Spiritual Moments Tonight With My Walking Stick

Dear friends, you're looking at a beautiful walking stick of approximately 6 foot length. A walking stick that is doing me a lot of good.

It was cut off a tree one time by someone, someone I don't know, any sticks or nubbies on its surface were cut off and smoothed down, and it was polished, perhaps varnished, by a craftsman, I imagine according to Old World standards for such things.

Then it was set in a particular place, being on display for sale when I happened along, saw it, knew of its righteousness, selected, and bought it. It's been years now, quite a while, and this old stick and I have been through a lot together. I'll be collapsed and it'll be standing tall in the corner.

I don't use it much as a walking stick, but I do use it. I use it essentially in the same way I use my sacred swords, for one point tuning, adjusting my mental and spiritual acuity. (Link 1, when I was involved in the Grange orgies; Link 2, even using a back scratcher as sacred sword.) There's nothing that says sacred spinal channels for me like a good sword or walking stick. We work together as a team. I know them, they know me. In fact, sometimes I think, in the case of just this particular stick, contrary to how I described it above, that it chose me, I didn't choose it! I've sought for anyone who can prove it otherwise, but so far no one has.

But so often it does nothing but stand in the corner. It's always strong and composed but I'm convinced I make it sad. Because I can go long stretches simply neglecting my spiritual health, and neglecting it. These things all go together. We always think books, sacred spiritual books, are the key to spiritual health, and there's a lot of good content there, but at some point, it's all just yak yak yak. You need a good stick.

Look, we're made kind of like a stick or sword, ascending, reaching for the sky, and so one of these little numbers is just what the heavenly doctor ordered. Take two sticks (or one) and call me in the morning!

Anyway, I want to get to the spiritual moments I had with my walking stick tonight.

For the best maneuverability, the stick and I went to the backyard. It's been a nice evening. It's kind of a spiritual night in and of itself, since this is the night Daylight Savings Time begins. I think that means if you balance an egg on your nose at exactly 2:00 a.m., it won't fall off till you set your clock ahead. Meaning, if you don't have a clock, you'll be walking around with egg on your face all year. Something like that.

The stick took me out. I stood in the backyard holding it. Everything that follows was done very slowly. I turned it in a complete circle around me, picturing myself as the compass point in the middle as it made its circuit. This was to make myself invisible, so no one walking or driving by would be able to see me.

Invisibility completed, I worked through a series of 37 very specific exercises I do. I held the stick so it was aimed at my feet as they were rotated (one of the exercises). If I needed to move my arms from one side to the other, the stick went through the motions as well. And so forth. One especially great one is to picture energy going through specific body areas on the way to the neck muscles and head. Having the stick there really centered the energy in my spinal centers. I'm just glad I wasn't near a major body of water, because when it's built up like that, an energy spill could be disastrous.

Being done with the 37 steps, the stick found its way for pointing toward the cardinal directions. I derived great power from the East. Then I derived great power from the South. Next I derived great power from the West. As for the North, of course that's my least favorite direction, so even though there was a little bit of power derived, it came in sputtering and most of it fell to the ground before I could get it tucked away. The stick looked at me with a questioning look, but understood when I simply said, "North."

This was quite an evening. I really needed this. And it will do me good if I learned my lesson and not allow myself to become distant again when it comes to spirituality and the inner life. Because it's all connected with life in its totality and the kind of life we all desire. Frankly, what I've been doing has dissipated my energies. I hate to say what it's been, but here goes, lots of Sudoku puzzles. They're very hard. But that's not the biggest problem, the biggest problem is how much time they take to do! You barely have time to squeeze in the Jumble.

The Smells I Smell

I've written several times about an occasional problem I have. I'll just give two links. My Nose Sniffing Things and Smell Hallucinations. The latter article is best because it quotes some earlier pieces.

To a certain extent, the problem has manifested itself again, but, thankfully, not as bad. Still, it's noticeable enough that I'm thinking about it.

Just to recap how far back this goes at this point, it was September or October of 2008, a long time back! It seems like it wasn't till after the first of the year, apparently March 2009, that I read on the internet that one of the causes of olfactory hallucinations might be brain tumors. So the good news for me is if this is brain tumors, I've done pretty well! Brain tumors are out, my own diagnosis.

