Newsletter -- The 900-Foot Lush

My staff greatly reduced after Dashing Danny's demise and Spud's degradation, I considered forgiving Tipsy and Cannibal. As idiots, surely they only followed the others when they had sex with The Lady. If I forgave them I'd still have a newsletter staff worthy of the name. But two minutes later I walked into the office and saw Tipsy lightly chucking The Lady under the chin and giggling like a drunken schoolboy. That's it!

I thought Stanley "Tipsy" White was a docile soul who couldn't be bothered with the concerns of our sober world. But he was truly focused on the best of both worlds, a little hooch here, a little hots there. And as for the newsletter, what could he contribute? The time of loveable lushes is past. No one's charmed now or open to the fun and frivolity of the lives of drunks. This is a newsletter for today, not 40 years ago. Tipsy doesn't fit in, he's got to go.

He came out of the garage to relieve himself in the yard, when I confronted him. "Taking a leak, Stan?" I said angrily, causing him to stop immediately. He was clearly concerned, because till then I'd been very gentle. "Go away!" he slurred, waving me off. I went berserk -- it was rage -- and belittled him for his excessive drinking, his red nose, his staggering gate, and all the rest. I spat out, "Your place isn't here but the gutter!" I saw him as the last dregs of a bygone era, unworthy of even the succor of rotgut. Amazingly, he was OK with the stream of insults, but mentioning rotgut made it personal.

We confronted each other without coming to blows, just circling and snarling, glaring at each other. "I'm very disappointed in you," I spat. "I thought you believed in the newsletter." He was honest but full of bluster, "I never cared for your ... newsletter." He said it like it was a dirty word. "But one look at The Lady and I had to have her!" I responded through clenched teeth, "Tipsy, I hope you're clearheaded enough to understand what I'm about to tell you..." With that I charged in and let my fists do the talking. If his head was clouded by drink, it was double-clouded with the chaser.

Then, at once, inexplicably, as if by some kind of ancient warrior instinct, he ran to the far east end of my half acre and I ran to the west. We removed the shoes from our feet, knelt solemnly, and prayed to our ancestors. Then standing again, he pulled out the celestial conch Foster Brooks and blew it, its deafening call resounding as far as the east is from the west. I was shaken, but I also had a celestial conch, Lady Love, and sent its deafening call as far as the north is from the south. The din was so great, Tipsy dropped his conch and about a dozen small liquor bottles rattled in his vest, vibrating, and clattered to the ground. Then he sounded his conch even louder and I sounded mine louder yet, with both combatants in this battle so shaken -- it's embarrassing to say -- that we ejected urine and excreta*. Of course Tipsy ejected mostly urine, with me providing the other and even making up what he'd lacked.

We then charged one other and struck with pummeling blows. "You're a guy who wants his kicks!" I cried, and spun in mid-air, kicking my way to glory. His head now matched his red nose. I saw my advantage and took it, pouring it on, violence begetting violence. Tipsy was on his hands and knees and appeared to be spent and was finally helpless. When, and this was a major moment, like the mighty sailor man reaching for spinach, he pulled out instead an extra-small bottle of hooch from an inner pocket -- this wasn't one of the standard brands, but something concocted by a distiller mage.

This is completely unbelievable, I know, but I swear (or affirm) every word is true. Tipsy swigged that small bottle down, which seriously might've been only 10 or 12 drops, and he was transformed. Everything about him was enlarged. He was vast in size! I looked up and beheld a 900-foot Tipsy White! The local airport threw up their hands. The National Guard was powerless. Even the local cop shop, always so ready to rumble, shrunk back. IT was loose! I had to do the responsible thing. I ran into the garage and secured The Lady, then returned to tangle with ... IT ... a big tipsy IT!

The colossus was making his way downtown, about to destroy the city. I climbed his foot and clutched a pant leg for dear life. Then I remembered the oldest saying known of drunkenness, "Hair of the dog." When he was busy enlarging he had dropped the tiny bottle of power and I had picked it up. But there was only one drop left, one and a half drops at the most. I shimmied down his ankles and to the foot, working my way nearer, ever nearer his big toe. As he stomped along I sweated it out, working my pocket knife, hacking a tiny puncture in his gigantic toe. Looking up, the water tower came into view. If he stomped the water tower both I and the city itself would be goners. I wasn't yet ready but I had to take my only chance, dripping that tiny drop and a half of power into the miniscule hole.

If this didn't work, frankly, there would be no tomorrow. It'd be all over. The Lady would be gone, my vengeance against Cannibal, and perhaps the world itself. But after a few tense seconds I heard and felt an enormous rumbling and roar. The air was sucked dry and there was nothing, then air from 100 miles away came rushing in. Later, I heard that hundreds of pimples in middle schools had popped themselves from the pressure drop and powerful reversal, so this was huge.

I craned my head and looked up toward Tipsy's face, past the clouds. The best I could make it out, I saw the look of fear, then simultaneous transformation. He shrunk so quickly, everything snapping around me, I certainly would have been crushed had I taken even one second longer to leap. As it was I ended up under his normal-size foot, just where I didn't want to be. The optics were embarrassing. Because who should come to my aid but The Lady Herself, bringing down an empty wine bottle on Tipsy's head, and I was freed.

The black prison bus came and took Stan "Tipsy" White away, my gain, the work release farm's loss.

---------------------
*Mahabharata, Book 6.

Newsletter -- Dashing Danny's Demise

July 4th marked the end of my newsletter staff as I knew it. Each member of my staff -- Dashing Danny, Spud Tuber, Tipsy White, Cannibal, and The Lady Herself -- betrayed me. So now it's time for paybacks. Which will be sweet, as I systematically destroy them.

I thought, Dashing Danny Whfrf's obviously the ringleader, he's the one I'll take out first. All I knew about was the sexual stuff Danny was involved in with the rest. But in confronting him I soon learned it went far deeper -- amazingly! -- that he planned to take over the newsletter, to steal it and issue it as his own and the Lady's!

In confronting him, I caught him, red-handed, with my notebook of newsletter ideas and The Lady. We stood on the lawn, glaring at each other, The Lady cowering behind the Dashing One. I chose to take a mournful tone, not a strident tone, which would've inflamed things and likely precluded answers. "Danny, I thought you were the one redeemable prisoner on my staff, the brains of the outfit, you alone ... but here we stand."

He seemed perplexed at my sorrowful words, but also knew any advantage he might have lay in a strident response. "What you think or don't think is of no concern to me. You have what I want, I'll take it!"

I kept up the mournful pose. "Of course you mean The Lady, that much is clear, but now the newsletter as well? It's not enough that you find a Lady of your own and start your own newsletter; oh no, that would be too much!" I had crossed into the no-man's land of sarcasm, a place you can never return from, where there's nothing left to hide behind.

