What A Great Imagination

I'm still wound up -- I haven't unwound yet -- from my imaginary visit to Skidrow a couple days ago. I've looked back at it, what I wrote, well over a hundred times, and each time I'm filled with many different emotions and memories. It touches me to read it, the complexity of the various relationships and settings (1), and yet the simplicity and sparseness of description that allows for the reader to fill in the scene from his or her own imagination.

It's a five star production. Is there room for growth? I'm not saying there's not; progress is good. But I think I did it in such a way that whatever growth I may yet attain will be only for the purpose of making better what is already very excellent. If you haven't read it yet, I urge you to do so. It's really like you're there, and that's what good writing is meant to do. They were right when they said I had imagination; I might add, I also have the wherewithal to do something with it.

A lot of people have an imagination, of course. But look and see if they have the wherewithal to do something with it. In general, they don't. They're stifled at some point. Maybe stage fright, always second guessing themselves, fear of censure. Usually this comes from issues that were first raised during potty training. But it goes on from there, like when they draw a complete blank during tests, or are withdrawn during school dances. Not me. It's just like how I ended yesterday's reflections on the previous day's post, by pumping my fist and shouting "Yeah! Yeah!" It's not just that I can do it, I know I can do it.

When you know you can do something, nothing can stand in your way. I'm the same in, say, climbing. I can climb trees, houses, trellises, up on roofs, up poles, lookout towers, ladders -- you name it. I do have fear, but I term it cautionary fear; I know that a part of good climbing is to respect heights; it's not just to be reckless. Someone reckless can't climb that well because, being likely to fall they're too afraid. There's some value in being reckless, in that you have initial confidence. But when recklessness fails is when that confidence lacks caution. I hew the middle path. That's why I can climb so well. See what I'm saying? You know you can do it. And caution allows you to succeed.

And I think I exercised very reasonable caution when it came to Skidrow. I didn't actually go there, although I confessed I like to drive on the south of that block and peek down it, but I went there in my imagination. I knew I could do it that way; I kept my caution, which kept the danger in check; and I came out with something that has now stood unchallenged (except my own suggested tweaks) for two days. No one has challenged me, because what could they reasonably say?

When I challenge myself it's just to improve what's being done. Progress is something I believe in. I feel this is a very important subject. I shall have more to say.

My Fun Imagination

That was fun -- but I probably don't have to tell you, it was exhausting -- yesterday when I wrote about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. I felt like I was sweating blood. I definitely had a trickle of it on my forehead. There were some scary parts. At one point my nose was running.

My nose has been running in the last hour too. I'm not 100% sure why, because my abilities to diagnose things as a physician are still in their formative stages. Since I'm having olfactory hallucinations, though, the nasal drip is probably related to that. Everything's fairly tame as far as "the hallies" are going. So please don't think you're about to lose me. I haven't had it checked out. But I swear, if I do see any other signs of a brain tumor, I will go to the doctor, or, at the very least, see what I can get for it over the counter.

What I'm doing for it now is simply blowing my nose -- I blew my nose, let's see, about 35 minutes ago. Then there wasn't a waste basket, so I'm thinking, should I just put the tissue anywhere, like here or there? No, I thought, because my room's getting to be a pit, with books and papers and things strewn about. I'm wearing a jacket so I just stuck the tissue in my pocket, thinking I would dispose of it properly when I got near a waste basket, but then when I did I forgot, so I still have it in my pocket.

OK, getting back to my fun imagination. I had the whole thing yesterday of the imaginary trip to Skidrow -- I'm calling it a visit. I've thought of it a hundred times since. I really liked (in a clinical way only) the setting of the bar that I visited in my imagination. I've been wondering if I was too hard on the woman at the end of the bar. I mentioned how soiled and rumpled her dress was, and more than a little insinuated she was a hooker. I called her loose and seemed to suggest that she'd been bed hopping through most of the day. Maybe I shouldn't have layed it on so thick.

Some of the rest -- were I to read it in someone else's imaginary blog -- I might say sounded like a lot of cliches from movies we've all seen. But in my case, since I know what I imagined, I was trying to sidestep the movie cliches. A million of them occurred to me. The guys at the pool table. I could have described them as tattooed, mustachioed, swarthy, sweaty, beady-eyed, greasy-haired, shiftless, disheveled; chalking their sticks repeatedly, pacing around the table looking for angles, using the bridge at key moments in the game; casting menacing shadows from the light above, etc. But I didn't say that. I kept it subtle yet evocative of a thousand images, when I said, simply, "Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls." That's just right as far as I'm concerned.

If I overdid it at all, it'd have to be with the guy making the pizza at the scuzzy pizza parlor. But I was getting near the end and I think I was just overeager to leave the reader with a memorable image, like a dagger to the heart. A dagger to the heart is something you don't forget. So, yes, rereading it just now...

Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. I'd guess he hates himself, at some level. This was my big chance at life, and I ended up on Skidrow, making pizzas for lowlifes, which I also happen to be. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block.

