Tuesday, February 10, 2009
2008 extended tagline
Philosopher emerging from accounting pulls a quick one on demons who were counting on a free lunch - washing them away, clawing and thrashing, in a river of booze. Our intrepid adventurer takes to the road following the strands of friends he has spun over the web of years. Each friend has created a different life towards their dreams. Experiencing slices of others' passions and doldrums serves to melt and chip away whatever parts of his post-divorce heart are left in his chest. He's dying to the past and growing a heart towards the future. This ripples into his days slowly because liquor is thicker than the blood of a fresh heart. But, as he allows it, understandings expand self and the relationships thereof. Upon settling back onto the world he finds that the techniques of structureless days rounded by inebriation's thick bubble have been used to their maximum advantage but must be let go of now so that he can move back into the society of humans. Journeying gets lonesome tiring.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
In response to a friend's quiestion of what not drinking was like...
As far as not drinking it came upon me suddenly. I had been down in Naples FL visiting an old friend a few blocks from the Gulf coast. The sun doesn't set in Naples until a hundred people are drinking on the beach. So I, being my mother's son, bought a box of wine; though not her preferred brand. A box of Pinot Noir is 4 bottles worth of wine and only costs about $12. Drinking from the space bag for a few days led me to the discovery that it was horrid wine. I even had to buy beer a few times to alleviate the destruction of my stomach lining; but I persevered and even kept it in the vestibule of the tent I was sleeping in in the backyard so that I would have to face my nemesis first thing in the morning.
The flight back I spent in my journal. In my deepest sense of self there dwells a story maker and teller. As I wrote I sipped whiskys which brightened the noonday sun, but dimmed my head. The sentences weren't coming out smooth like a sunbeam's moment through a moving cloudhole, they were coughing out like a coal train's smokestack. The bender had crested the 14 month wave and was beginning the curl that will lead to a collapsing in on itself. The spree was no longer a story to tell but a rut chunnelling me through each day.
This, box of wine and all, has recently revealed itself to be a genius plot in the disguise of an alky's soulrot. I didn't crystallize any of this into wordable emotional categories until I woke up back in the hills the next day. I was in a low state of revulsion towards the effects of the beach alcohol (beach alcohol, in the winter, is much saltier and even more dehydrating than even altitude alcohol) inside my body. The sluggish character it was festering into as I continued to feed the monster; 4, 5, 8, 12 drinks a day, more, more, was seeping out of the heels of my feet and I walked through the day with a squish and wet squeaks.
So as I squished over to the fridge of bestowing that first evening of February, I found this giant sentry carved from the stone of my deep will. My desirous, sluggish, cravenly thirst - so diffuse in its methods, so scattered in its doings - has no chance of direct confrontation with such a condensed form of my's elves.
"It seems," I said "that there has been a vote within me and most of the energies of feeling have sided with this formidable intent to uncrave the numb of alcohol."
It mostly turned off, like a switch. I am treating myself to things like candlelit piano music warming the air around a mustard bath (its a bath salts mix of mustard and other herbs that open up the pores of the skin so that nastiness like alcohol residues can be released) and then a dark room and complete relaxation in the Mindfold.
The flight back I spent in my journal. In my deepest sense of self there dwells a story maker and teller. As I wrote I sipped whiskys which brightened the noonday sun, but dimmed my head. The sentences weren't coming out smooth like a sunbeam's moment through a moving cloudhole, they were coughing out like a coal train's smokestack. The bender had crested the 14 month wave and was beginning the curl that will lead to a collapsing in on itself. The spree was no longer a story to tell but a rut chunnelling me through each day.
This, box of wine and all, has recently revealed itself to be a genius plot in the disguise of an alky's soulrot. I didn't crystallize any of this into wordable emotional categories until I woke up back in the hills the next day. I was in a low state of revulsion towards the effects of the beach alcohol (beach alcohol, in the winter, is much saltier and even more dehydrating than even altitude alcohol) inside my body. The sluggish character it was festering into as I continued to feed the monster; 4, 5, 8, 12 drinks a day, more, more, was seeping out of the heels of my feet and I walked through the day with a squish and wet squeaks.
So as I squished over to the fridge of bestowing that first evening of February, I found this giant sentry carved from the stone of my deep will. My desirous, sluggish, cravenly thirst - so diffuse in its methods, so scattered in its doings - has no chance of direct confrontation with such a condensed form of my's elves.
"It seems," I said "that there has been a vote within me and most of the energies of feeling have sided with this formidable intent to uncrave the numb of alcohol."