"You're right about one thing, Kundalini," he said sharply, "I am the brains of the outfit. Whatever success the newsletter would've had had nothing to do with you. Your blurbs on the minutiae of your daily life hold no interest. I've got what today's reader wants, anecdotes of crime and punishment, doing time and escaping, and sex with The Lady!"

"So you're planning...?" I was tentative, I don't think I wanted to hear the answer.

"That's right, I'm escaping! No more work release, no more halfway house! Once my voice takes hold of society in the newsletter, they'll never be able to touch me! Especially with a Lady like this on my arm!"

I lamented, "You poor delusional fool. A newsletter needs a spirit to it, the spirit of good. Every newsletter I've ever seen inhabited by the spirit of evil has flamed out after the first couple issues. The public -- despite their many failures -- are essentially good. They're the kind of Everyman I represent, a pool in the yard, two kids, three dogs, a garage full of cars. They want pointers on how to step up their game of domesticity, not how to work a paperclip in a jail door!"

"So that's all you think I know, eh? The life of solitude and solitary confinement." I started to feel I wasn't getting through to him, and the ire rose up inside me, my ears glowing hot at the tips. He pulled the Lady to himself and bent her over for a long and involved and very wet kiss. I lost my mind and lunged at him. But he anticipated me and stabbed me right between the eyes. I would've been a goner, except for a yoga move I'd only just recently mastered, the Third Eye Displacement. It changed my focus in a startling new way, so that -- knife or no knife -- I could see my path to victory.

I grabbed the Lady's hand and pulled her behind me. Danny was aghast, suddenly seeing how things stood. What kind of newsletter could he make without the Lady's love? It's unfathomable, even ridiculous to imagine!

I didn't know what to make of it entirely, but self-preservation got the best of Danny and he dashed off, leaving me to phone it in to headquarters. There were sirens and gunshots about a quarter of a mile west of my place, and pretty soon I saw the prison bus -- a school bus painted black -- take the road east past my place.

It gave me the last glimpse I hope to ever have of Dashing Danny Whfrf. I watched closely as they passed and beheld a tear in his eye, which he then defiantly wiped away before assuming a stolid pose, looking straight ahead. Now he was a half mile away and his back to me, details were harder to make out. All I could tell was he had a sneer on his face and was resolved to greater and greater crime in the future.

I learned a couple of important lessons in this whole episode: There are men you simply can't redeem, no matter how good your newsletter is. And second, a knife between the eyes, while being entirely life-threatening, serves as a pretty good beacon to the higher consciousness, for a limited period of time. I pulled it out and got a bandage.

Newsletter -- The Complete Beautiful Miasma of Drunkenness

I am personally not one to get good and royally drunk. As must be clear at least to long-time readers, I'm a guy of strict discipline and resolve. So going overboard on anything -- except maybe doing good -- simply doesn't happen. And I would never encourage anyone else to get inebriated, wasted, or faced. If they came to me and asked, "Should I?" I'd say "No."

Then we have a guy like Stanley "Tipsy" White, staff reporter for my newsletter (soon to be published). He didn't ask, he just showed up with drunk as his default. Drinking's simply his thing, his basic modus operandi in life, the way he copes, gets along, and lives. Yes, of course, when he's at the work release farm (he's a prisoner) he probably doesn't have perfect access to the hard stuff. But he's obviously getting it somehow; when he showed up at my place he was already drunk, and he's been working on something ever since.

I like watching Tipsy, maybe because we're such polar opposites. A few sips now and then of something, going along with spirituality, that's my thing. I've been giving a pretty good effort lately at yoga (not the stretchy kind), working on self-control, transmuting the various energies of the body. The yogis say alcohol isn't good for that, although I have a slightly different feeling on the subject, and so the sips are allowed. But there's no way I'm going to get drunk. But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy and even appreciate the fun habits and accompanying states of mind that Tipsy shows. I consider him a close personal friend at this point, and I can't think of anything that would drive us apart.

You know how most lushes have a pattern in life? They're struggling to get their lives on track, they swear off the booze, then two hours later they show up drunk? That's not Tipsy. Left to his own choices, anything apart from solitary confinement and lack of access, he's going to be boozed up, lubed real good. And spaced out, talking with a slurred voice, the whole bit. It's a lot of fun to imitate him, stumbling over your words, like the old comedian -- one of the funniest guys of his time -- Foster Brooks. I watched Foster on YouTube lately, and had the same feeling for him as in the '70s: I like the drunk voice a lot but still don't like how he bottoms it out so often. Just me.

Tipsy's not extremely verbose. He's mostly in a more enviable condition, the complete, total, beautiful miasma of drunkenness. He's just there, more or less worthless for any and all practical pursuits, but happy and apparently even centered in himself. That's the good drunk, unlike the bad drunk, which involves staggering and personal endangerment. Tipsy usually looks very contented, sitting in a chair, the bottle dangling from one hand near the floor, with his head pushed back, face toward the ceiling, in his own world, his own personal haze.

It'd be interesting to read his mind and know what's going on in his thoughts. Is he tapping into realms up there that would yield new and more wonderful answers? Is he working through visions and dreams that might make a difference to humanity in, perhaps, coming up with an answer to man's troubles? Or is it just what it looks like, a guy so bombed that if even the slightest thinking's taking place, there's still not two coherent thoughts joined together, nothing of cognitive syntax of any form that would make sense in terms of our current prevalent consciousness?

Looking at some of his ideas for articles for the newsletter, most of them aren't what you'd call deep stuff. He's very anti-cop and he doesn't like to be hassled. I can only imagine what it's been like for him, off on these beautiful multiple-week drunks and having to be hassled by the fuzz. Wouldn't you just like to take the fuzz by the lapels sometime and say, "Lay off, copper, my friend's not hurting anyone. Take your officious, self-righteous, crock of crap lawman pretentiousness, and get the hell out of here! He sleeping it off, as you can perfectly well see, because there's a party tonight he doesn't want to miss."

I said I had some spirituality going on, remember? Even the Good Book says drinking is fine. I'm looking it up. 1 Timothy 5:23: "Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities." So water's out and wine's in. Something for your stomach, which is where liquids go. And something to help with infirmities. Let me do some interpretation of the verse. It says "Use a little wine." I like that. Going by that, it's all relative, use what you need. If wine's OK, anything else you need would be OK too. The same principle holds for the phrase "thy stomach's sake." All other body parts might benefit. So, in Tipsy's case, he's got all the bases covered.

Yes, Tipsy's an all right kind of guy. If I wasn't for the whole yoga discipline thing -- and I'm extremely faithful to it -- I wouldn't mind joining him. Tip up and down a bottle of rye, I'd be lubed too! I met this guy one time and we got on the subject of drinking. I asked him, "Do you drink?" He goes, "Nope ... I guzzle."