I can see where I should have ended it, or what could have been excluded easily. Just omit everything from "I'd guess he hates" through "I also happen to be." That's a lot more evocative. Reading it like this I get goosebumps: "Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block." That's a thing of beauty.

So, that's it for the day. My fun imagination wins out again. [Pumping my fist in the air]. Yeah, yeah!

An Imaginary Trip To Skidrow

[The events and descriptions in this article about Skidrow are imaginary. None of my morals was violated in its writing.]

There is a place I never want to go, where I should never go. That is Skidrow, that section of our town, a block, mostly one side of the block, that is given over to derelicts, bars, and fly by night carpet stores.

I used to drive by the jail and look at the prisoners holding on to the barred window. That's another place I never want to go, except to look at prisoners in their misery. When it comes to Skidrow, even though I never want to go there, I still like to drive by and peek down that street to see if anyone's in the gutter.

In this particular trip [which did not really happen], I came toward it from the south and drove down that block. I might describe it like this: It is as though a film was slowed down and my pace became very slow, languid to the point of all noise and happenings in the vicinity being, respectively, like a low growl and only incrementally occurring. The only thing moving at normal speed was me personally, not in progress in my car, but in my mind and my eyes. I could look about rapidly, taking in each detail. I could process the information thus received with blazing speed.

First, I look at the buildings. It occurs to me that they must have been built by actual optimistic builders. Carpenters, bricklayers. Was it their dream to build what would later become such a scuzzy part of town? I doubt it. They would have been contracted to do the work based on the investments of one or more entrepreneurs at the time, who had their individual hopes for what the district would be.

The entrepreneurs' primary goal would surely have been to make money, either with their own businesses in the area or by renting and possibly selling the buildings to other merchants. Whether it would make a difference to them what the businesses were and what sort of place it became in time, of course I can't say entirely. But just as there are scumbags in our present generation, it's reasonable to assume that some of these entrepreneurs (and merchants) of that earlier time were also scumbags.

Let's just say it up front. Any man who wishes to open a brothel, just to mention one business, is a scuzzy guy. The same goes for plenty of these lowlife businesses that polite society wishes would go away and not exist. Bail bondsmen, bars, fly by night carpet stores, tattoo parlors, brothels, pool halls, very rundown pizza parlors, fences, drug runners -- it's enough to make my skin crawl. Vermin businesses. The buildings are shabby. There's a tipped over garbage can in the alley.

In this imaginary drive, I see some of the denizens of this district, coming out of bars, patting each other on the back. One guy has his right leg behind him, his foot on the building. He smokes.

I direct my eyes on this one bar and imagine myself going in. There's a cigarette setting on the side of a pool table. Smoke drifts up and confuses the light. Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls. The bartender wipes glasses. He stands in front of many bottles of liquor. A loose woman with a low, husky voice sits at the other end. She looks up at the TV, sometimes paying attention to a professional wrestling show. Usually she's worrying that glass, almost drunk down to the ice cubes, and alternately puffing at a "ciggie." It's like she's waiting for someone, like she probably does several times a day. I notice the dress is rumpled and not clean. There are other patrons working through their paychecks, receiving liquor by the drink.

Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. I'd guess he hates himself, at some level. This was my big chance at life, and I ended up on Skidrow, making pizzas for lowlifes, which I also happen to be. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block.

Pull The Plug

Pull the plug. The patient is dead. The patient is barely breathing. All hope seems about gone. He's slipping away. He's looking to the left, where dying people always look. Or to the right, where they sometimes look. He's clawing at the air. His eyes are rolled back in his head.

I'm looking down. I can hear the death rattle. That tells you something, that his air flow is restricted. Too much gunk somewhere. The lungs are like breathing sacks, but if they're full of mucous they can't move freely. The death rattle takes place when the fullness is nearly complete, when suctioning doesn't do any good because the production of harmful byproducts is too great.

I'm looking down. Thinking how it always goes with them. They're in a bad way. It raises a question. I always have this question. Why do we talk about "they" and "them"? It's the same as in our nature. We're all wired to fail. The system can't go on. Everything's in a state of permanent decay. I've got cavities in my teeth. I've probably got free-floating rogue cells too. The doctor's not really checking you entirely. He taps your knee and sees your reflexes are OK. That means you're OK.

I look right at the cranium, the forehead area, about at the hairline or an inch or so above the hairline. Where is the soul going to exit? Will it be going through that spot, or more from the back of the head? We don't know, except my intuition tells me it's one of those places. Maybe the center of the head. Definitely the head. Unless it's somewhere else. They weighed a body and determined the soul weighs .0010 of an ounce.

I stare into the closed eyes of the dying man. I concentrate. I send the rays of concentration. I try to communicate with the soul without speaking. "Soul, hear me. Be released."

A nurse comes in. "Follow the light!" she says loudly. "Go to Jesus!" she says. She actually said that. "We'll get along OK," a family member says. "Don't worry." "We love you."