In those first months, I was convinced that what I smelled was really there. I was buying peroxide, I was buying Oust air freshener, I was scrubbing under my desk, scrubbing the floors. I poured peroxide all over the hardwood floors and mopped it up. The Oust treatment in my reading room was the worst, because it left a thin film of Oust all over everything, of course including the books. I asked someone else if she smelled all these weird odors and she said she didn't. It was very hard to believe.

The very first manifestation of the problem happened when I was visiting family out of town. I could've sworn that something literally died in my pants. It was crazy. No one was saying anything, but I figured that was out of kindness. I was repeatedly changing pants, changing underwear, all without saying anything about it to anyone. But none of it really did any good.

Isn't that freaky? It makes you think you can't trust your senses.

As I said, more recently the odors have been back, but not nearly to the degree of before. But I am definitely catching whiffs of things that smell like they ought to be hosed down, defumigated, set out in the trash, and reported to the health department. Everything is suspect. I'd love to know more about the alchemy of odors, of combinations, and how perceptions of odors work. And what anyone else thinks about this problem.

When I'm out and about and catching these odd whiffs, something always occurs to me, that they're hard to describe. I can never pinpoint what it smells like. Because they don't really smell like anything you can compare them to. The potential seems to be there, though, for anything wafting through the room to mix with something else and to be transformed into a third, more angular stench. Maybe it's a plate of food from the next table mixing with your plate of food's smell. By the time it gets to your nostril, odor-wise it's brown with big claws.

Now, just imagine what it's like to walk by: An aquarium, a coat rack, a pizza restaurant, a shower, a bathroom period, or what your hand might smell like after shaking hands with someone. 

We always like to think, and I usually assume, that my reality is the same as everyone else's. Of course there are great differences in how we think about the same body of facts. Truth to me seems obvious, but my Republican enemies have a totally different take. This is simply a difference in opinion in the nose, or more accurately, a different of opinion between the nose and the brain. My guess, something in the brain gets an odd stimulus from somewhere and so what is normal becomes wacky.

Yet some things are completely normal, so it's a mystery.

The Man Can Be Totally Crazy

Here's an interesting poster on the bulletin board, a call to participate in psychological research. The female partner must be without cardiovascular, immune, or psychological disorders. So it sounds like they're looking for a sickly man with heart problems, various immune problems, and he could potentially already be committed somewhere. Just so he has a cell phone, texts, and is available for one hour.

The Virus That's Me

The McAfee virus scanner suggested installing itself today while updating Java. I don't usually update Java because I had a few problems with it in the last couple years saying it's already installed. But there was McAfee, even though I already have Norton presumably doing a good job. There's something incongruous about a virus scanner being sneaky.

Today, though, I'm thinking of the virus that's me. I'm coughing occasionally -- hopefully on the healing side of bronchitis. The doctor didn't think it was bad enough for antibiotics, but I got some other meds. Which are about gone, although I still have some bad moments. Yesterday was bad for multiple coughs and distinct balls of phlegm right out of my lungs.

A few massive coughs in public and people might not want to be around me. Except they cough once in a while too (I haven't heard any yet but I'm listening to music with headphones, Yoko Ono's "Yes, I'm A Witch.") But I'm hoping everyone around me may be socialized enough to withstand any disease I may have.

I'm such an average person my diseases must be average too. I hear kids in daycare are better off if they're around sick kids. And I haven't always been alone.

Still, I feel funny about blowing my nose on a tissue or napkin and leaving it behind for a waitress to dispose of. I hope when they do they wash their hands. 1) They might be passing my germs to someone else. 2) They may have passed on someone else's to me before.

We're in a socialized environment and there's no real safety -- except just to face it boldly. I don't use bacterial wipes at the grocery store anymore. It's such an arbitrary thing since there's a million other things I'm touching, gas pumps, books in the library, etc. The fact that I wipe my mouth or nose then use these things suggests to me that everyone else does it too.

Another fact is I don't get sick that often. So I've been fortunate, or socialized in the right way. I'm not a boy in a bubble.

Am I a virus for society in other ways? Not really, I'm not doing anything society can't handle. It's been OK so far. Among the other reasons I'm not a virus to society are, 1) I want to be a credit to my family; and, 2) I'm saving my viability for some possible future now indistinct. But for those two things, something could be unleashed that would sicken the whole world.

The Jolly Wagon

Right outside my door here, on the road, the Jolly Wagon used to make its way up the road and back.

We were fortunate the road was (and is) a dead end, because it always gave us a second chance to get a dime and some ice cream.