Newsletter -- The Object

I'm about ready to put out a newsletter, and I have a staff, which I hope will make the process smoother and make for a more interesting newsletter. I'm a big believer that more voices add something. I've been looking to enhance our chances, so we got together and I led the team in one of the exercises I do at some of my seminars, whether it be on group dynamics or anything. This is a great exercise even for something like positive thinking, firing up some of those tired brain cells. I recommend it.

I called the group to order and explained our "conundrum," The Object before us. Hmm, what is it? By that I meant, What is it beyond what it obviously is, in this case a stone? What does your mind tell you? I've been doing some personal spiritual development -- look for my seminar in six months -- so this is an exercise that makes me tingle all over.

You probably remember my staff. In the graphic, going clockwise from the upper right corner, we have, the Lady, and from the work release farm, Spud Tuber, Cannibal, Stanley "Tipsy" White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, and me.

So there we were, chairs in a circle with The Object on a table in the center. What is it? What are you thinking? Think deeply. We have The Object in common. Take a deep breath and release, not in your neighbor's face. What could it be? As usual, answers weren't immediately given. Either a case of nerves or mentality. The guys seemed clueless. Only the Lady, clearly the one with the fullest deck, and everything else, was forthcoming, "I am perplexed," she said.

Ever patient, I counseled them to close their eyes again as I spoke. "I have given seminars for some of the smartest people on the planet. Fortune 500 companies. Scientists. Fifth graders. And nine times out of ten they also sit in silence as you have. Until they do what I'm going to ask you to do: Open your eyes suddenly and mark in your mind the first thing you think of when you look at The Object. Now!"

We went around the circle. The Object reminded Spud of a big potato. It reminded Tipsy of a flask. Dashing Danny saw a nice little lady's purse, fit for the taking. Cannibal picked it up and chipped a tooth, apparently seeing in it the cheek of someone's juicy ass. That was the guys. The Lady started, then regathered her thoughts, like maybe she was reluctant to reveal too much. She pulled back in silence, then after eye contact she braved it, "I see in it the egg in the Ukrainians' Bird Goddess mythology, circa 4500 B.C." I nodded, "Yes, I can see how you'd arrive at that conclusion."

I thought to myself, This gal's really on the ball! Not just a pretty package, there's something going on in there! Or maybe she just got lucky. Beginner's luck, pearls of wisdom as from a child, a random assortment of words that just happened to make sense...

We broke into groups. Right away I and the Lady were one group. None of the others wanted to be partners with Cannibal, so there was a group of three with Cannibal alone. I gave them five minutes to confer, then we would reconvene. They were to come up with a consensus answer, thinking deeply about what is truly is.

It's in these group dynamics settings that I really shine. I figured Cannibal would have the fewest insights, so I would call on him last. That's a good way to encourage the smarter ones to take charge without the entire group being sidelined by the stupidest. As for the other three prisoners, I knew they had enough mentality on the ball to jog forth at least one thought. This really isn't to slight Cannibal entirely; he's dumb, but as is true of all prisoners, he has convictions.

When we came together, the three guys really disappointed me. Dashing Danny was the spokesperson, and whatever progress they had made was lost. Probably because of the complexity of the Lady's previous answer. The had decided to go back to The Object as a literal rock, which Dashing Danny said would "be great for throwing through a plate glass window and making off with the goods!" I shook my finger to scold him.

I was the spokesperson for myself and the Lady, saying we had set aside the goddess imagery, to behold in The Object a representation of the linga, not precisely a phallic symbol, as some would contend, but a symbol of something more nebulous, but something that could be perceived in a shape like this, while not really having a distinct form. It is a primal concept, inherently beyond thought, which dissolves in our imagination and leaves us in the presence of the vast, the void, the divine. I looked over at the guys and saw the vast void in their eyes.

"OK, how about you, Cannibal? What do you see in The Object?" Before I knew it, he leaped on me and bit off the little finger on my right hand! The pain was excruciating but I was immediately enlightened.

LATER: After the incident the Lady got me a BandAid® brand adhesive bandage and took me to the ER. The doc reattached my finger and told me to soak it in ice for extra-fast healing. It doesn't feel too bad, except every time I hit the ENTER button I scream.

The Bikers Bar Is Now Mine

Whatever your troubles,
the Roadhog Roadhouse

always makes things better.

The billionaire is everything a great friend should be, extremely rich, wallet always open, and when you need him, nearby. When I first met him, I said, "A guy could get used to this," and that early intuition has been confirmed time and time again.

That's not to say I don't sometimes want to use my own money. Just to clarify, I personally make about $450 a month in disability income (game toe), then on top of that I have around $2.1 billion, thanks to the billionaire. Some of that I'm saving -- the $450 -- in case the rest goes ... fizz.

Something happened this morning that for a second pissed me off at him, but I can't stay mad very long at such a good, rich friend. Although in a way I'm doing him a favor with my anger, because billionaires don't get that true gut reaction very often. Everyone's always kissing up to him, he probably likes being told off once in a while.

He came over very early, before I'd even been to the bathroom, before the dog had been out, and mousetraps checked, you know the routine. A guy wants his private moments without every billionaire in the world horning in. To make matters worse, he springs this news on me, that he bought the Roadhog Roadhouse bikers bar!

I was all up in his face, and pounded on his chest, crying, "You knew I wanted that bar!" Only I hadn't gotten around to it yet; the world of high finance is new to me; I didn't even know who to contact, Eddie, probably, since he's the owner. So I'm halfway cussing the billionaire out, "You son of a --! You rotten bast-- !"

His fun over, the stringing me along, he laughs and says, "I bought it for you, silly. I didn't want someone else to get it. Eddie wanted out." I started to say the obligatory, "I'll pay you back," but he waved it off. "What's the difference?" he said, which is true. When you're extremely rich, and you're friends with someone, the rest is just laughter and backslapping; no one's in anyone's debt, he's just happy to do it, and in that spirit, I accepted the keys.

We did get down to some serious stuff, when he said that friend and confidante Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el) filled him in on the whole Pink Professor situation. Of course I know the Pink Professor through the Roadhog; it's our basic rendezvous point. But he's been MIA, after an argument we had a few years ago over meditation practices. And I want him back, but where to look?

The billionaire said, "You know I stand ready to help with anything you need in the search. I want to wrap this up ASAP, because I don't want you suffering, OK?" I nodded and kept my head down. He saw that hint of pain and exclaimed, "OK, that's it! I'm now in charge!" I was speechless. What can you say when you have a friend so doggoned filthy rich and dripping with confidence, but "Yes sir!"