Someone steps in to moisten his lips. You don't want to die with dry lips. I don't know anyone who would.

Akashic Records And Salt Pork

I wasn't getting very far in recalling details of my dream about The Ideal Woman from Redfield. My memories are very shallow. This would be a good time to remember what I said a few weeks about about the Interior Castle, but I'm not really recalling that either. I could look it up. But let me try to restate it on the fly. There's stuff up here, meaning what I can visualize, like a car, the picture of a car. Then there's stuff up there, also visualized but without entirely conscious thought. It just is. Getting there can be tricky. But the basic move is to do what Elvis advised in Speedway: "Let Yourself Go."

Yesterday afternoon I decided to try for some lucid dreams. I remember reading in a magazine once, along with invoking other spiritual experiences, that there are techniques to make lucid dreams more likely. Some are more strenuous than others. Endurance stuff, like staying awake a couple of days. Standing on your head for several hours, that kind of thing. Another way is the same as sympathetic magic techniques. Such as if I wanted to dream of the girl from Redfield, let's say, I might surround myself with red things and pictures of girls. Another way is to eat strange foods or unnatural portions of foods, anything to get your body out of its normal rut. It's a matter of purposely throwing your digestive metabolism out of whack, knowing you'll have a restless night, but also assuming you will sleep soundly for an hour or so, and in that brief time your dreams will be as lucid as can be.

[Let me pause here to give a legal disclaimer. The techniques described in this blog are "for entertainment purposes only." Do not try this at home or in any other bed outside your home. Consult your doctor before any medical or dietary changes. Like me. I phone my doctor a dozen times a day. "Hi, it's me again. I just saw an ad for Vagisil on TV. And they said to call you and see if it's right for me." No? OK, I'll talk to you after the next commercial break."]

I decided to go with this last technique -- dietary havoc -- which required a quick trip to the grocery store to get some navy beans, salt pork, and johnny cake. With some quick soaking and boiling the beans were softened up enough to eat by 9:30 p.m. A couple big bowls and it was time for bed.

Around midnight I was still awake. The discomfort of being so full was the biggest problem. But you know how it is with this kind of meal, a few hours in and you feel like a pressure cooker. The churning is bad. It's like the song "Locomotion," with the chugga chugga motion. The train's on your digestive track, speeding downhill, saying, "I knew I could, I knew I could!" This is no way to sleep; your midsection alternates between feeling constricted and about to blow. I was sweating through my clothes in agony, discomfort, pain. I felt contorted, twisted in knots. There's a kind of rotting away feeling, a gnawing that doesn't quit. It was exactly what I wanted.

Then it happened. I must have gone into an alternate realm of sleep. I was in a very cloudy place, clouds stretched out everywhere, like looking out a plane's window. There was a palace ahead. I entered the palace and was informed it was where the akashic records are stored. I knew about this place from reading Levi's "Aquarian Gospel of Jesus Christ." I mentioned this to the gatekeeper and he said he didn't remember ever seeing him. So I'm like "Hmmm, that pious old fraud!" Anyway, I checked the digital card catalog and got about 35 million hits on "dreams about women." I was just about to narrow my search to "anima" and more specifically "ideal women" and, I hoped, more narrowly yet, to "Redfield, Iowa," when I suddenly woke up with a most severe biological function in the offing.

The digestive impulse angered me in a terrible way! But with a full belly of navy beans, salt pork, and johnny cake, and the churning that always goes with it, even more than "She," this impulse is something "that must be obeyed."

The Ideal Woman's Home

My dream, revelatory many years ago, probably 30-some years ago, that The Ideal Woman lived in Redfield, Iowa, is surely a bust by now. It seems there has to be a shelf life on these kinds of dreams.

One, maybe it wasn't actually revelatory, but just something like this, a combination of "sumthin' ah et" and the randomness of words, sounds, and pictures in dreams. Maybe at some point back then I heard a TV news story that had something to do with Redfield, or a newspaper article, or saw the red sun going down over a field. The more I think about it -- especially after all this time -- the more I'm thinking it has to be a bust.

And yet... not so fast... don't they say in church this thing about prophecy, that it comes in dreams and visions? And if the word is the word, there's no shelf life on that. It might have been a dream for the future, not for The Ideal Woman existing 30-some years ago. In fact, it might have been that I was the first, or among the first, to glimpse the prophecy all those years ago as something even now to be fulfilled. It's an interesting nugget, isn't it?, that it suddenly pops back into my consciousness after all this time.

The obvious temptation is to go to Redfield, like the Magi, looking for The Ideal Woman. Maybe somewhere along the way I can find the Little Drummer Boy, and with him keeping a steady beat for our travels, we'll get there just in time to behold her in her glory. What if she's just now being born, She who will be The Ideal Woman? I could be like with Tony Randall or Paul McCartney. Just because I'm an old guy, I might yet live to fall in love with The Ideal Woman, if she hurries up and gets born. Or perhaps the Little Drummer Boy, being "little" and a "boy" will have a better chance of hooking up with her.