It's cruel fate -- or the changing of ice cream merchandising (the big convenience stores could be blamed) -- that now that I'm an adult with a whole pocket of change that the Jolly Wagon doesn't come by anymore.

I'd like to think it's in a garage somewhere, even if its rusted out and setting up on blocks. Because, who knows, I might go to a garage sale and happen to see it there and get another looksie at it. Even though I think I remember it sufficiently to picture it. I'm mentally picturing something right now that at least sort of looks like it.

Its basic color before it rusted out and lost its wheels was white. It had red print on the sides and I believe a pleasant picture. It said Jolly Wagon. It had a truck seat, I believe the sides were open, and a refrigerated unit was in back (all this was of a piece). There were two wheels in back and one in front, in the center.

The song it played as it went by was, "I married the girl with the strawberry curl and the band played on." It was a happy song if you got a dime and only happy as a matter of memory if you didn't. If I had any brains, I would've been born to a family that spoiled me rotten. I'd be a big fat waddling ice cream giant, assuming the Jolly Wagon also went to the nicer neighborhoods.

Some time over the years, I lost track, it quit coming. Us kids grew up and weren't out there anymore. But weren't there other kids to take our place? What may have happened, I can't pretend to know. Maybe it really was the big convenience store powers, or merchandising shifts, or the Jolly man may have mismanaged his books, or hired an assistant who ate all the profits. Or maintenance needs on the wagon may have gotten the best of him. He got in so deep, he couldn't get out, and jolliness turned to despair.

I just thought of this -- maybe he died. That would about do it, if the widow couldn't sell or wouldn't sell, or if there was no buyer. That'd explain how it ended up in a garage with no wheels. Since inactivity is always the demise of tires. Likewise, there's no surer way to lose something to rust than to turn your back on it. Time does the rest.

Then his kids probably wouldn't want to be Jolly Wagon guys. They would've likely had better jobs, with families to support. And it's hard to do that with a pocket full of dimes.

Let's just assume the guy was old at the time. He probably enjoyed giving gum and chocolate to native kids in the war. So he gets the idea here at home what to do. Then he sees a Jolly Wagon ad in a merchandising magazine (Billboard?), takes his lawn mowing money and buys one, more or less as a hobby and to do good for us kids. But it's not something that's easily handed down once you die. Can anyone think of a second generation Jolly Wagon operation?

That's something. Every guy who gets it in mind to be a Jolly Wagon driver has to start from scratch. The trucks never last more than the 15 years (overestimating) it takes for the guy to die or get burnt out or for the kids to grow up.

I don't think it'd be for me -- for several reasons. The kids these days might steal it and I'd have to walk home. Because they're more prone these days to steal and kill. Everything's a video game for them, as is well known, and you're just a target for their insatiable blood-lust. They might not even like ice cream today -- too sedate a treat. They'd prefer hot wings and a can of beer. I'll just say it, they're bad rubbish, ruined by crummy parents of one of the generations that followed mine.

Anyway, I have my happy memories. I can still see the sun shining through the maple leaves as they swayed in the wind. Here comes the Jolly Wagon! The music, we can hear it! I'm happy, and I don't stop to contemplate an unhappy future. Those concerns don't exist. I simply look at the thin shiny dime in my hand and run with the other kids to get our cool treat.

I'm the same guy now but I wasn't thinking at the time. I could've warned the Jolly Wagon guy about what was to be his fate.

Would I Like To Be Friends With Bob Dylan?

Would I like to be friends with Bob Dylan? I think that's an interesting question, since we're both living, breathing mortals, why couldn't we be friends? There's a big difference, of course, in that I'm thinking about being friends with Bob Dylan, but Bob Dylan isn't thinking about being friends with me.

I had this same thought and wrote about it in 2009 when Bob Dylan was being picked on by the police for something, being suspicious on a sidewalk or something. And somewhere I wrote about what it'd like to talk to Paul McCartney -- same kind of thing -- once you said "Hello," where could it go from there? There's all kinds of problems.

But why Bob Dylan today? I was looking at a boxed set of CDs they recently put out and came that close to buying it. Then as I was driving home I was thinking about the whole thing of buying music. Say you had a bunch of CDs by someone, then you met them and they treated you like crap, would you ever still be able to listen to them again? Or would you break them and throw them in the trash -- not the recycling, note, but the trash?

