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Creation In Our Wallet

Posted by on Nov 2, 2017 in Blog | 2 comments

Personhood, hmmm, maybe it’s a tribal cosmic system with the sun as the chief of the planets and their orbits and spins within us. The solar flares of pineal and pituitary incline the colonies of our selfhood.
Look at an atom–that’s us and everything and everyone we know, all distinct and all the same. Nucleus, electrons, protons. Sun, planets, moons.
Everything is a solar system modeled after the ones we share, the heavens and hells above and within. The mean streets of our neurological pathways of thought and action are equally divine as the freshly graded and maintained highways of our visible identity.
We shift between planetary influences. Let’s say Mars is heroic and tenacious and Venus benevolent and in love, and Pluto cold, deep, aggressive, brutal. We are too.
Let’s say Uranus is dictatorial and self-willed, Neptune mystical and artistic, Jupiter brilliant and humble. We are too.
We are inclined by all of these, some more than others, but in that particular divine connection we have been born as the Word that we ourselves speak, that we ourselves are incarnations of.
We are at the controls despite what it seems, and there are no mistakes we did not engineer at some level within us. Mistakes are high art. We have a plan in mind, and everything and everyone else are co-engineers, co-sponsors, co-planeteers, and ultimately equal beneficiaries to the payoff of who we have chosen to be.
We originate in the light of creation. If the light of life can be called yarn, we are the weavers.
Imagine humanity as eight billion distinct suns and planetary systems with a creative plan. In imagining us all dovetailing in shifting harmonies of love made manifest, we are on the cusp of knowing God.

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Pepe & Pepe…

Posted by on Aug 28, 2017 in Blog | 2 comments

Pepe and Pepe..

Can’t remember when it was other than back in the days when the 2004 Winnebago Adventurer was our main home.
We liked driving into Mexico and living in the rig on the beaches at San Carlos, that’s on the Sea of Cortez down about 800 miles. We had Pebbles then, an Australian Shepherd who’d chosen us at one of those Boy Scout fund raisers in San Diego, on Navajo Road, in the parking lot of a market. Marilyn was the one who got me there, she’s one of those people who know things but don’t talk about them, just do what has to be done, and for her I needed to have a dawg. I was 55 and at the end of my rope. She doesn’t prattle on, she observes, she feels, she decides, all quietly. When she got me to go to that thing in the parking lot I had no idea that I was being set up.

Pebbles took us everywhere, you’d think we took her since we were the drivers of the rig, but it was her who set the destination and the ways to get there. Her and Marilyn. Quietly, so I wouldn’t notice I wasn’t doing all this, wasn’t doing any of it, just moving when nudged.
Someplace along the way in Mexico we picked up a mechanical toy that was a singing Chihuahua. You’d press one of its paws and it’d start singing Jose Feliciano’s Feliz Navidad, and swaying as it sang, mouth moving, head swaying side to side, voice and music coming from deep down inside it. When Pebbles died Pepe became our dawg, giving musical voice to the dearest and deepest loving critter of all our lives. I don’t mean Pebbles sang with a Spanish accent like the Chihuahua, whose recorded song lip-synched within its head was really some guy singing with a Mexican accent. I mean the spirit of Pebbles stayed on through Pepe. We never once changed the batteries that played that song and orchestration, not in ten years of being on the road.

Then about six months ago Marilyn’s son Jonnie took her to the Foley Animal Shelter here in Minneapolis to get a dog to replace Pebbles, who’d died a few years before, and they found a little Chihuahua that’d just been shipped in among a bunch of other dogs from LA; so there were all these dogs yapping at Marilyn, pick me, pick me, ohhhh puleeze, I’m such a good dawg! And Marilyn and Pepe’s eyes met and locked and it was happiness for the rest of their lives.

Now the synching of this thing didn’t fully occur to me before now, sitting here at my typewriter, that THIS little Chihuahua was a smaller rendition of the one in our RV that sang Feliz Navidad a thousand times on the dashboard of our RV after Pebbles went to Heaven.
This real Pepe, whom we named after the dashboard Pepe, may not be the incarnation of Pebbles but is certainly the incarnation of the love Pebble had for Marilyn and me. Marilyn gave me Pebbles to save my life at a time when it was way down in value, there at the Cub Scout Dog-a-thon in San Carlos in San Diego, where we lived. Then the real Pepe came along to carry that love on. Saved both our lives. I mean Marilyn is 84 and I’m 80, all our kids have their own lives and chilluns and dawgs, but we only have one another…and the Pepes. One is still on the dashboard of the Winnebago, but the feisty one is here between us at night in bed.

Feliz Navidad. (All year)

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Thunder Road

Posted by on Aug 8, 2017 in Blog | 1 comment

The package I carry driving through the valley of the shadows of death is important. I know in the dream this scene is lifted from a movie called Thunder Road about a moonshine transporter with a 200-gallon tank built into the bottom of his drag racer. I am the Robert Mitchum character and I’ve been chosen for this run because I’m able to keep my mind empty, more a natural state than anything I’ve mastered. I know nothing about it, the better to thwart energies reading my mind along the road and getting through roadblocks, the defenses set up against getting this important package to its destination. If it is found a lot of people and plans will be destroyed.

