiques, being a clown at kids' parties, taking on odd jobs, etc.

The show itself has conflict, in that every time they need a coroner, our hero, Dick Brady, is hard to find, which is reflected in the theme song, sung to the tune of "Brighten the Corner Where You Are":

Brady the Coroner, where are you?
Brady the Coroner, where are you?
They found another body out on Highway 42.
Brady the Coroner, where are you?*

We cut back and forth from the scene of death to whatever Brady is doing instead. People on the scene, the police, the judge the police are in touch with, everyone, are at their wits end. They're calling him, messaging him, but he ignores them.

Finally, though, responsibility rises up in him and he takes the call, gets out there, does the coroner's job that has so terribly encroached on his life and joy, and then disappears again in the excitement when his part is done.

Brady also has a love interest, so sometimes he's over at her place.

I hope Hollywood likes the idea. I sent it to "Any Big Producer, General Delivery, Hollywood, CA." So I'm expecting to hear back from them any day.

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*Song lyrics Copyright 2012 dbkundalini, reprinted by permission

An Idea On The Vine

Any idea, you should let it ripen on the vine.

The seeds of an idea, its first hint, takes root in the soil of thought. The posts and poles, horizontal and vertical, are there as a structure for it. That would be the architecture of your brain, your mind.

Somehow then your idea starts out as a seed in the tender, unpredictable soil of thought. It's pushing and striving to get buried in the best soil. There's lots of other seeds already in the area. The image is easy to see.

Now, you as the owner of the vineyard, the dresser of the thing, are paying attention to your best soil and best seed. You want to get the thing going. You already have other vines producing, of course, but this is for the future, immediate or distant, and it's not good to rely only on what you already have.

So there it is, the one seed, this seed, and all the other seeds, in the soil of thought, and they -- or it -- gets going. You see it growing, it grows rich and lustrous until it's seed days are way behind it.

Your idea has sprouted and is out of the ground, up on the structure, starting to wind around, starting to toughen up and develop further, starting to cling, to take possession of the structure, while down here it's choking and putting other seeds and sprouts out of their misery. This is one killer idea.

A little time passes, while you're carefully tending, carefully watering, pruning and nurturing it. It's big enough and strong enough, really, to stand on its own. You could go back to the house and take a nap. And it'd be good if you did.

Then you can come back and the idea is virtually full grown, pretty enough on the vine that you start bringing in decorative trellises to make it look at home. They've got horizontal and vertical aspects and are made out of the prettiest wood painted white.

As time goes by, quickly, you're doing the last little touches on the idea, pictured here as quite a lively vine, which has flowered up and is giving life to little bits of fruit, that then become bigger, plumper, mature, obviously juicy.

You hate to waste anything, but you simply have to have a bite, so you find one off at the edge somewhere and bite in. Ahh, it's perfection!

Now it's time to stand back and let the natural elements do their thing. Any meddling at this point would be superfluous, and potentially harmful to the thing. You've done your part in giving it life, now it's time to let it live freely. All the while producing fruit for you that will be the richest, best, most welcome fruit.

It's good for the taste, and good for the soul.

Weird Fashion

When I was at the bookstore the other day I came [this close] to buying a book on fashion trends, weird fashion, something like that. It was chock full of cool color pictures of bored, archly posed models. And I believe some of them were printed at angles for extra coolness.

O that I had bought it! I've been kicking myself ever since. But it was $14.98 and since I'm used to getting my books at thrift stores, anything over a few dollars seems high to me. I just need to remind myself that's normal for everyone else. And I'm certainly not going to find anything that cool at the thrift store, at least until 20 years from now when some current kid grows up and gets rid of her things.

The book -- I didn't catch the publisher's name -- was published by the same publisher who put out a book on tattoos. The books were right next to each other. Maybe I can Google it. (Nah, can't find it for sure. There's some tattoo books that look sort of like it but I can't remember it precisely. Anyway, it was the fashion book I wanted. But the tattoo book was cool too. It had some nudity, as people have their entire bodies tattooed in some cases.)

Why would I want this book on fashion? I'm not a fashionable person. That's for sure. I have a few boring shirts, a few boring pairs of pants, a couple pairs of boring shoes, one belt, some normal underpants, etc. My budget for clothes is zero. I don't buy fashion magazines, etc., etc. I would want it because of the fun ideas it might stimulate. I don't know how everyone else gets ideas for things, but I need to have my brain kicked into gear once in a while. Like when it's empty. Like now. And if I see a bunch of unusual patterns, strange makeup, clothes with wings, bushels of fabric piled high, that would do it.