We sat and he said, "Tell me everything you know." The discussion went on for quite a while, as I shared with no real goal, since I didn't think I knew anything. "Tell me everything you've ever talked about, and don't worry, I respect your privacy and won't share it with Geritol." (Jor-el and I have a history, and whereas I'm not that hushed mouth around him anymore, it's nice to know my dirty laundry won't be hanging in plain sight.)

After an hour of sharing, the billionaire exclaimed, "I know where he is!" taking from our conversation this one little obscure nugget. "You were in San Francisco in 1975. You spent a night under an interstate bridge. You told the Pink Professor you left a piece of your soul there. Your argument was over kundalini meditation. He went there to find that piece and reconcile himself to you." I filled in the rest, "But he's blocked, and now can't come home, analogous to failing to attain samadhi in yoga, till he restores and completes me." The billionaire nodded, "I suspect as much."

He said he'd handle the preparations. I would spend the day tidying up the Roadhog bar -- Eddie left some dust bunnies behind -- while he would oversee construction of a blimp and a full blimp port. We would find the Pink Professor and bring him home in style!

That was a couple hours ago. I brushed my teeth, went to the bathroom, and for 20 minutes was sweeping up behind the bar -- thanks, Eddie, the dust bunnies were dinosaurs! -- then took a load of trash out back. Some guy's sleeping in the dumpster so I had to leave the wastecans next to it. Looks to be a good day.

Join Me for Paranoia Week

I'm inviting you to join me here for "Paranoia Week," June 2 through June 8. I know you'll like it, if you like the thought of a guy on the wrong side of "forces" that may or may not exist. Even now, I'm feeling jittery thinking of it. Saying, as I just did, the forces may not exist means only one thing, I'm a goner. I'm nervous about the descent, let alone the myriad terrors I know are there.

Speaking of the descent, that's what I'll be doing tomorrow, so I won't be here June 1. I'll be going down into a full-bore paranoid fit, which takes a lot of stewing, mixing it just right, and letting it work. Only one day, you say? Yes. Like you, I've heard of many other "Paranoia Week" bloggers who've stewed for an entire year or more. They go the last mile -- sweat lodges, hot compresses, new age music, reverse yoga, etc. -- and what they come up with is quality. But I don't personally have that much time to waste, and, again, with just a day, I guarantee results.

Like I said, I'm getting jittery just thinking about it. There's a lot of annoyances on the way down, the inner sounds (and pain) of things snapping and sparking, almost like we're some kind of machine. Next, there's a vast silence, as aspects of the Self are being disconnected, in particular your thoughts talking you out of it. Then a comforting grayness, stretches of grayness. You can be quickly lulled into a dangerous complacency here. You need to keep an eye on the edges, looking toward your ears, to not slip off the edges, like on a slick highway. At the edges are chthonic aspects of the personality that, given a chance, would bite your head off.

I'm recalling the last time I passed that way. How well I remember these heavy mildewed curtains from old vaudeville stage shows. Past lives that think they're here and now. Queer performers line the hallways, stagehands fluff sandbags, electricians man quaint old light fixtures. A lot of the snapping, the electrical phenomena, is from them. The performers look extremely dangerous. Their fingernails are extremely long, and their throats are stretched beyond normal, as they try to keep in voice, expecting any moment to go on stage. They don't know it's been close to a century. If they actually sung it'd come out screeching.

There's another place along the way, a place to mention. It's a place of utter bleakness, darkness. But tied to a post there is a donkey I call Desi. He's a cool donkey, the nicest creature you meet in the land of paranoia. The rest -- I can't get into the rest -- the Hall of Unwashed Broken Mirrors, the Pavilion of Things Found in Sofas Personified, the Cavalcade of Good Monks Gone Bad, whatever. It's all evil. The only good I've run into is Desi the Donkey and the spirit of St. Rita of Cascia, the saint with the big scar on her forehead. This wonderful Bride of Christ reaches out to me, and I realize her precious message, treasuring it in my heart: Paranoia is good for your pores.

Oh, no, I'm having second thoughts! I shouldn't do this! I know I'm going to look like hell when this is over, good pores or not, and much of that remains forever. I'm 61 and look 80, thanks to this. Now, if I live, I'll come out looking like a maniac, and older. I'll have someone else's heavy clothes on, some monk I'll spoil. I might have those horrible looking woolen half-gloves, with my fingers sticking out. When they see me -- people -- they'll see a maniac, and even though I'll cry out, hoarsely, "This isn't really me!  This isn't me!" no one will listen. Who would listen to a battered, torn, worn-out, and haggard, dragged out, dragged down, buffeted, beaten, and bruised maniac?

But here's my vow -- which I hope I can keep, because if I can't, my soul is lost! -- I vow this will be the best "Paranoia Week" ever. Ever.

[Secret Journal] Scratching an Itch (or Not)

8:00 pm. Sunday - So many itches I cannot contain! -- I will bust! It's over! No, wait, stylistically I cannot start with the climax and give up. Must bear and forbear, must be patient. My impatience points to truth of pursuit, not falsity. Simply scratch as always, I have 61 years of ingrained habit, Lord Itch rules the temple.

8:10 pm. Sunday - The last 10 minutes have been a roller coaster ride, wooden, not safety-tested, really rattled my bones. Centered in non-itch new beginning, having scratched till I'm raw in places. Took BIC pen to right ear, smaller than finger, not recommended, certainly, but no one was looking. The things I do in the dark! Clean slate, blank slate, one little itch under eyes, then they creep in and subsume consciousness. I'm lost!

8:28 pm [day unspecified] - What's it been, 20 minutes? Rome wasn't built in 20 minutes, I guess. There's no reason to keep counseling patience, I already know that. This harping on patience is making me more impatient. Counsel mercy, which, apart from a possible first mention, is only truly mercy when it's not mentioned. OK, mercy for myself, still busy scratching. What I need is one decent concentrated itch spot, of my choosing, not a million popping up everywhere. What kind of universe is this, for pity's sake?

8:29 pm Sunday - Brief entry to say, the universe, the world is mercy -- pity, if you will -- I'm not separate. You can't think continental drift, tectonic movement, doesn't itch like hell. That's why we have earthquakes, the Logos rolling over to scratch. Merciful to itself. Giving credence to my theories.

11:00 pm Sunday - Must've dozed off. Dreamed I was on the ground floor of a massive itch, turned out to be a volcano. False alarm?

5:30 am Monday - Woke up scratching, might wear oven mitts today, hands up like a surgeon, reminding myself to break the cycle. That's it, I'm just unconscious through habit (cf. above, Lord Itch, Temple.) Who is this f'n Lord Itch? How did I come to serve him? Who's his consort? Is she worse, prodding him from behind? "Exact tribute from him, you worm!" she cries, calling the Lord a worm? Who is this massive B? Called Lady, probably. Lady Scratch? I guess that's it, men always want to scratch their itch, and Lord Itch just happened to fall for Lady Scratch, etc. "I got you under my skin." Making progress, this has a whole mythic basis!