I say "hooking up," but that's just a joke. Kind of puts it at a crass level, something that seems essentially holy and is not really any laughing matter.

I have several -- I wouldn't call them "fears" exactly. Some trepidation, hesitancy; I'm thinking of some cautionary flags. I've been out on a limb before. I won't bore you with the details. Except to say at the very least, it's an embarrassment to come slinking back home after you've been massively wrong about something. They never really forgive you till you make an honest effort at counseling. So I'm a little reluctant to follow this new star.

The Tibetans -- or whoever it is -- those ones who are always looking for a white buffalo or red heifer -- they've got it easy; their heads are so far in the clouds everyone forgives them for traipsing over hell's half acre for the latest fulfillment of prophecy. It's curious you never hear how it turned out. That buffalo's always right over the next hill! Lucky dogs.

The Ideal Woman

It just popped into my mind, a distant memory I have, which I can't really remember, because it was something in a dream once ... lonnnnnng ago. A distant memory of The Ideal Woman.

I shouldn't even bring it up since my memories aren't clear enough to write about it. I haven't thought of it for many years.

She lived somewhere that started with the word "Red." Like Redfield, Redbrook, something like that. I think it was Redfield ... Redfield, Iowa. I see there actually is a place called that. I knew it was in Iowa and that it started with Red, and Redfield sounds exactly right.

I can close my eyes, though, and still not actually see her. So it's all in vain. More or less in vain. I've never been to Redfield that I know of. But in my dreams, once upon a time, The Ideal Woman was from there.

UPDATE: I just looked at Redfield's official website and saw this interesting motto: "Not quite the heart of Iowa, but holds all the love..." Who comes up with a motto like that?! That says it "holds all the love." Unless, unless ... these dreams have been more common than I've known ... and that many complete strangers, men (and maybe women) have been dreaming about The Ideal Woman from Redfield all these years.

Or it could be possible -- and it's probably more rational and likely -- that the "holds all the love" part of the motto was suggested by the idea that Redfield is "not quite the heart of Iowa," meaning, I guess, that it's just off to one side of the actual heart, i.e., away from the geographical, political, economic center, Des Moines? So they'd be saying they're "not quite the heart of Iowa" in that sense, with the suggestion from the word "heart" of symbolic things, connections with hearts, the biggest being love. But the actual heart -- which they're "not quite" -- would have to hold some of the love; stands to reason. Redfield takes it one step beyond the norm, saying it "holds all the love" [my emphasis].

Holding all the love makes it a natural magnet for the dreams of the loveless. Thus explaining my beautiful anima dream all those years ago.

Old Faithful Settles In For The Long Haul

I was up early today and went out to take one last private look at the pieces of Old Faithful before they hauled it away. It was hard to see much because they had tarps and cables holding everything down. I could definitely see parts of the central tube, stretched down the center of one semi trailer. Unnaturally separated were the enormous steel water balls, cradled and cushioned in a big form crafted to keep them from rolling around. The other pieces were also carefully packed and tied down.

All three trucks were rumbling away, the engines still on. I was thinking how we could do it. Maybe Roto in one, me in another, and Grandma in the third. If we did it, it'd be better to have her in the middle, following one of us with the guy in the back making sure she kept up. But it'd be in vain. You can't have a 104-year-old woman driving a semi and a fugitive to boot. It'd be a black mark on her record, for sure, and would follow her the rest of her life. If it was just us two boys, we could probably vanish with the three semis somewhere in the hills, then back in the hills play with Old Faithful till we were old and gray, covering up the works only when the Google Earth people flew over.

But that was just a reverie. I had no intentions of doing anything vigilante. But I couldn't control Roto!

Around 8 a.m. the drivers arrived from the motel and there was no other business involving me. They looked at me suspiciously, like they half expected me to make a move. But I stood fairly still, looking as innocent as possible. I'll confess I was mentally trying a few things with the power of positive thinking, trying to conk out their engines, flip over their trucks, give them each a heart attack, rectal itch, something. But reality kept its repose and I was thwarted. Until, what's this?

Roto came around the corner about 60 miles a hour! He pulled up abruptly and parked his pickup catty wampus in front of the lead semi. He was out in a second, cussin', stompin', definitely worked up in a massive tizzy. (I'm going to leave out all the F-bombs he launched, but he schooled all the gathering in the fine arts of colorful language. As an artist, you might say he had colors on his palette that revealed several ghettos in the spectrum of light that were condemned long ago. If this had been the Jerry Springer show, the soundtrack would have sounded like Samuel Morse working the kinks out of his brand new code. Roto appears to know more slang for body parts, excrement, sex acts, and family relationships than English can possibly have; he's an international dictionary of filth.)