As I tear along I sometimes feel the probes of the mind readers in the darkness searching my memory and purpose so I focus on the driving and keeping the car on the road. Thunder Road is a mind field I am careening through.

Now I’m past the worst of it, I’m getting into a dark city and have to follow vague intuitions to get to where I’m going. I end up driving along hotel corridors and finally stopping outside a door where three nuns in black and white habits appear and take the small package from me. They say nothing and close the door.

This was a vivid dream, as real as anything I call real in waking life. So it’s stayed with me these 35 years. On a walk to the park today along the Mississippi it came to me that I was the the sender of the package. The three nuns were Marilyn, Virginia and Paula. The package they were keeping was my soul. Paula’s note to me yesterday essentially said here’s your soul back, you’re strong enough to protect and use it for good now.

When I came back from the park and told Marilyn of this discovery we sat at the round table in the kitchen. Sometimes a moment comes where there’s this flare of understanding, and we get all choked up and weepy? It was one of those.

That dream had troubled me for years. When I met Marilyn 30 years ago in San Diego I shared it with her because she had been a nun, no other reason.

Two years ago I had a dream of the three of them whom I knew by then, in a red Cadillac convertible racing down a steep hill in the city at night, but until this moment didn’t connect the two. The nuns in the black and white Thunder Road movie were the same as the three in the red Cad dream. The back country road through the boonies of Hell has been an adventure that nearly killed Marilyn and me off many times, but somehow we made it through, neither knowing the way but assuming we were guided by a force that did.

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Rest Stop…

Posted by on Mar 22, 2017 in Blog | Comments Off on Rest Stop…

I was at that trashy rest stop on the Cimarron River, you know the place off highway 54 to Tucumcari, the one with that old long railroad span to your right? Yeh, that one.

I was talking with a tree about how things were and it said it couldn’t complain. Said its mother and father used to be up the road a bit either side of a barbed wire fencing the highway, and they never had it this good. They had full-on wind 365, and the only water they got was what run off the highway twice a year. They made do with what they got and seeded when they could.

This tree said its particular seed blew into this rest stop on a rare north wind, rather than the trades that almost always doomed elm seed to the wastelands with no chance to sprout and root. Those that did through sheer grit didn’t reach longer than ankle high to a coyote pup before they keeled over and blew away.

The tree said it really liked the community of plants here, they was family, real strong though most every one of’m stunted, starved for love, and cripp’d up pretty bad. But they was alive, that’s the thing. The parents never promised them a rose garden, only a chance to root & find out just what-the-hell kinda thing they might be.

That cactus over there found out, and’s been complaining ever since, all the time grousing about what a rough deal it was dealt, how it didn’t ask to be a prickly pear bastard, said how-come not a yucca with pretty flowers and stuff? Now that was a cactus, not a Mickey-mouse-eared thing everyone talks down to. The elm said the whatever-it-was slept late and got up cranky, you’d think its spines was sticking more in than out.

Now the elm had a real story of deprivation and hard times, being an orphan down the road from its folks’ graves and all, brothers and sisters parched to dust, but you never heard it rankle about it. Elms was tough, they thrived on bad times, they loved bad times because then elms really feel alive and get to dream of turning things around and someday looking like one of them elms down there on the banks of the Cimarron. Runs sand on the surface, but deep down is lots of water. No, up here is good, real good, strong winds, get to see traffic whip by and the train loco-moting cross the span, maybe some horizon even.

I said maybe what that mouse-eared, down-home ugly, bitchy little cactus needed was for another like it to grow nearby, and it’d court it with pollen hauled over by bees and butterflies. Two uglies could make a pretty…

The elm said could be, could be, but…

I waved, said I had to get back on the road to Borrego. I went over to the cactus and looked it over. Not bad, really, it had its beauty, the lopsided symmetry, the shriveled-up Mickey-mouse ears and buds and poisonous tiny barbs at the bases of thousands of long sharp spines promising a better yesterday, though not tomorrow. I mean it was saddled. But someone has to be a cactus, y’know. Guess I’d bitch too.

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Two Sources of Freedom…

Posted by on Mar 22, 2017 in Blog | Comments Off on Two Sources of Freedom…

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Love them toes…

Posted by on Mar 22, 2017 in Blog | Comments Off on Love them toes…

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Best Thing I Ever Did…

Posted by on Mar 22, 2017 in Blog | 1 comment

Best thing I ever did in my life was have that Electrician who raises horses nearby install the stove vent here in the kitchen.

Also the best thing I ever did in my life was start up a magazine that Dusty Arrington saw one day, and got in touch.

Also the best thing I ever did in my life was hike the Pacific Crest Trail becuz I met the woman who’d become my wife and life.

Also the best thing I ever did in my life was be the daddy of three chilluns who fill my heart and soul with shock and awe.

Also the best thing I ever did was get born so I’d have such a good friend and kids and woman and sensational stovetop fan and light.

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