I've heard Bob Dylan can be a little off on being friends with people. I don't know if that's the best way to put it. Well, if so, we have that in common. I'm actually a very friendly guy, but quite frankly I don't meet that many people who want to be friends with me. Maybe I'm not trying that hard, or maybe it's just very hard to actually make and be friends. I don't know what the problem is. I didn't have any problem in school or in college, not very much. But you get to be an adult, you're separated from that daily contact, etc., and next thing you know, you're out there alone.

As for a guy like Bob Dylan, then, let's say, he's famous, and so he might be suspicious of anyone hanging around him. Like, "Do people want to be around me because I'm Bob Dylan or because of some other innocent reason?" That's a great question. Because notice I'm not writing this article about Joe Blow, although, by the way, I wouldn't mind being friends with him either. I'm not saying much about Joe because there wouldn't be that many weird logistical reasons why our friendship could never be as there would be potentially with Bob. I was actually driving up the way on the way home and saw some random guy and was thinking he looked like he'd be a decent friend to have. And being a local guy, he seems more realistic than Bob.

Now, let's say Bob Dylan suddenly wanted to be friends with me. I think I'd be OK with that. But I could anticipate all sorts of problems coming out of the fact that I've been listening to his records for decades and he's never heard of me. I really don't listen to them all that often, but you know what I mean. Then there's the vast difference in experience. He's traveled the world and eaten backstage a lot. I've been right here in town. I was backstage in church at a puppet show once but there wasn't any food.

What would we talk about? I might talk about this right here. Although that'd be over in 10 minutes, then what? Well, if we were actually friends, we'd just watch TV, play cards, or whatever. It'd be as boring as could be probably. The last time I had a close friend like that, the way I remember it, we walked around, made jokes, laughed, hung out down by the river, listened to records, ate, went out, talked about the news, dreamed about books we were going to write, etc. It was very natural.

Am I starstruck about Bob Dylan? Not really. But when you see someone's boxed set, it's worth considering, If I bought that and ran into this guy, would he like me in return?

A Day For Staring Down A Well

Today would be a good day for staring down a well. But I haven't got one to stare down. We have a well in the backyard, of course, but there's no hole to stare down.

Maybe a mirror would do sort-of just as well, except it lacks that watery reflection I'd like. Maybe a pan of water would be good, except it's not a well.

Ack! Maybe just being along near a stream would be good, if you didn't look up and see someone else walking by. A stream that was running slowly enough to get a good view of yourself looking back, that'd be good. That'd be a good way to be literally reflective on the course of your life.

I haven't had enough streams or wells. I don't remember ever staring in a well, now that I think of it. But it'd sure be a welcome diversion if I had one.

What's the problem? I'm need to get in touch with something different than what I've got going on. Something more.

Surveilling Crunchy

I was at the library, and I wish I'd thought of this earlier. But suddenly I had the thought, that I ought to be keeping track of this guy we've been calling Crunchy.

With the thought -- as he was going stack to stack -- I got out my trusty pen. I was just bragging this morning about the pen -- a pink pen -- that I've had it a long time without losing it, a rarity for me. But guess what, suddenly the pen was broken, missing the nub, or it was pushed in and the very end broken off. I had no choice but to rely on my memory or get one of the little pencils they always have in libraries. That's what I did.

Next, I spotted Crunchy and went over and sat right across from him. I got my notebook and just then, literally at that second, he picked up his stuff and left. So my surveillance for the day was ended before it began.

But backtracking, here's what I saw: Him seated, him wandering around, him checking out items either off the shelves, the tables, or the racks.

I should say how we came to give him the name Crunchy. This is a flashback: A couple weeks ago (or so) I and the Pink Professor were at the library. We've been going there and perusing the goods. I like to read the first few pages of a few books. Then I see something else and make a beeline for it. I actually did read an entire book the other day, a story of a North Korean spy in South Korea who suddenly gets what appears to be an order to return home.

Anyway, the P.P. and I were at the library. He was already seated and I came into that particular area. My eyes then met this guy with long gray hair and a big gray beard. I averted my eyes quickly, since that freaks me out. I sat with my back to him. What followed was unpleasant. I kept hearing the rustling of paper, making the sound of presents being unwrapped, and this guy giggling. He'd then get up, go into the stacks, then return within seconds to repeat the whole process. I was looking up at the P.P. and making facial expressions, like, "WTF?" If I were to turn around, my smart aleck remark might have been, "Happy birthday, I hope you got everything you wanted."