Plus, he was calling to me to join him, which I didn't. I pulled back further in case it came to gunfire and tire irons. Roto was all up in the face of the lead driver, provoking the others to come to the guy's aid. They explained to him -- amid the cussing and pushing -- that Old Faithful was being repo'd and he needed to back off, now! They were just doing their job. Roto looked over at me, like c'mon, c'mon, help me here... But I was brave. I made the cutting-my-throat gesture about five times. The drivers remained wary but went into more of an at-ease pose when they saw Roto was just hot air. He did go at-ease, but scowled at me like this ain't over, then threw up his hands.

The drivers exchanged clipboards -- the official paperwork. The third guy gave a clipboard to the first guy. The first guy handed a clipboard to the third guy. Then there was another clipboard the third guy had. He needed to pass it to the first guy. The first guy himself had another clipboard and gave it to the third guy. The second guy was there, like What? No clipboard for me? The first and third saw what was going on and, in kindness, worked through their large stack of clipboards till they found one for him.

I'm inching in a bit, because most of the excitement seems to be over. I'm getting closer to Roto, who's giving me some kind of hand signal that I don't recognize. The drivers are heading to their rigs, the first guy to the first truck, the second to the second truck, leaving the third to take the remaining truck. Now I believe I see what Roto's doing. He's pointing to a crowbar by the garage. Just as the drivers are finishing off the preliminaries of getting their trucks in gear, Roto runs to the crowbar, grabs it, and runs toward the trucks! They're barely moving, trying to edge around Roto's pickup, giving him time to climb on the one with Old Faithful's central tube. He's up there like a madman pounding the tube through the tarp. Then when the trucks start get to the corner, right where they'll be able to pick up speed, he jumps off, crowbar still in hand, stalking back up the hill.

So that's it. He went to his pickup, got in and drove off. Too bad I didn't have a second crowbar. I could've run after him and inflicted some massive dents in his passenger side door.

Old Faithful Is Moving Back Home

I might try to pin a new name on Old Faithful, like maybe Old Fickle. If faithfulness means staying with one who loves you, then faithful Old Fickle ain't. Being fickle, though, means you're not too sure who you want to be with. Instead, anyone who bats their eyes at you.

But to call Old Faithful by this new name -- Old Fickle -- might be doing it an injustice, since, it's clear to one and all it is not a living creature but just an incredibly complicated machine. Rather, there are machine components around it, while it is a series of tubes, spigots, knobs, and gauges. Just add water and it's good to go. And fire. It's like a TV dinner, just heat and serve. If you know how to boil water you've got a geyser.

I simplify, of course. There's a lot of know-how that goes into working a geyser. Especially if it spews on schedule like Old Faithful. You've got to have someone in the belly of the beast monitoring the gauges, keeping the flow of water coming, stoking the fire, and manning the bellows. Plus, think about it, there's lot of other things to work out, like getting various government permits, qualifying for tax breaks and incentives on your water bill, fire department inspections, and so on.

So at first I was ticked off when I got the notice, but now maybe it's for the best -- that Yellowstone Park wants "their" Old Faithful back. "Excuse me, but it's my Old Faithful now," was my first thought. But it was patiently explained to me that the guy who signed off on the papers and gave it to me was not properly authorized under the circumstances, something about there not being the legal steps necessary for his actions, that Old Faithful has a whole board of directors, supervisors, captains, and assorted hangers-on, and there are legalities involving quorums, the publishing of the board agenda in advance, and a thousand different things like that. In short, I didn't have a legal leg to stand on and would need to "cede any claim to said Old Faithful without delay."

I did have them on one point, the fact that their monitoring of the geyser seemed very lax, as they had not missed it for the last couple weeks. That was something they were embarrassed to admit, but of course it didn't have any bearing on their legal rights. They did promise to keep track of it more diligently in the future, to which I gave a sober nod, not wanting to rub it in any more than that.

The last few hours they were busy at the south end of the half acre packing it all up. The trucks are now loaded, the holes are filled in. And it's getting late in the day, so the drivers have gone off to stay the night in a motel.

I hope I have a good night. I might not sleep that well, knowing my dreams are sitting on the back of three semis. You know, the trucks are running. They always leave these trucks running. It would really be a bad thing, I suppose, were someone to drive off with one ... or perhaps all three. But how do you drive off with three trucks? It'd be like that one chick, the one who rides six white horses when she comes. She can really spread her legs -- I gotta tell ya -- to ride six white horses at once. That'd be someone worth meeting.

Mystery Picture Of Old Faithful Appears

The picture you see is a mystery picture ... a picture that I did not take ... yet which appeared on my cellphone! Read on ...

You may remember the details I gave yesterday on the spewing of Old Faithful. If not, see yesterday.

In short, my cousin and I got the gas jets on, and with the required effort it takes to do it, Old Faithful was revivified. But one detail should not escape you:

I looked at it awestruck for a moment, then fidgeted with the camera and clicked off the picture [posted yesterday]. "I got it! I got it!" That was an historic moment. I paused, awash in emotions and literal water.