6:30 am Monday - Finished coffee, my head a lot clearer, scratch that Lady Scratch stuff, unintentional pun, I swear. Scratch that, too ... Oops, did it again. Lady Scratch has now infected my vocabulary, my thought process. More coffee, gulping it down between these pen scratchings, no!!!! Must reclaim temple, especially new deity of my own choosing.

6:43 am Monday - Every developing world/cosmic view starts as experience, then mythologizes in upward ascent, making sense and also making palpable. All I've got so far is the itch point likened to black hole or nucleus, and conjecturing that entering (through consciousness) at that point might (likely?) be a different realm of consciousness. Not realm so much, bad word, too early for mythologizing itch point as kingdom.

7:03 am Monday - Thinking about blog today. Time to throw out some red meat. Maybe crumbs. Nose suddenly itching, think I see Heaven.

Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?

It's tough not to scratch itches. I've spent my life doing it. I remember some really bad itches right in the middle of my back, then having to scratch them against a tree. And my mother always bringing up that's how horses do it. I didn't like her nagging -- I always bridled -- but she usually reared her head back laughing, so I couldn't actually neigh say it.

But who knows about itches? I know I've always heard there's certain itches that aren't meant to be scratched. Like infidelity, no matter the temptation. The idea in this temptation is that scratching the itch is positive. Maybe it feels positive in the heat of the moment. But we've seen so many who've scratched to their regret. I've heard several cry out in despair: "If only -- woe is me! -- I hadn't scratched that cute little itch!"

I've been thinking lately that maybe these itches -- actual, literal itches -- are meant as portals to other realms of consciousness, if only we could survive the test and not negate them in the very process of their revelation. Ever think of that?

It makes a certain amount of sense. You'd expect portals to be in definite spots, and other realms of consciousness, if they're anywhere, to be accessible through portals. If it were all nebulous and omnipresent -- which I'm not saying it's not -- you'd be falling over backwards into it. But what if we're meant to have a definite grasp on these things, and to visualize them like this: A circumference (the zone) going into the center (the nucleus), somewhat akin to a galaxy and its black hole. That's what I'm working with. I'm theorizing "It's All Happening" at that center, exactly the spot we negate when we succumb to scratching. O! the tricky ways of reality!

I would guess advanced yogis know all this, but they've kept their tongues, likely out of a cosmic sense of humor. They know these portal points are so easy to overlook, and it's funny to them, with our first inclination always being to immediately scratch away. Funny? Sad, really, with the higher realms right there. Good god, what all might we be missing? You know those little baby heads with wings, our almost-children in glory, so prominent in Catholic artwork circa 1860-1920? They had such a work ethic in those difficult years, they didn't have a lot of time to scratch ... maybe that's what they saw!

This is good stuff, and very likely true. But things only got worse in our time. With the coming of modern conveniences -- washers, driers, food processors, radios, TVs -- we're all sitting around, tuned in to every itch and with time on our hands to spare, as it were, so our fingers are busy, scratch scratch scratch. So whatever portals were common for the working man back then are closed to us today.

OK, we might ask, Why didn't the working man reveal more to us about these things, just flat out say it? Because working men back then were slow to speak, with not enough time, and they assumed everyone knew. Everyone breathes, right? You don't tell people, "Hey, I'm breathing!" Or it could've been they were afraid; they didn't want to end up in a mental hospital, which back then were very much a total beyotch.

But, oh how difficult it is to test out these ideas! Even when I feel like I'm tuning in, I still scratch, more or less unconsciously, simply out of habit. So many times I'm that close to getting there and looking around and I scratch. Isn't that weird? The positive to it is I'm still here to write this, but honestly I think I would've maintained consciousness well enough to both experience it and write about it. (Cf. working men, above; they lived to work tomorrow.) I'm not likely to just be overwhelmed to the point of riding a major itch to glory just like that.

My intuition is working overtime. This is all very immediate. I'm not scratching while typing, therefore the insights are flowing more freely. I've also got the consciousness to forebear, and in response the revelations are presenting themselves furiously. I can't keep up, and my nose itches in a massive nuisance way. Something's trying to hold me back, something wants me to scratch, something I have to resist -- you filthy devil! also called Old Scratch (!)-- until, I relent and scratch. "Just a little touch," I tell myself, until once again I die in an orgy of itch relief. But cosmic deflation...

Yet I shall not despair; I've always got another itch coming along shortly; that's the kind of grace I experience. Thinking back, last night was a terrible night sleeping. At one point, 3:30 a.m., I had an itch in the middle of my back. Maybe I was dreaming* of horses; I don't remember, or my mom. It was bad enough that I reached as far back as I could to get it. Now I think, "That could've been it!" Because when I'm in bed, I have all the time in the world to center myself in a spiritual reverie. An itch right on the spine is very likely the gateway to the essence of a particular chakra. Meaning, what is of the greatest discomfort to us would be the very portal to our absolute greatest comfort!

I can't go on. I must break. I must seek out the worst itching I can have! I'm sorry, this is too important.

*Night before last, in a dream, one of my cousins told me her middle name was Abner.

Sudden thought: Pet dander -- Anything there? It has to itch.
Note to self:  Book possibility, the It-ching, 64 different meanings of your itch.

Bitten by a Dog

Note: This post is based on a partial quote of Tibet's Great Yogi Milarepa, found in the book, Tibet's Great Yogi Milarepa, (Evans-Wentz), page 79. It is: "On the way I was bitten by a dog..."

I had to make a trip to Edwinton the other day. No one would give me a ride. There wasn't a taxi to be had, and, of course, thanks to modern transportation, these days the bus no longer goes to Edwinton.

The point of the trip was to file a restraining order against an evil neighbor, whose vicious dog keeps me awake nights with his horrible howling. And occasional barking.

Like I said, I couldn't catch a ride. When everything was denied me, I thought, Just my luck! And driving was out of the question ... for reasons I should keep to myself. All right, I swore in church that I'd go on a month-long car fast.

So I had to walk, which carried with it unforeseen perils. Little did I know my neighbor (this is my suspicion) had various Black Magic powers, because of _________. (Tibetan magicians he knew.)

At the north edge of town -- on my way -- a vicious black dog -- a big son of a bitch -- came out of the weeds and bit the snot out of my arm. But at the first full taste of blood, thankfully, something spooked him and he ran. This would've been a great time to kill and gut myself a dog, but, alas, no knife.

I kept going, Edwinton being a distant 30 miles. I neared a farm and turned in to use their pump; my taste-buds were dying of thirst. All was good till the first gush of water, when a vicious farm dog came rushing around the barn, attaching himself on to the backside of my pants, tearing a hole in them and removing enough flesh to make me scream in terror. I splashed a handful of water in his eyes and he ran away.