After a while I couldn't stand it anymore. So I got up and glanced around. He had the inner liner bag of a box of cereal out by itself and was eating cereal from it. It made the crunching noise whenever he reached in. I went to a different area where I could read in peace. Later we were talking about the guy and the P.P. nicknamed him Crunchy.

Over the last few weeks, then, I've been there several times, and usually Crunchy's there too, sans the cereal.

Today I was there, as I said. I was reading some strange quaint things in a book by a guy from Tasmania, I glanced up and saw Crunchy going into the stacks. A few seconds later he was on the other side of the room coming from the opposite stacks, and it reminded me of the movie scenes where guys are running in and out of doors and coming out on the opposite side of the hallway. I messaged the P.P., "Crunchy's here." He messaged me back, "Munch munch munch."

A few seconds later's when it occurred to me like a lightning bolt that if I want strange quaint things, all I need to do is look up and watch this guy!

So I got myself in position, as stated above, to do surveillance on him, and that's when he left. Or did he? I saw him get up and go a certain direction. But I started thinking, Is there a door there? Maybe he's downstairs. I went downstairs and looked for him but there was no sign. (I didn't check the bathroom.)

Oh well, I'll leave it to another day, if he does anything interesting. As for today, it looks like there's nothing much to report.

Enjoy Your Youth -- It's About Over

There's two forces at work in the matter of young people: 1) New people are being born everyday, babies; 2) The rest of us are getting older. Even the young are getting older.

I want to address each of these topics in random order, with an ultimate eye toward making some point yet to be determined. Since there's only two points, and to start with 1 would mean examining them sequentially, and I said I wanted to address them randomly, we'll start with 2. Or reverse order.

The fact that the rest of us are getting older, and I generally think of myself specifically, is most often a topic of concern for us. Because we're not having children, and the concerns of whoopee, conceiving, gestating, and parturition are behind us, if not something we never experienced. But we do experience the aging process.

The aging process is our common experience, and likely always will be as long as time itself passes. And there appears to be no serious effort afoot to slow down or reverse time. We can do a lot of things -- break the sound barrier, dam the ocean, make carp palatable, and even store oxygen in tanks -- but no one, possibly excluding Einstein, has figured out a way to stop time. For one, the powerful clock lobby would never allow it.

The fact is, aging is what happens to all of us. We're sitting in a chair, putting off our times of exercise, and we keep doing that long enough, next thing you know there's cobwebs stretching from the lamp to us, and all the pages of the calendar have long since flown off and lie scattered around the room. There's a terrible stillness in the room -- not even a mouse -- it's the sound of nothing. Just today, I caught myself staring at the wall, and when I finally looked away, it was tomorrow.

You do hear some young people crowing about their youth. "I'm young, you're old," as though they don't get the relativity of the whole thing. There's a baby in the hospital who could legitimately say to them, "You're young? No, you're old." And so on. They're caught in a trap from which there's no escape: You're never absolutely young or absolutely old. It's all comparative. Compared to PJ in The Family Circus, we're all old, and compared to John McCain, we're all young.

But there are babies being born everyday, to the joy of obstetricians, disposable diaper manufacturers, and shoe bronzers. It also seems like a big deal to the parents. Why is a good question, since now they're bogged down for at least the next 18 years, and probably, with some of the snot-nose, irresponsible little brats we see everywhere, till the little hellions are 40 or in prison first. You can pray for death, but with government interference through the immunizations they force on us, they tend to survive.

Our theme here, though, is being old and being young. Kids when they're born are considered very young. And so it goes, they age right along with the rest of us, the process never stopping. The ultimate point is to enjoy your youth while you can, because one of these days you'll be sitting there and you'll suddenly realize all the way to your soul, you're just a corpse waiting to happen.

Four Good Looking Women And An Egg Suspended

I stepped out for lunch and when I got home, all of a sudden I had five new unfollowers on Twitter. But it appears none of them actually unfollowed me, but all were suspended. So what do we have here, four good looking women and one about to hatch out.

I wonder what they did wrong. It's too bad about the egg. It seems like she should have life for at least a day.

Line Up With Bear -- Old Printers Cuts

I was looking at some old phone books, just out of my normal archival interests, and was enchanted by the old printers cuts in the yellow pages.

This one with the bear is one I remember clearly from when I was a kid. I grew up around printing presses, type cases, and printers cuts, and this little bear was a common one. At my place, though, it was a tricky business to get a new cut if you needed one, because we couldn't make them ourselves. They had to be ordered. So it's still refreshing to me to be able to make a scan and JPG and see it instantly! Like the Polaroid of printing...