Then I heard the phone ring. It was Roto. There was a problem below. The water was massively spilling around him somehow, whether by seepage or a leak. Everything needed to be turned off, and so it was.

How many pictures does it sound like I took? Clearly it suggests one. The picture was taken, I paused, then I heard the phone ring. Roto tells me there's a problem and that everything needed to be turned off, and so it was. Admittedly, it doesn't say I didn't take other pictures. It doesn't exclude the possibility that I could have clicked off several more. Only I'm telling you I didn't!

And yet ... and yet ... this is crazy, I know ... when I checked my cellphone today ... there were two additional pictures ... weird. But to make it even weirder, in the mystery picture above, the intensity of the geyser is quite a bit more pronounced than it was in the first picture. And the angle is different. I don't recall seeing it in this way! That's part of what I can't get over.

How could it have happened? I'm thinking supernatural means. No, no, hear me out! There's a history of strange things happening with cameras and pictures. Strange hoverings of ghosts and demons behind people, or in the foreground of a picture. Deceased relatives suddenly appearing in a family photo. Ectoplasm blotching up a photograph in an unpleasant way. Weird double exposures -- apparently -- but the photographer swears that he only pushed the button once. Swears to it!


I was just reading a book on Saint Charbel (Sharbel) the other day, the hermit of Lebanon. He lived in the 1800s, basically alone, so there aren't lots of pictures of him. None that I know of. But it's on record that these other people were standing near his old "stomping grounds" and had a photograph made. But look right there in the foreground, seemingly coming up out of the ground or a shrub. That's him! They did not see him in front of them but he was actually there when they checked their cellphone. And as far as I know that's the only photograph of him!

Most people run for cover when they see a camera. This guy wasn't even there and he couldn't manage to keep out of sight! In truth, he wanted the faithful to see his apparition and to debate it forever whether the others Photoshopped him in. They claim they didn't ... and I think they sound sincere.

And just one other example in passing. My late father, who served as a monk, told me the weird story of Lahiri Mahasaya and cameras. A photographer tried to take a picture of the yoga master, but it didn't turn out. Lahiri said, "I am Spirit. Can your camera reflect the omnipresent Invisible?" The answer by implication would be no. Then he said, "Come, then, tomorrow morning. I will pose for you." An author explained the strange result, "This time the sacred figure, not cloaked with mysterious imperceptibility, was sharp on the plate." According to the photographer, though, the previous day Lahiri was having a bad hair day, so apparently any state we can attain short of mahasamadhi still allows for vanity.

All I know, friends, is I did not take the above picture of Old Faithful. It just somehow appeared! You see it and you're amazed, as I confess I'm amazed!

If there are any stories of miraculous healing from gazing at this picture, please send them to me. I'm hoping to honor the photograph by cashing in on it.

Gas Jets On! On! On! On!

Cousin Roto showed up bright and early. We enjoyed a plate of bacon and eggs and discussed the doings of the day. I confirmed that I was fully prepared to allow a massive blowing of Old Faithful, pronouncing my affirmation that the geyser was good to spew the mother lode of moisture. Roto was happy, nodding as I spoke.

Of course we would be stationed, me above ground, he below ground in the belly of the beast. He is more technically astute about the internal workings of machines and can read gauges and things really, really well. He can react in a flash, let's say, if a knob needs to be twiddled or dialed down quickly.

There would be much give and take through the day, as the water pipes needed inspection, the flow regulated, the heat source ignited, the heating of the mechanism raised to a fever pitch, etc. I'll spare you all the technical stuff, since that's Roto's field of expertise. If he ever figures out the intricacies of blogging maybe he can write about it someday. Assuming he can type, which, I don't know...

We compared the time of day on our cellphones to make sure we were right on. I compared my more advanced LG phone with full Qwerty keyboard and virtually unlimited texting with color photos with his five/six year old Nokia with no features. I hoped his phone was up to the rigors of the day, since we'd be exchanging many calls from underground to the surface and vice versa. And it wasn't long till he was down in the belly of the beast for the final test.

I gave him a call, and wouldn't you know it, the same interference on channel 14! He was able to give me a "Roger" amongst the chattering and we went to channel 5. The static wasn't so bad on 5; thankfully some of the neighbors were doing something else. Of course we had a couple of the expected miscues, like trying to talk over the other with our finger on the button, till we relaxed and regained the discipline proper cellphone use demands, saying "Over," "10-4," and the like.

At one point he called me down to be with him. He was working with the heating elements. He let go with some technical mumbo-jumbo about the central tube needing to be heated before the big steel balls were red hot. He was afraid it could come apart at the seams, I think, or something might rupture right there at the connectors. He flipped a switch and the heat bypassed the steel balls. Then with that accomplished he brought the switch back into place and I could hear the sizzle of water spilling into the cylinders.

At that point, he signaled, and I let out the cry that gives joy to both of us, "Gas jets on! On! On! On!" He pulled down his welder's helmet and twisted the knobs up as far as they would go. The gauges at once went into overdrive. He pointed me toward the surface, which I attained in a matter of seconds. This was going to be it!