I tried to go to a fashion blog. But she must have some kind of weird script on it because my computer rebelled. So my hard drive went into one of those terrible spins where it can barely quit. Things were being closed out -- my browser. Then it spun some more and the browser finally came back. Firefox has a message now saying "How embarrassing," that Firefox closed and is having troubles restoring your tabs. We went YEARS without seeing that, but now everyday there it is, "How embarrassing." Very annoying.

I would love to be a fashionable guy. Here I come, in a cute little T shirt, the bottom all askew, dipping down on the sides to a point, a V neck all the way to my solar plexus, a hat that looks like an inverted purse with a red feather sticking straight out of my head. My pants aren't Oshkosh B'Gosh, but more like Posh O'myGod. People's heads are turning as they see a series of bells and whistles dangling everywhere.

It's the fashionable life for me!

Big Ideas I Have

There's two things happening with me right this second. 1) I have Big Ideas outward; 2) I'm so interiorly oriented I'm becoming a withdrawn clam. These are contradictory things, of course, but what can I do?

Number 1 isn't happening because of my isolation, being on the sidelines, being alone. Number 2 is happening as my constant reality, and the more it does the further Number 1 is from reality. Yet I have the impulse to look up in the air and cast in my all with society and existence. What would this look like from the air? Like the opening shot of "The Sound of Music," Julie Andrews with her arms raised, the helicopter swooping in. It's the center of the shot; it could be no other.

The way it would have to work, though, is that society has to agree to my terms. I know objectively I'm in no position to bargain. I'm not like a rock star who can insist on green M & M's, cold duck chilled to 54 degrees, and a zen garden on my desk. I'm not like the president who has his own airplane, helicopter, and limo. I'm not like the executive who spent a million dollars to redecorate his office. My offerings, while prodigious, perhaps stunning, don't look good on a resume or application. I couldn't qualify for a grant. Still I say that society would have to agree to my terms.

My terms are modest, basically that my house and land (the half acre) be designated the center of the universe. Mount Harney and Jerusalem would lose their claims. I would want to see a big map like on phone company commercials, looking like the headquarters for the moon shot, with my house and the various world lines, meridians, reoriented to that location, taking away Greenwich's prerogatives. Anything less would be taken as a slap in the face. And I might have to hire North Korea's publicists to handle my outrage.

I also want to have the geyser Old Faithful to be relocated to near the south border of my property, with all tourist royalties and payments being credited to my account. Whatever underground mechanism they have to generate its many eruptions, I want the sole copy of all schematics, that it could never be replicated.

Then and only then will I unleash such insights on life that folks would still be talking weeks later.

I Had An Idea

I had an idea a while ago and I can't think of it. Something about the local man, I think it was. It involved that. I should've written it down. Now it's lost, maybe forever.

Another idea I had one day seems to be lost forever. I've looked around at miscellaneous scraps of paper, thinking maybe I wrote it down. But if I did I haven't found the right scrap. It was something funny, too, which is unfortunate, since I know it was really funny. I was saying it and it made me laugh and one other person, who can't remember it either. Which goes to show you, if you have a good idea write it down!

I had half an idea when I was getting out to go to the grocery store the other night as well. And I thought I could use the audio recorder on my phone, since I didn't have a scrap of paper. But then when I got the audio recorder going I got stage fright and felt very inhibited. Here I am, this crazy person talking into a recorder, which, now that I think of it, I could have disguised by pretending I was talking on the phone.

Anyway, here's the complete transcript. You can see I was stumbling a bit:

The local man. Uhmm. Bud and Randy's Garage. There's no team like the local team. There's no fans like the fans -- There's no fans like my hometown's fans.

Listening to it now, the sound of hesitation in my voice recalls the really bad stage fright, that darned inhibition. But there's unmistakably some great ideas there. Including one I've written about since, that there is no team like the local team. The part about the fans, I didn't include that, which I should have. It's something I definitely believe. There's no fans quite like the fans I sit by.

The only obviously extraneous thing in that set of ideas is "Bud and Randy's Garage." Now, as I recall, that is one of the businesses that the local man patronizes. Although I was thinking of it as a very low level chain franchise. Like in two or three counties. Different from KFC and Pizza Hut, though still not strictly local.

But what was this morning's idea? The local man ... something ...