The bear -- and this part I had forgotten, if I ever knew it -- had to do with car alignments. You'll notice I fuzzed out the two-digit phone number, so none of you will call this particular garage looking for service.

Here's a bigger cut. It came in any size you wanted, of course, as long as you bought it. Since the printing business I was involved in was very small (shoestring), we didn't always have various sizes of anything. But the phone company could afford to do whatever they wanted, so they had at least two of this one!

A few months ago ... this was weird ... I don't have any printers cuts anymore ... but somehow there must have been one in amongst some of my junk, which then, by the weirdest coincidence, somehow ended up in the driveway. This was right at the time that I had a washing machine for sale. The guy who came to buy it looked down and saw the cut in the driveway. He picked it up and asked me if I knew what that was. Do I know what it is? LOL, but how it got there, I have no idea. Coincidental osmosis, must have been.

The coincidence goes on, in that the guy himself had a printing business years ago, and knew all about the various letterpresses, type cases, pica poles, slugs, Ludlows, and cuts. Out of all the people in the world to show up in your driveway -- and to have a printers cut make a rare appearance in the driveway at the same time -- had to be an old printer. There's some very weird things that still happen.

We had a nice conversation about that. Then his friend with the truck showed up, he got the washer and was gone. I tossed the little cut in the garbage. I have no use for it.

It was great to open the old phone book (1954) and see the little bear, and a bigger version as well.

Note: Here's a nice article on the bear graphic.

The Gold Standard

I keep driving by places that have signs saying they'll buy gold. And I wonder how that would go, since I still have a tooth-thing, a bridge (I guess it's called), out of Grandpa's mouth. He had to have some other dental work and they took this gold thing out. Now that he's long dead, it'd be OK to part with it.

I keep thinking I maybe should take it in and see what I could get for it. Because isn't gold something like $1,300 an ounce. Whether this is an ounce or not, at least it's something. And it might be an ounce, since a thick letter is an ounce. I could probably put it on the mail scale.

OK, that's one temptation, take it in and sell it. But I'm reluctant for a couple reasons. 1) I don't want these gold dealers to be scoundrels just out to cheat an ignorant public out of their gold. They might fast talk me and next thing you know I'd be walking out of there with 10 bucks. "This is an inferior grade of gold commonly called fool's gold," etc., etc. And, 2) If I sell it now, I won't have it for later if the survivalists are all right and paper money suddenly becomes worthless. This one gold bridge might keep me in groceries for a couple days 20 years from now.

How exactly, though, we're supposed to buy stuff with gold is something I really can't figure out. If I had a big bar of gold bullion -- What? -- am I supposed to carry it around and have chunks sliced off every time I want to buy something? That's no good. How would they give me my change? A few little specks of gold powder? I don't know how it's supposed to work.

Then someday there I am in the store with Grandpa's gold tooth, and they're telling me it's too bad he chewed on it so much because now it's just about worthless. Or there's some other problem. Everyone else is rushing through the speed lane with their piles of gold and I'm standing there with complications. They might even complain there's still little bits of petrified food stuck in the grooves and that taints the purity. No one wants to get that in their change, a piece of 35 year old pork chop.

The FBI Was Here Yesterday

Two days ago, a lady was at the door. She reached her hand out for a handshake, then announced she represented a carpet cleaning agency. Of course I sent her packing, because one thing I don't like, as is well known, is anything to do with the corrupt, fly-by-night carpet industry. I'm sure I bruised her feelings.

Then yesterday, a distinguished looking gentlemen in a suit is knocking at the door. I'm wondering, What now?, when he announces he's from the FBI and shows his ID and a big gold badge the size of a round sled. I'm suddenly thinking, "FBI? What'd that lady accuse me of? Those darned carpet people!"

I mean, at that point I couldn't think of anything else it might be. Then I had a chilling thought, that time I checked out a VHS tape from the library and dubbed off a copy, when it clearly said, "The FBI investigates and prosecutes every case of dubbing copyrighted video tapes, with no statute of limitations. We'll follow you to the grave and beyond." But I wasn't going to bring up the subject. I was really hoping that tape was one of the ones that was water damaged and thrown away. Let them rummage through the dump looking for it if they want to make a case that bad!