After a few minutes my cellphone rang. Pushing the button, my instrument crackled into life, a short burst of static, then Roto's triumphant voice. Fortunately the interference wasn't a problem. "I'm twisting the blow valve! This baby's got a stack it's gonna blow!" I hadn't felt this excited since puberty. I quickly pushed the buttons it takes to take a cellphone picture, thankful beyond words, actually, that I didn't have Roto's crummy old Nokia. With a phone like his, an Etch-a-Sketch would be a step up! But, anyway ... just a few buttons, and ...

Before I could get the camera function up, I heard a rumbling like a freight train about to take a leak; it was a roar with a sizzle. Then for a split second there was a hush, a silence, but only for a second. Next, the central tube seemed to buck right there where it meets the ground. I saw the grass around the hole go brown. Then without further warning, a spray, pure white except for a rainbow hovering in its midst, burst tall into the air, proud but exhausting. I was sincerely reminded of that old Kierkegaardian truism, that love wills its own downfall. The spray couldn't maintain itself. It gave its all and there was cooling spray hitting me from the breeze.

I looked at it awestruck for a moment, then fidgeted with the camera and clicked off the picture you see above. "I got it! I got it!" That was an historic moment. I paused, awash in emotions and literal water.

Then I heard the phone ring. It was Roto. There was a problem below. The water was massively spilling around him somehow, whether by seepage or a leak. Everything needed to be turned off, and so it was. Then he appeared at the door. Disappointed, I said simply, without excitement, "Gas jets off. Off. Off. Off."

I'm By The Fence -- Where Are You?

Yes, it feels good to feel good! Good for me and good for the whole good world! The half acre is greening up good with spring. I saw some little flowers thrusting their blooms forth for all the world to see. There's a sun in the sky. I think I heard a bird in the distance, giving a tweet or two.

I've been out and about. I went to the east side of the house and looked north. But before my mood was reversed, I turned and looked once again toward the south. There was the garage in all its glory. O good garage! Grandpa was so proud of you! We all were. To finally have a garage after leaving our car outside all those decades. The only downside is it blocked the greater view to the south. But if we walk to the south side of the garage we can look south and see everything that is south without obstruction all the way to the fence.

Now when I look south, from the south side of the garage, I see the piles of dirt and the works for Old Faithful. It's kind of an eyesore really, especially now that it's in a hiatus state, not spewing but laying dormant. But no matter. Nothing can spoil this day!

I walked over by the east fence, near the corner post. There I took out my cellphone to call my cousin, hoping to get him back to help me revivify our geyser. I could picture him with his cellphone in hand as I rang him. We would converse -- a two way dialogue, just the two of us, man to man.

He answered and we talked. I walked as we talked. Everything seemed fine until I heard some interference on the line. Someone else on that channel, I guess. I suggested we go to a different channel. We found a clear one and I pushed the button to speak, informing him of my desire to revivify our geyser, if he could come over. It turned out he was trying to talk to me at the same time, which meant he didn't catch everything I said. I waited a second, then his voice came over. I gave it a "Roger," and responded, repeating my desire for him to come over and for us to revivify the geyser.

Pretty soon there was some more crosstalk and static on the line. We went up to channel 14. And I don't know, we must have been reliving something from our childhood, those kind of conversations we had, because he was asking, "Where are you?" I waited and clicked the button, responding, "I'm by the fence. Where are you?" He told me where he was, just going outside to check on his dog. It was interesting that channel 14 was so clear today, because we have some neighbors and that's one of their favorite channels. But they might have gone to town.

I clicked the button, "Uh, roger on that. I copy. Checking the dog." At that point I decided to broach again the idea of revivifying the geyser, to which he came back, through the static, to say, "10-4," that he read me fine. I answered that I was now walking over toward the geyser works. He simply said, "10-4." I looked down the dark hole, knowing I could never do that were the water spraying forth. We talked like that for a while and he indicated he would be over in the morning. We exchanged whereabouts all the way to the house, at which point I had to hang up my cellphone because the interference was a lot worse.

Now that I'm back in, I'm happy to be happy! It's such a great day! The half acre is greening up in fine fettle. All is right with the world! And finally we'll be able to revivify our geyser and break its imposed hiatus once and for all!

I Hope The Worst Is Over

As you can plainly see, this has been a tough time for me. It's really not the picnic you'd think it'd be to have something as magnificent, famous, and awe-inspiring as Old Faithful all as your own. Like having anything, it's a mixed blessing.

Possessions and me don't necessarily go together. It's like a teeter totter. You think you're up but then you're down. To have anything is to suffer. It'd be better to be wandering naked like the Ahimsa. But then we acquire what we have. Easy enough until it's something gigantic. It reminds me of an old friend from high school who owned a guitar too good for him, he thought. You'd think someone with the great skills this guy had would know that guitar was lucky to have him, but he didn't see it that way.