It mostly turned off, like a switch. I am treating myself to things like candlelit piano music warming the air around a mustard bath (its a bath salts mix of mustard and other herbs that open up the pores of the skin so that nastiness like alcohol residues can be released) and then a dark room and complete relaxation in the Mindfold.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Truckstop Living, vol 1
I finally got around to getting photos from Sleg and we'll see how they inform my stories...
Let's jump right in
Here is the front door:
We did have a couple cats coming around for a little while so the No Pets sign did come down.
And the lovely cafe in the second building where we would have breakfast every morning.
My favorite drink at said cafe,
And the recipe...
Let's jump right in
Here is the front door:
We did have a couple cats coming around for a little while so the No Pets sign did come down.
And the lovely cafe in the second building where we would have breakfast every morning.
My favorite drink at said cafe,
And the recipe...
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
in response to Phreelosophy's comment on Practice
*bows deep*
only a truly enlightened being could see how awesome i am (without wearing a Mindfold)
But for the real practice, it fell into me more than I into it. This recent trend certainly grew deep roots in the bloody mess of my broken heart - my ex-wife suggested taking a class again when I called her crying one morning during our Separating. As it turns out heartblood spilt is a verdant compost for growing Qi. The moment I tasted it I was home.
So when I was on the road without a space of my own and needed a way to center that did not involve possessions, a routine (such as shower or shave because those were not always available) or a bedroom, etc. this found its place in my mo(u)rning.
Of course, I have been fostering an image of non-conformity for years so doing weird spirit-summoning gestations or whatever it might look like to the uninformed only really helps to paint a picture of my's elf that keeps me malleable within others' eyeballs. So there's no hesitation on how i am perceived that might get in the way of a practice.
And verily, I say unto you, when you are doing crazy headstands because you have put a year of Chi into your centre, well, the practice suddenly becomes real.
But even that is not the payoff. The real thing that keeps me motivated to do this every day is the more in my body I am. Now as I connect that subtle movement to a sitting, breathing meditation...the mind and the body are aligning that the soul may more fully incarnate.
only a truly enlightened being could see how awesome i am (without wearing a Mindfold)
But for the real practice, it fell into me more than I into it. This recent trend certainly grew deep roots in the bloody mess of my broken heart - my ex-wife suggested taking a class again when I called her crying one morning during our Separating. As it turns out heartblood spilt is a verdant compost for growing Qi. The moment I tasted it I was home.
So when I was on the road without a space of my own and needed a way to center that did not involve possessions, a routine (such as shower or shave because those were not always available) or a bedroom, etc. this found its place in my mo(u)rning.
Of course, I have been fostering an image of non-conformity for years so doing weird spirit-summoning gestations or whatever it might look like to the uninformed only really helps to paint a picture of my's elf that keeps me malleable within others' eyeballs. So there's no hesitation on how i am perceived that might get in the way of a practice.
And verily, I say unto you, when you are doing crazy headstands because you have put a year of Chi into your centre, well, the practice suddenly becomes real.
But even that is not the payoff. The real thing that keeps me motivated to do this every day is the more in my body I am. Now as I connect that subtle movement to a sitting, breathing meditation...the mind and the body are aligning that the soul may more fully incarnate.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Practice
So I have been doing my Qi Kung practice for over a year now. Every morning for 15 minutes. This is the longest and best devotion i have given to a practice yet; and the rewards are overwhelming and obvious and completely worth the effort of the routine. And the kicker, is that I don't even know the whole cycle yet.
The particular set of exercises I am working with is called the 18 Lohan Hands. I learned 8 of them before leaving Gainesville, from the best sifu I've yet worked with, Anthony. I was sorry to have to leave in the middle of the set, but it hasn't stopped me from gaining a benefit; although I am now feeling somewhat lopsided or not well-rounded so I am thinking it is time to find a way to learn the rest of the set.
A couple of weeks ago I added a simple meditation to my routine in the mornings, shooting for 15 minutes of motionless. I experimented with different postures - doing the Qi Kung Tree posture, relaxed standing, chair sitting, etc. - but ended up back at the sitting zazen pose on two pillows. After feeling ease in the posture for 15 I started experimenting with the most suspension of motionlessness I could find, even to the point of not blinking, but that proved to be too much twitching motion. So I settled into closed eyes or half-open resting lids with relaxed blinking. The ease of settling into no-moving comes quickly for me as I relax into a Chi-breathing state of mind so that my breath is the bellows for all movement in my fleshbag.