To avert any and all suspicion, I played it real casual, "The FBI? That's something you don't see everyday. And, no, I'm not hiding Al Capone in my garage." As you'll recall, I mentioned that I was reading a book on Al Capone back in January, so that might've raised suspicions. Technically, I was telling the truth, since I haven't got him in my garage.

He took it as a joke, which, looking at it now, I guess I can see that.

So if he wasn't looking for the dubbed VHS tape, and they're still looking for Capone somewhere else, what did he want? It turned out he was simply doing a background check on a guy I didn't know. So I wasn't able to be of much assistance.

Still, here I was with an FBI agent! And that's something! I've always thought I'd make a pretty good crime fighter myself. I've always had the ability to deduce things like Sherlock Holmes. I can't actually see the gas in my car, but with just a glance, I can read the gas gauge and deduce that it's time to go to the bank for another loan.

I wanted him to sit and visit a while and maybe tell me some of his adventures. I would've wanted to know what he had to do to become an agent. I would've pointed out the irony, assuming he needed his own background check, that here he is now doing background checks on other guys! It's a vicious cycle!

But just because I wanted him to stay, that didn't mean he could. He had places to go and people to arrest. So just like that, he was gone, and I was left with the thrill of two things, one, that I'd met an FBI agent, and, two, that no matter what I did in the past, it looks like I got away with it!

Everyone Living In Harmony

Today is a day for humanitarianism, celebrating the greatness and possibilities of all people, seeking that they might live together in perfect harmony. And barring that, that they would keep their killing instincts to a minimum.

I felt compelled to do something today, and I went downtown to do it, but then ended up not doing it. Still, it was a lovely gesture, I hope you'll agree. The intention was to do 'man on the street' interviews, then in the course of these to hug everyone.

The feeling still hasn't entirely faded as I write this at 7:35 p.m. I really wanted to do it, to reach out and to hug each one, every hunched over specimen, every free flower I saw. I looked around to see who I might see. I saw some stiff shirts coming my way -- a few with their top button buttoned -- and figured I'd have to avoid them. But everyone else...

Let me make this clear right up front. There was to be no sex involved, which would be a violation of the spirit of the thing. What I had in mind was simply humanitarianism, no strings attached, whether the recipients would've been at work or at play, young or old.

Before I went downtown, I got myself psyched for it by listening to a few pure tones, then reflecting on the vibration of everything. These were imaginary tones, since I can hear them clear as a bell just by sitting peacefully and listening. What I find in those moments is a mystical purity, which then I'm able to match up perfectly as an abiding presence in the spirits of people.

Another good thing to have done -- had I actually done anything -- would've been to hand out flowers. People would be suspicious, of course, since we're trained that way, to suspect the intentions of everyone we meet. And I'm the same way. If someone came up to me to give me a hug and a flower on the street, I'd be very leery. "What is this, some kind of pervert? Some kind of street theater? Some kind of hidden camera show? Something they're going to expect money for? Are they picking my pocket?" But of course since it was me, I knew my intentions were good and hoped that everyone else would know it too.

It's easy to be suspicious, again, because we're trained for it. We know there's a ton of criminals out there just aching to take what is ours. I go around town all the time patting my pocket where I keep my wallet and checkbook. Because any dishonest cretin could sidle up to you and take them. Maybe a little diversion, a distraction, a fast talking hustler meeting you from one direction while another guy comes up and -- oops -- bumps you, and there goes your valuables.

It's all very depressing, what we think of each other. Especially when I have that aching, that yearning to hug everyone and be a humanitarian in practice as well as in theory. I see people walking by and I want to show them the full respect due their nature. And that's huge! We're beholding Universal Consciousness in action, and that's something I cherish. Listen for the pure tone, then read that truth again, it's Universal Consciousness! In all of us. (Although I would exclude a few from my ministrations, including Charles Manson, Sirhan Sirhan, the asshole who killed John Lennon, and all Republican politicians.)

But the others! Good God, how terrific it'd be to hold them in my arms, like a mother or father, and appreciate them. To give them that respite on the street and let them know that someone cherishes them for themselves and for their nature. I'd seek out folks on narrow streets, crooked streets, wide boulevards, those who are peeing in alleys (after waiting for them to finish), people crossing on the green, on the red, and the quick ones on the yellow, people with strong auras, people with weak ones, and even those who are blank and expressionless, the living dead. Even those who button their top button and walk like they might shatter, if I could get up the courage.

If you see me standing there -- in the process of wanting to do this -- please give me a wave. You might be the first one I hug.