This could be why I barely step it up as far as possessions. Not to imply that I'm all that careful. I'm as busy accumulating as anyone. But look at the house. We barely make improvements on it. The garage is about as Grandpa left it. The lawn mower is an old auction sale lawn mower. We stepped up to a flush toilet but that's about it.

OK, here's the thing. Yesterday I was at the bottom of my game. Hence my rant. This morning things were still pretty bad. I was laying on the floor for a while, until it got too hard. Ouch. But I forced myself to get up, sit in a chair and stew. "Wah wah wah wah," went my mind -- with no apparent way up. Until something happened, I don't know what exactly. And it broke just like that. I snapped out of it. Whatever price you have to pay, I guess I did.

Now I'm thinking what? I think I've written it before, like the guy who pulls his mantle up to his face and looks across from the hill. You just stare at the horizon. Like Kierkegaard's Abraham, looking very askance at what is demanded him. Like it's something to tolerate, not to understand or accept. But if you don't have a certain amount of acceptance, what you're called on to tolerate next time might be much tougher to bear.

The worst may be over. It's time to pump it up, Old Faithful. It's time to fetch Cousin Roto back to his station. Let him fidget with the knobs. Keep the gauge out of the red. Keep the smoking down to a minimum. Attach the gas jets, fills the steel balls with water, scrub down the central tube, duck and cover. Hit the switch and let it spew. Old Faithful shall rise again!

The Worthless Glory

I can't stew any length of time without everything turning on its heels, so now I'm quite down on the whole project. I hate it with passion and prejudice. I wish I'd never heard of it. Yesterday, it seems, I was gaga over the size of the Old Faithful works, even spinning it out in my imagination as bigger than Marvel Cave, much bigger than it is. But not today! Curse it!

Today, you could say I'm sated on all the potential glory; I see more shame coming out of it than anything. I'm not trying to picture it as bigger than it is anymore, I'm just trying to picture it gone. Like everything, it is the size it is, made as big as it needed to be to get the job done. It's the law of efficiency. Why spend more money on resources than it takes to accomplish a task? There is often some glory in size, with whatever value that is to you.

Anyway, what is glory and why have it? Glory is the result of people's acclaim. You get enough people shouting out their praise, then you get to sit there in the front row waving, being hugged by the First Lady, getting a dozen roses, signing a couple of autographs. It's over in an hour. Then you're back at the curb in the dark and cold, dragging your luggage out of a cab, being strip searched in an airport before taking a midnight plane back to your pathetic hometown, only to have the plane be late and have them lose your luggage. Someone else finds it, steals it, then you're sitting at home making a list of things you need to shop for to replace what you lost.

There's other aspects of glory. News articles, TV appearances, the mayor gives you the key to the city. To which I say: 1) We're cleaning fish on newspapers tomorrow, or over time they're yellow and brittle, a fire hazard. They also have articles on perverts and thieves. Is that the kind of company you want to keep? 2) TV appearances are worthless, because now every pervert and thief knows your name, face, and where you live. And wait five minutes and you're keeping company with Billy Mays selling orange flavored soap. 3) If the mayor wants to give someone the key to the city so badly, why doesn't he come around on his own initiative? It's ludicrous that I have to live in this town all these decades and he doesn't give me the key. But as soon as I have a little media scrutiny, there he is at my door. Plus, I know he doesn't really care. The only reason mayors want to give anyone glory is so they themselves can bask in it. Before the hour's out he's at his own pathetic home, surrounded by enormous keys, watching the news for who's going to be his next parasitic host. Those keys are made in China anyway.

That glory's worthless, and I'll tell you another one, what the Chamber of Commerce does. And please, no one give them notice of my Old Faithful exhibit or they'll be here, with booze on their breath! They'll come around with their ribbon and three foot pair of scissors, taking pictures of someone cutting the ribbon. It'll be me on one side, the Chamber president on the other, holding hands in mid shake. Then we'll be flanked with other members and well wishers. They'll snap the ribbon, take the picture, and all be back in their cars on their way home in 15 minutes.

They'll rush in their doors, some of them stripping down to nothing, then getting drunk to dull their ongoing personal pain. They've got thick and heavy curtains to keep the light out. They don't want to see you, your store opening, your exhibit, or to know you. They're watching the phone, hoping it doesn't ring, so they don't have to sober up to face reality or get their picture taken with someone they don't care about. Don't write, don't call, don't wake me from this haze. This is what they say. We don't want to hear about it, we don't want to know about it. Unlike the mayor, these folks don't even see it as reflective glory to bask in; there's too many of them. But they lock up the scissors so no one steals them, just the same, because someday the phone will definitely ring.

Glory is essentially someone else's worthless opinion. Today I say lock down the exhibit! Let the grass grow around it! Cursed be the day I ever got the idea! Now I know what they're thinking in Wyoming: Thank goodness someone took this thing off our hands; finally we're home free!

I don't need anyone's opinion on anything to feel better about myself. It's fleeting and worthless.