About halfway to Edwinton, I knew I looked like a mess. I was cutting across fields, streams, and through muddy bogs. I sat in the mud and allowed it to dry and cake, to obscure my rear nakedness. What I hadn't anticipated was a hunter being spooked and his dog lurching at me, biting me on the leg and clamping on. I threw my hands up for mercy and he called it off.

The last dog bite was just outside Edwinton. It was just this simple: The sentry at the gates tensed up at the sight of me. And dogs, being keen when their masters are fearful, his dog leaped on me like a lion on prey. He got my other arm and his fangs grazed my throat. The sentry, to his credit, shot the dog, saving me, while inadvertently peppering me with stray buckshot.

Once in Edwinton, I got the restraining order. They said they'd serve my neighbor the papers. And then, to avoid a repeat of my journey there, I begged a taxi guy to drive me home.  His taxi worked great, easily able to outrun a pack of dogs chasing us all the way.

The Death Pangs of a Locust

Holy cow, I'm leaving my ectoshell behind. Like a spaceship, we've got separation. But instead of falling into the ocean -- there's no ocean for miles around -- I'm just hanging on that piece of concrete I was on.

What a meditation, to go like this. I trained the inner eye on my bottom and drifted away. I'm free, sort of -- but what now? Probably shouldn't worry. It's an escape, apparently; separation comes with the package. Meaning life is a package deal. I've always gone a la carte, myself, making decisions to this point. But now it's happening to me, not so much me doing it. What's a me?

Everything is melting, including the ability to make strict, accurate judgments about the present circumstances, this immediate sentence included. All I feel is I'm drifting, drifting, seeing what must've been my life flashing before me.

I see now that I was one of 40,000 siblings, proudly among the top 10,000 in aptitude. Maybe higher, since I'm able to remember, think, and formulate actual descriptive sentences. Even the best of them offers nothing but an ongoing drone. Although it's possible that the ongoing drone is better than my present chatter. Or if not better, at least closer to the ideal nature.

Anyway, I could also drone. One of the best soprano voices in our treeload. I was so into it, I briefly wanted to end it all, forgo mating, I mean, stop the urges and keep my voice. Very vain, I know, and ultimately an unsustainable bit of vanity. There's no provision for such desires. Even for someone who could name every tree in the forest.

Like everything, fate is set out for us. Not strict determinism, mind you, but close. For example, I could choose which tree to fly to. Of which, in hindsight, I say ... big deal. I was still a locust through and through, with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereunto. Among them being, to get lost in the drone. If "All life is the play of universal forces" (Aurobindo), who am I to complain? To complain is ridiculous, unless that too is just universal forces having fun.

As a locust -- fark! -- it's all good. My ectoshell was on me, what joy! My ectoshell is off me, what joy! It's all the same. To be a locust and also to be the All is all joy. Like a cherry on a huge sundae, I'd say. It's great to see, but the sundae's still good without it. To be right there, as I realize myself to be, in the heart of everything, in the thoughts of all power, near to the meat of the goody, adjacent to the inner nub, and a favorite of the center enchilada, it's a great thing. Like the apple of its eye.

Separation is complete. We repeat, separation is complete. The locust has left this locus. A bird swoops down and studies the spoils, before carrying it away for whatever value might remain. As for Mr. Locust, his consciousness drifts farther away. There's a kind of nebulous light just ahead, with deep contentment and joy.

Our locust's last earthly thought: Someday, bird, you'll get yours.

Revisiting The Wood Manhood Relics

FOUR DIFFERENT HIPSTAMATIC PICTURES FOR GREATER VALIDITY OF THE EVIDENCE

Summary of The Wood Manhood Affair: In India, one of Master's chelas (students) was disobedient to the work of seeking oneness with the Divine. Instead, he, Brother Unsettled, abused his member on chain-link fences, wood surfaces, and trees. The result was his turning to wood. His now-wooden manhood was preserved, to serve as a spiritual lesson and warning to others. I have custody of the relics. The yoni-shaped wood appears to have been Unsettled's only true comfort.

Being the custodian of sacred relics is a big responsibility. First, there is the physical tending to them. Second, there are inquiries I get from time to time as to their whereabouts and condition, as well as requests to see them and/or touch them. Most of these requests are denied; frankly, I think that's a sick request. But it's understandable that chelas would want to know how they are. In short, they're just fine.

It's been some time now since my post in July 2011, which made me think the whole thing needed to be revisited. At least insofar as how the relics are doing. And lest anyone thinks they can simply come on my property and take the relics, no, it won't be that simple. They are kept in a safe deposit box at the bank.

I know you'll find this interesting. First, about the photos, that's four Hipstamatic photos of the wooden manhood of Brother Unsettled, plus the yoni, plus an extraneous piece of wood, the little chip. If you examine the evidence carefully, you will see one photo is slightly different from the rest. Very interesting!

Anyway, to examine the relics, I went ... I got myself together and went ... to the bank and to the safe deposit box. If you've ever done this, you know you have to be prepared for the real life equivalent of a video game, with many challenging passages along the way.

Of course I had my ID and the passwords memorized. Then arriving at the bank, I had to machete my way through a gauntlet of part-time bank employees, arranged to test my resolve for the task. Next, there were 10 secretaries, each with one letter or alphanumeric character of the first password. Finally, I got to Sue, the little lady next to the vault. I offered Sue my identification once again and a special password that only Sue and I know.

At the threshold of the vault, I took a deep breath and sought heaven for strength to withstand the ordeal. Of course I removed the sacred golden sword from the wall before passing through gate after gate. I was surprised (but not shocked) when two guardian lions sprang out. I slew them, then in quick progression a dozen leopards, a half dozen king cobras, and a school of Great White sharks. It was like I was back in the Amazon when vampire bats swooped down and immediately attacked my pith helmet.

Going further, I cut myself through the thickest vines I've ever seen, huge thick SOBs. I didn't even know vines came that thick. They were either vines or a giant's legs, now I'm not sure which. Do vines bleed and bellow out "Oww"? Then it was a giant, or maybe a whole family. All the vines out of the way, I swam up the falls, 100 feet if it was an inch. Being a good vertical swimmer, this wasn't as hard as it sounds.

Making it to land, I rounded a corner and found another guard. But this guy was a dried up skeleton, there at the base of the wall. Obviously paid by the hour, he had fallen asleep and died. I saw the final key in amongst his dust and bones! I entered the box room and unlocked the box. This set off the final safeguard, three or four mousetraps, which hurt like hell!