From that I have proceeded to grow the sitting meditation into a full half hour. Thus far my favorite way of monitoring the time (since I have decided to not have a clock in my bedroom) is to listen to Fahrenheit Fair Enough, by Telephone Tel Aviv. I listen to it 4 times plus one verse to get to 30. Its a beautiful, melodic instrumental that also sounds as if it is reorganizing something mechanical, or squarish, in the background; perfect cleaning routine for the Mindlab.
The particular set of exercises I am working with is called the 18 Lohan Hands. I learned 8 of them before leaving Gainesville, from the best sifu I've yet worked with, Anthony. I was sorry to have to leave in the middle of the set, but it hasn't stopped me from gaining a benefit; although I am now feeling somewhat lopsided or not well-rounded so I am thinking it is time to find a way to learn the rest of the set.
A couple of weeks ago I added a simple meditation to my routine in the mornings, shooting for 15 minutes of motionless. I experimented with different postures - doing the Qi Kung Tree posture, relaxed standing, chair sitting, etc. - but ended up back at the sitting zazen pose on two pillows. After feeling ease in the posture for 15 I started experimenting with the most suspension of motionlessness I could find, even to the point of not blinking, but that proved to be too much twitching motion. So I settled into closed eyes or half-open resting lids with relaxed blinking. The ease of settling into no-moving comes quickly for me as I relax into a Chi-breathing state of mind so that my breath is the bellows for all movement in my fleshbag.
From that I have proceeded to grow the sitting meditation into a full half hour. Thus far my favorite way of monitoring the time (since I have decided to not have a clock in my bedroom) is to listen to Fahrenheit Fair Enough, by Telephone Tel Aviv. I listen to it 4 times plus one verse to get to 30. Its a beautiful, melodic instrumental that also sounds as if it is reorganizing something mechanical, or squarish, in the background; perfect cleaning routine for the Mindlab.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Day of the Dead
The Day of the Dead started off in a horribly appropriate way: See-double-u's magnificent cat, Zoey, was hit by a car sometime in the night. It looks like she left instantly.
Goodbye Zoey, you had it good and now its even better.
See-double-you drove me to the airport and I flew to Hotlanta for the Carnival of the Dead. For the airport I dressed as The Financier because I get kicks out of the way people treat me when I look good. Putty in my hands. Probably why religions require such elaborate costumementation. Arriving at the (literally) busiest airport in the world I begin to wonder if Sleg is going to continue the tradition of airport Mindnappings that we began upon El Capitan (but that's quite another story and will need to be written and then written off on by El Capitan him's elf and maybe even the Spatial Galactician before it can be posted here) by whisking me off the baggage claim curb into oblivion. But no Mindnapping today. On the ride to the dump, uh, no not the dump...to the A-hole I explain to him how my costume of the businessish attire, plus wearing the Mindfold, will dress me as Wall Street. We toss around the idea of him being The Bailout by dressing in upscale all-black attire, but in reality that only happened in our heads because it was too much to explain (and he put this awesome veil-type mask on). We had to leave N at home because she was sick. I gave her some medicine.
Sleg and I fell right back into tradition and laptopped the Glenwood for their awesome selection of beer; our favorite of the night being named Heavy Seas: Small Craft Warning. Its like a Stellas Artois for your pyrate ship. That, we later realized (for one never knows when one is in the midst of Shark Summoning) was our Shark Summoning. Once you see the fins you've gotta either swim for your life (ha, best of luck) or grab onto the fin. We rode shark toward the Carnival of the Dead in some thick style that had been dredged from our pasts and tattooed across the thick breathing leather of these monsters.
At the door we were stamped with skulls and then woah. I will not divulge the inner occurrences of this particular party because there are no words to express it to ones who were not present and there's a reason it was done inside a building and not in public. Just know that if Sara Ashes throws a party, for chrissake, GO!
The next morning we found a Shark Rider's sigil on the side of the truck. It was dashed across the door and became clear when I wiped the top layer away that, indeed, the inhabitants of this truck had Rode Shark last night.
But that was long after this. I woke up on the triplicate of yoga mats that have become my Sleghome. The overcoat I had wrapped my's elf in was spotted with candlewax. But I had lit no candles. The pain started before I even woke, it actually woke me as it were. There is only one way, I have learned, to deal with such pain. Head on. So I did headstands. And jumping jacks. And dry heaves. And tried to meditate. And dry heaves. And had them hit me repeatedly in the skull with a tube of paper. And running in place. And ginger tea. And headstands and more headstands. And then when the landlord's brother came over I did a headstand to confuse him. It worked. I can do mad headstands when I am needing to summon the deepest of energies to combat the tricksy toxins that I have penchants for.
Goodbye Zoey, you had it good and now its even better.
See-double-you drove me to the airport and I flew to Hotlanta for the Carnival of the Dead. For the airport I dressed as The Financier because I get kicks out of the way people treat me when I look good. Putty in my hands. Probably why religions require such elaborate costumementation. Arriving at the (literally) busiest airport in the world I begin to wonder if Sleg is going to continue the tradition of airport Mindnappings that we began upon El Capitan (but that's quite another story and will need to be written and then written off on by El Capitan him's elf and maybe even the Spatial Galactician before it can be posted here) by whisking me off the baggage claim curb into oblivion. But no Mindnapping today. On the ride to the dump, uh, no not the dump...to the A-hole I explain to him how my costume of the businessish attire, plus wearing the Mindfold, will dress me as Wall Street. We toss around the idea of him being The Bailout by dressing in upscale all-black attire, but in reality that only happened in our heads because it was too much to explain (and he put this awesome veil-type mask on). We had to leave N at home because she was sick. I gave her some medicine.
Sleg and I fell right back into tradition and laptopped the Glenwood for their awesome selection of beer; our favorite of the night being named Heavy Seas: Small Craft Warning. Its like a Stellas Artois for your pyrate ship. That, we later realized (for one never knows when one is in the midst of Shark Summoning) was our Shark Summoning. Once you see the fins you've gotta either swim for your life (ha, best of luck) or grab onto the fin. We rode shark toward the Carnival of the Dead in some thick style that had been dredged from our pasts and tattooed across the thick breathing leather of these monsters.
At the door we were stamped with skulls and then woah. I will not divulge the inner occurrences of this particular party because there are no words to express it to ones who were not present and there's a reason it was done inside a building and not in public. Just know that if Sara Ashes throws a party, for chrissake, GO!
The next morning we found a Shark Rider's sigil on the side of the truck. It was dashed across the door and became clear when I wiped the top layer away that, indeed, the inhabitants of this truck had Rode Shark last night.
But that was long after this. I woke up on the triplicate of yoga mats that have become my Sleghome. The overcoat I had wrapped my's elf in was spotted with candlewax. But I had lit no candles. The pain started before I even woke, it actually woke me as it were. There is only one way, I have learned, to deal with such pain. Head on. So I did headstands. And jumping jacks. And dry heaves. And tried to meditate. And dry heaves. And had them hit me repeatedly in the skull with a tube of paper. And running in place. And ginger tea. And headstands and more headstands. And then when the landlord's brother came over I did a headstand to confuse him. It worked. I can do mad headstands when I am needing to summon the deepest of energies to combat the tricksy toxins that I have penchants for.
shakin' fakin and bacon
So I just settled into my Asheville room after driving from Marietta to Athens to Asheville on the motorcycle; about 275 miles. I've done one other day of riding that much, from Gainesville to Atlanta(I-75) in a 7 hour thunderstorm; when I got to Fuzzy's wife's graduation party it took me 10 minutes in the bathroom to wring my's elf out. Freaking Ridiculous.
Today's ride was a bit more relaxed, but still all interstate as well - yuck and boring, no fun turns. But Western North Carolina is full of fun turns i'll get to explore now.
My body is still shaking, especially my hands, from that sick Savage one-cylinder thumper that I turned 26,000 miles on today. That's just short of 4 round trip rides from Miami to Seattle. I got that bike used with 75 miles on it. The story I have in my head is some poor sap bringing home this shiny new bike and his wife hits him over the head with a rolling pin and so he takes the bike back so I could buy it cheaper.
I bought the bike because its Savage and I could tell it would handle my learning curve. It's yellow and not many bikes are that in touch with their inner flame. I've knocked the thing around and gone down twice (for real, not counting drops on gravel parkinglots or the kickstand not locking all the way, etc.) The first time was being hit from behind in an intersection - took my back tire out from under me...I was turning left, and she right...into the same square foot of road. Neither she nor I was going any faster than 10mph but still the bike and I slid 40 feet (I measured the streak of paint the next day). I had the right gear on and got some scraped skin and a sore hip. Without my full face helmet I would have left half my face across the pavement (yeah mom, I never told you about this one, sorry). I soon bought even better gear. And the Savage was still rocking it with a slight bend on the handlebar.