All done, I pulled out the metal container. When I opened it, there they were, the relics laid out on the softest red velvet. It was at this point that I took the pictures seen above. It about took my breath away, to see Brother Unsettled's wooden remains, the most vital parts of himself that had given him such fits. It was cautionary to me: Do not rebel, do not let it go to waste. I sat right there, right that very minute, and entered into the greatest devotional ecstasy.

All in all, I was amazed at how well preserved the relics were, even in this normal stuffy bank.

Obedience School -- Getting My Do.G. Degree

People have been making jokes about sending their loved ones -- husbands and wives -- to obedience school for as long as I can remember. You might remember Hal Boyle's "Poor Man's Philosopher" column from Nov. 1955, in which he quotes a reader, "Obedience schools for pets have worked out very well, so why not an obedience school for pet wives?" Hal concluded the column by asking the same thing about obedience schools for husbands, but said they'd be unnecessary, since marriage itself is their obedience school! Ain't it the truth!

But in my case, with no wife to push me around, let's say I wanted to go to obedience school. It'd just be for the experience of doing it. I used to say I wanted to be a professional student. And had I done that, pushing 60 as I am, I would've already learned everything worth knowing in the realm of human knowledge. It'd be a natural for me to learn what a dog has to go through. That'd be cool.

I'm thinking about it today because I drove by an animal hospital that said it's also an obedience school, and that they're "Now Accepting Enrollees." So what if a guy went in and said he wanted to enroll, with the full understanding, of course, that the other students would all be dogs? They'd probably take me, because my money's just as good as theirs. Plus, I'm already fairly obedient to the dictates of society, I'm sure I could handle anything a dog school could put me through.

It sounds weird, but I can well imagine it'd be like a spiritual experience. Communing with nature in a very strange setting. The dogs would be in rows, like in schools, them all naked, me in sweats. We'd be waiting for the teacher to get there, knowing if she was 10 minutes late we'd be out for the day! Then, being only nine minutes late, she shows up and looks us over. There's all of us, with our tongues hanging out, eager to learn. But since I'm looking at it as more of a spiritual experience, since it's almost a yoga class, and dogs have Buddha nature (maybe, depending on what Mu means), I've got one foot against my opposite leg and have praying hands.

It might be good for the teacher, too, because if she showed me the lesson, I'd be able to help her out. Like if the lesson was going to the cupboard, getting our dish, filling it with water, and setting it on the floor by the door, that'd be a cinch. Just hearing it once, I could do it point by point without error. I would walk to the cupboard, open it, etc., etc. The other dogs would be watching, not really having a clue, until the teacher and I kept demonstrating -- one dish each, turn the faucet like so, carry it over without slopping it everywhere, and set it down gently.

Some of it might be foreign to me. Like "Beginning Bone Burying." I'd go, "Excuse me? I'll just chew my bone, thank you." But they make a good point, because what if I want a fresh bone to chew tomorrow? Underground is where it will keep the freshest, where it's moist and cold. And where no other creature can get to it, unless it's a snake or ants or grubs or something. On second thought, how about I just put mine in the fridge? All I need is a Ziploc bag and a fridge, and maybe a way to cut my bone down to bite size chews for later, and it'll be perfect.

Training for nap time would have to be my favorite lesson. There's a pillow for each student in the modular storage cubes against yonder wall. And all we have to do -- obediently, of course -- is go over and pull one out with our mouth and drag it to an empty space on the floor. I could do that. Since I'm a person, it wouldn't be very hard, the basic maneuver of doing it. Still, it might take me a longer time than the others, because I would want a pillow without a wet corner, one that wasn't used in a previous class. So I'm over there feeling all the pillows, and looking for other signs of dirt and slobber. Then, if we napped till noon, that'd be a decent class! Get up, dig a bone chew out of the fridge for lunch and the day's half done!

The Criminal -- Machine Gun Ricky Wayward

I'm advancing steadily in the organization. A few short weeks ago, when I started my life of crime, I was a abject nobody, passing my time in basic mischief, tipping garbage cans and slashing random screendoors. But then it all took off.

I worked my way up quickly. I took on the dirty jobs no one else wanted, like managing the organization's fly-by-night carpet racket. That taught me many valuable lessons, chiefly, that crime does pay. Even now, I picture a bunch of disappointed customers hauling worthless carpet to the curb, their furnace filters clogged from floating tufts of shag. To me, that's funny. The saps. It serves them right, trying to save money buying crap carpet!

Then things got dirty. I became the go-to guy for some of the worst hit-jobs, since I'm not in the least reticent to off the bastards. I figure, hey, they're criminals, what's the difference? I'm saving society the cost of expensive trials if they were caught, and the greater long-term expense of keeping them in prison. So I look at it as a public service. Admittedly, there's a touch of irony in my service, since I too am a criminal!

I might seriously worry about such ironies, at least back in my normal life. But I'm not worried about it now precisely because I am a criminal! We're beyond the normal rules of behavior, one, and I extend that to questions of logic and consistency. If I need to off someone who isn't a criminal, I'll also have a justification for that, or maybe I won't. ...

But this isn't a place to get into the philosophy of criminality. I haven't got time for it. I'm too busy looking out for myself and my future, which appears to be well in hand.

As an example of what I mean, I've been up to see the Boss of the Skidrow organization, the Skids. I've been in his sights, the good ones, not his gun's. He noticed me, and he likes what he sees. He has a nice hotel room on the square. He's got security. I had to walk by a ton of guys to get to his room. Once there, he offered me refreshments and patted me on the back.

He said he liked the cut of my jib, praised me for having moxy on the ball, and said I was the cat's meow. I agreed, having a lot of self confidence, saying when they made me they threw away the mold. Then I made his day by saying, "When they cracked open the nut of life, they looked down and saw me waving, the meat of the goodie." He had to laugh, which seemed clear I reminded him of himself. He stuck out his hand and said, "Call me Tony."

I said, "Tony, I know your time is valuable. What did you call me here for?"

Unexpectedly, he handed me a gun, and told me to aim it at him. I did, putting the bead right on the Katastha (or Ajna) chakra, right between the eyebrows. He said, "You could be Mr. Big, just like that."

I stood there with steely resolve, feeling a thrill right in that same area of my face, with my spiritual sight descending (in Tony's head) from that point in an arc to the medulla oblongata, then centering in the point between those two poles. Obviously Tony had never seen that kind of intensity. I call it Kundalini Whispering. I use it to keep my dog calm, but you can just as easily drive people crazy. Then as quick as a wink, I diverted the gun to the right and blew a light bulb out of its socket. Immediately, one of the security guys barged in, but Tony waved him off, saying nonchalantly, "Ricky saw a fly, that's all."

When the guy left, I said, "Ricky? My name isn't Ricky. It's not even in the Ricky family of words." But Tony said, "You're Ricky!" I said, "OK, I'm Ricky. Ricky what?" Then he said, apparently having given the matter some thought: "Machine Gun Ricky Wayward."

"Wayward," I said, "like the wayward wind. I like it."

In short, I now had a cool name. Then he went on to explain to me, I was the new man in charge of the organization's "modeling agencies," "massage parlors," and "escort services." Maybe you know it better as prostitution, the skin trade, the old pokeroo for money business.

Masturbananda -- The Problem Of Depressed Libidos

In the face of all modern problems, we look for guidance to our guru, Swami Sri Masturbananda.

Recently, he's found himself teaching more and more on the problem of depressed libidos, and how it's had a negative effect on people's drive to seek out experiences of the Divine. While it hasn't had a discernible impact on his closest followers -- those constantly at their devotions -- for many of us in the hinterlands, and certainly for society as a whole, it's been troublesome.

We've been reading of the phenomenon of many more married couples sleeping in separate bedrooms. That's what's reported. And while there's been little data on unmarried couples, because of the obvious shame involved, it is widely suspected that they too -- even they -- have been less sexually active. And what is most unbelievable is that even teenagers have essentially given up. They're now keeping their hands busy texting.

There was an interesting article recently in the New York Times on "The Sex Drive, Idling in Neutral." We will never forget the stunning lede, a woman saying she wished she could pay someone to have sex with her husband -- since she's no longer into it -- but apparently there have been no takers, presumably leaving him to seek out other interests and hobbies.

This is all quite distressing, but Sri Masturbananda is leading the way with his teaching. He recommends constant exercise, constant diligence in our devotions. We must not give up, we must press on, and overcome our depressed libidos, if indeed that is our problem. Those of us who have been faithful know he speaks the truth.

The swami likens depressed libidos to flat tires, deflated basketballs, and shrunken heads. If we're going to make a journey, and we want to get from Point A to Point B, of course we can't do that on a flat tire. To do so would eventually shred the rubber from the wheel and the noise of driving on the bare rims would make the kids cry all the time. In basketball, were they to use a deflated ball, imagine how it'd slow the game down. Every dribble would go splat, meaning every time they picked it back up, they'd be called for double dribbling.  And as for shrunken heads, there is some value to having a smaller head; it keeps your brain from clunking around; but by and large, we want to keep the extra space for possible expansion.

Sri Masturbananda calls on us to remember our closeness to God, or rather, God's closeness to us. The opening of the fellowship we can have is seen especially in ecstatic glimpses as we await the final consummation. In this, our guru's teaching is frequently to pull away, then pull away. Ever looking upward, while periodically looking down to check our progress, we are to seek out the bliss of the heights.

(For women, it is said there is a corollary experience. Our counsel to women is to guide themselves after their own lights.)

The truth is, depressed libidos take us farther from the Divine. Because every time we give up, it makes that much more distance between us. And since we are looking at millions of incarnations before most of us have the full possession of blissful fellowship, anything you can do to cut that down is to your benefit. As for me, the night's still young...

But let's say you're just not in the mood. Yes, of course, that goes along with what we've been saying. That's what Masturbananda's teaching on the subject is meant to address. Even with depressed libidos, we can heed the guru's call and remember the actual closeness of God, then bear down and work on it. And who knows, perhaps the beginnings of stimulation will provoke a genuine interest in you that will only build. Then you're closer and closer to those climactic glimpses of the Divine and you're much happier.

His teaching in essence is, Be your own best friend until you find your best friend, in the Divine.

My Neutral Optimism Report

NIGHT:

I've been neutrally optimistic all day, letting things come as they will and receiving a positive outcome without necessarily hoping for it.

OK, to be honest, I'm not precisely THERE with this one, because there were some challenges where I found myself hoping for outcomes.

But the thought of being neutrally optimistic only left me a few times. At some critical times. Ooo, I didn't mean to be THIS honest.

OK, I admit it, I'm basically still at GO.

I jump when people say Boo.

The whole theory allows for that anyway, since I was saying the organism without what we call higher consciousness is neutrally optimistic.

I was checking out other references to being neutrally optimistic, and was pleasantly surprised to see it was covered in Yoga Journal.

Who knew I might say something that Yoga Journal would be into? I just saw a reference, but it was a nice thing to see.

I'm going to continue to work on it. Which is weird, because I was saying it seems that the way to do it would be NOT to work on it.

I'm afraid I'm up against a wall on that one, which might be a good place to be, because it's at the extremes that our instincts take over.

I'm going to have to depend on something beyond me, to allow for higher consciousness AND the neutral optimism of the organism.

So, the bottom line. I don't think I'm any farther than GO. But I'm not saying that's a bad thing.

GO is where the organism resides, right? If I'm at GO, that's where grace can happen.

Goodnight everyone. Try to be neutrally optimistic. Or try not to be neutrally optimistic and thereby attain it. It's a tricky one! Night!

Grandpa (Tell Me 'Bout the Good Old Days)

Those aren't tears streaming down my face. OK, they are tears -- I don't sweat that much.

So what's been tugging at my heartstrings today? Did I see a hen mothering an orphaned baby duck? No, the answer is less to be found in the realm of natural history and more in the realm of popular entertainment, culture, music to be specific, country music to be particular.

I've been listening to the Judds' song, "Grandpa (Tell Me 'Bout the Good Old Days)." It's an old favorite and a very touching song. You might remember it. "Take me back to yesterday when the line between right or wrong didn't seem so hazy." Then they remember back, asking about the greater family values, whether lovers really were in love, wondering if daddies really never went away, and if hens mothered orphaned baby ducks without some kind of egg subsidy from the government.

They explain to Grandpa that everything has changed, which is called progress, which might be a bad word for it. "Let's wander back into the past, and paint me a picture of long ago." "Did lovers really fall in love to stay, stand beside each other come what may..." I do remember those days, here with Grandpa and Grandma and everyone. There was the distance between my own parents and Grandpa and Grandma. Then Grandpa died and "he really went away."

The Kundalini family (my father received it as a monastic name in a yoga sect in California before meeting my mother, getting married by the guru, and having me) was spacey in many ways. We came back this way, to the Midwest. I ended up staying with my grandparents while they went on back to California and often to parts unknown. My dad's now passed away -- he "really went away," too -- and my mother is still alive, but sick and poor in California, apparently without much sentimentality, although once in a while she writes.

They were back, though, a few times, and we always had a nice time, especially with family meals, going hunting and fishing, and of course meditating. About meditation, that was a sore spot for the family -- Grandpa brought out many of his treasured cuss words to address the strangeness of it. He definitely didn't understand sitting in one spot doing nothing! So, yes, those were the good old days. Thank you, Judds, for bringing back all the great memories. Family estrangement, everyone going away, Grandpa's personality problems, government subsidized chickens, my sick mama, the works.