The second time was me being dumb and riding too late in the rain and not stopping properly on a slick downhill stoplight. I got my's elf into a situation where I could either hit the stopped car in front of me, or dump my's elf instead. It seemed better to hit the ground instead of hitting the car then the ground. All my camping equipment lashed onto the back of the bike on the badass shelf AF made me snapped out of the bungee net and scattered around the street. The shelf popped its zip ties and flew into the woods. I was helped up in a slight daze by a beautiful girl which immediately embarrassed me into action of scooping my tent, sleeping bag, hiking boots and the rest of the scattered gear and lashing it onto the bike as quick as I could on the side of the road. Did I mention it was raining? I then rode half an hour home. The even better gear only left me with a chunk of skin gone from my kneecap, but without the cycling pants with kneepads, i likely would not have said kneecap.
The next day I wake up at 0600 with the all-consuming thought that I must find the badass shelf AF took all the previous day to fashion to my specs. So I drove (my car) back down to downtown and wouldn't you know it, but at this 6am there's a roadrace around L5P down the exact street I needed to get to. So I am in my moccasin slippers and bandanna and colored glasses walking between the crowd and the runners because behind the crowd is a steep hill and my slippers won't grip the wet grass. I have to walk like this for over 5 minutes then I slip thru the crowd and into the patch of pines where I immediately head right to the shelf and grab it and then walk the opposite direction (on the other side of the road, for balance) this time facing the runners. Their faces gripped with anguish from the hill they just climbed and me swinging the lacquered wooden shelf in a circle by one of the cinch straps that stayed cinched.
So I got some more zip ties and put the shelf on for today's ride. Then I rode. Now I'm tired.
Today's ride was a bit more relaxed, but still all interstate as well - yuck and boring, no fun turns. But Western North Carolina is full of fun turns i'll get to explore now.
My body is still shaking, especially my hands, from that sick Savage one-cylinder thumper that I turned 26,000 miles on today. That's just short of 4 round trip rides from Miami to Seattle. I got that bike used with 75 miles on it. The story I have in my head is some poor sap bringing home this shiny new bike and his wife hits him over the head with a rolling pin and so he takes the bike back so I could buy it cheaper.
I bought the bike because its Savage and I could tell it would handle my learning curve. It's yellow and not many bikes are that in touch with their inner flame. I've knocked the thing around and gone down twice (for real, not counting drops on gravel parkinglots or the kickstand not locking all the way, etc.) The first time was being hit from behind in an intersection - took my back tire out from under me...I was turning left, and she right...into the same square foot of road. Neither she nor I was going any faster than 10mph but still the bike and I slid 40 feet (I measured the streak of paint the next day). I had the right gear on and got some scraped skin and a sore hip. Without my full face helmet I would have left half my face across the pavement (yeah mom, I never told you about this one, sorry). I soon bought even better gear. And the Savage was still rocking it with a slight bend on the handlebar.
The second time was me being dumb and riding too late in the rain and not stopping properly on a slick downhill stoplight. I got my's elf into a situation where I could either hit the stopped car in front of me, or dump my's elf instead. It seemed better to hit the ground instead of hitting the car then the ground. All my camping equipment lashed onto the back of the bike on the badass shelf AF made me snapped out of the bungee net and scattered around the street. The shelf popped its zip ties and flew into the woods. I was helped up in a slight daze by a beautiful girl which immediately embarrassed me into action of scooping my tent, sleeping bag, hiking boots and the rest of the scattered gear and lashing it onto the bike as quick as I could on the side of the road. Did I mention it was raining? I then rode half an hour home. The even better gear only left me with a chunk of skin gone from my kneecap, but without the cycling pants with kneepads, i likely would not have said kneecap.
The next day I wake up at 0600 with the all-consuming thought that I must find the badass shelf AF took all the previous day to fashion to my specs. So I drove (my car) back down to downtown and wouldn't you know it, but at this 6am there's a roadrace around L5P down the exact street I needed to get to. So I am in my moccasin slippers and bandanna and colored glasses walking between the crowd and the runners because behind the crowd is a steep hill and my slippers won't grip the wet grass. I have to walk like this for over 5 minutes then I slip thru the crowd and into the patch of pines where I immediately head right to the shelf and grab it and then walk the opposite direction (on the other side of the road, for balance) this time facing the runners. Their faces gripped with anguish from the hill they just climbed and me swinging the lacquered wooden shelf in a circle by one of the cinch straps that stayed cinched.
So I got some more zip ties and put the shelf on for today's ride. Then I rode. Now I'm tired.
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