Saturday, December 30, 2017

Entry Note To Self...New Year



Journal Entry: 12/29/17

As I am sitting at my desk on the eve of a new year, I am reminded of a quote from a young writer in Melbourne, Australia by the name of Beau Tarplin...Beau, please forgive me if I do not get it exact...it goes something like this...

”Don't stress so much about settling on a path for 2018.
The division of time into years is a human invention,
And the fact is, every moment of every day is an opportunity for resolution and growth.
So, when the fireworks fly, relax and enjoy the moment.
The rest will come to you."

So...as we honor the passing of 2017, I leave you with my prayer...

For those I may have wronged, I ask for your forgiveness.
For those I may have helped, I wish I could have done more.
For those I could have helped, I ask for understanding.
For those who have helped me, I am grateful.

Resolved to sense more beauty, express more gratitude , and experience more forgiveness...See you in the new year...Doc



Through the window I spy stars, I walk  quietly in, to not wake the sky and dance barefoot on the stage of chaos. ...Doc

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Reflections From The World...


"There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better. There's a thousand different angles at any moment. At any time you could run into a ritual honoring some vaguely known queen. Bluebloods, titled persons like crazy drunks, lean weakly against the walls and drag themselves through the gutter. Even they seem to have insights you might want to listen to. No action seems inappropriate here. The city is one very long poem. Gardens full of pansies, pink petunias, opiates. Flower-bedecked shrines, white myrtles, bougainvillea and purple oleander stimulate your senses, make you feel cool and clear inside." Bob Dylan

At The Reception
Faubourg Tremé
New Orleans
2015

Photo By Christopher Bryson...

Saturday, December 2, 2017

From The Sane Asylum...notice!

On my blog site I always post this Up Shit Creek Paddle Store when I will be away a few days. Well, I will be away for a few days so you get to be shamed by reading my ramblings...Doc

Up Shit Creek...

I'm sitting here on the banks of Shit Creek just giving some thought to what's up the Creek. I would like to be having some deep philosophical thought about humanity, but that effort seems to be dissipating like the smell of Shit Creek in a strong wind, if you know what I mean.

Stories abound on how this Creek received such a name. Some ole English tale would be my guess. May have even started as just up the creek without a paddle and someone wanted to intensify a bad situation and added "up Shit Creek." Makes little difference since we all have our days where we feel like we are "up Shit Creek without a paddle." Seems the real question should be how do we navigate up Shit Creek without a paddle?

There are a lot of things to see up Shit Creek. I recall being up the Creek on one occasion and seeing this old house covered in rose bushes. The story goes...there was a sweet ole lady that lived her whole life next to the Creek. She planted and tended her rose garden to add fragrance to the occasional downwind blowing across Shit Creek. She loved her roses so much that when she died, her roses absorbed her and now there is the smell of her sweet essence...:)

I hate when my mind wanders and comes up with some silly made up allegory. We have a more problematic issue to deal with...navigating Shit Creek without a paddle.

People constantly worry about being "up Shit Creek without a paddle." I don't think being stuck in this infamous body of water is as bad as it sounds if you make the right decisions. Luckily for you I have come up with a few helpful hints:

Step-by-step
 1 Make sure you are in fact up Shit Creek and not a normal creek that was unfortunately named. The most telling signs are a rather pungent aroma, murky water, and a feeling of utter hopelessness. If these signs aren't present, then you are up a normal creek.
 2 Attempt to hail other boats. Many people get stuck up Shit Creek and most of them won't have a paddle. Hopefully, someone brought a paddle or has a motor. If this is the case, hop onto their boat or have them tow you.
 3 If nobody has a p addle (the most likely scenario) attempt to pry some loose timber off your boat. This can be slightly tricky, since you don't want to cause your boat to sink. Stick to boards located near the top of the boat, and the sides, do not touch anything on the deck.
 4 Once you have a board, use this as a paddle substitute, it isn't the fastest method but more effective than drifting.
 5 Paddle towards other boats, and recruit other rowers. Since nobody likes to be up Shit Creek, these people should be more than willing to help you paddle. Insist on using your boat, and once you have enough rowers, sit idly by and let others do your work.
 6 (Optional) Resort to piracy, and plunder those in your path. Some people up shit creek are lawyers, bankers, and doctors. Seek these people out since they will have more money. The booty must be distributed among your crew...a 50-50 split between you and the crew should be appropriate.
 7 Once your boat exits Shit Creek, immediately pray to whatever deity you worship. Only by the will of God/Allah/Buddha/Vishnu/Zeus/Posseidon/Thor/Shenron/Nightrider/Chuck Norris/Flying Spaghetti Monster/etc. did you escape. (If you are missing a deity you are back up Shit Creek, and thusly must escape again, the method you just used should work, but if not guess where you are?)


Tips:
 ▪ If you are the kind of person who constantly finds yourself up Shit Creek, do yourself a favor, buy you a paddle from Shit Creek Paddle Store.
 ▪ Don't agree to be in a Jamie Kennedy film, by the same name, no matter how much you are offered.
 ▪ Make friends. Since most people find themselves up Shit Creek more than once, it helps to get to know the regulars. Not only will their advice prove invaluable, idle chatter can help pass the time and stave off boredom.
 ▪ Avoid mutiny at all costs. You'd rather be up Shit Creek than in it.


Warning:
 ▪ Beware of pirates. If you can read step 6, so can someone else. This may mean you are not the only pirate on Shit Creek...so form a large crew and be wary of the surroundings.


Footnote: I'm doing a little remodeling of my blog site, Dr Ego Prozac...Underground. I hope you will like the new look. I will be posting again soon...as soon as My mind gets back in order. Anyone interested in buying a Shit Creek Paddle Store? Just checking.

Not Half that bad on a good day. See you soon, Happy Holidays ...Doc

Entry Note To Self...moments



A Thoughtfull Place


Life is merely a series of before and afters, beginnings and endings. Sometimes we are a fortune's king, wielding the key to open or close doors. Other times, our control is lost and a line is drawn by the sword of a skillful hand marking a change of heart or opportunity, and inevitably Death bows to the governing power of Chronus holding time in his hands.

But in between the before and afters, and the beginnings and endings are moments...Defining, turning, quiet, some stolen, and those of no return.

Moments…

The rhythmic newborn baby's cry, 
goodbyes that cast a shadow, 
songs filled with Heaven's joy, 
kisses that taste of forever, 
breezes that dance with the angels
quarrels armed with it's poison


Some left with arms reaching for they were missed.
A hesitant heart refusing love,
words left unspoken,
time not taken
and forgiveness held captive.

Looking back at memories held, moments have brought light and darkness, but the missed moments have left their scars, marking opportunity's lost.


So, I try to remember that in between the before and afters, the beginnings and endings are moments, and I shall adorn them in jewels or embrace them in peace but they will not be missed, for soon, they too shall pass...

Photo By: Christopher Bryson 




Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Our Fable

I know that somewhere there’s a higher way of living than scuffing the tracks of others, someone who yearns to fly the way their own heart yearns to fly.

Must we be reminded, this little fable, that the path for us to follow is already written within, that it's for each of us to find our own loves, and live them brightly for ourselves. Others may watch, they may admire our resolution or despise it, but our one freedom is for us to love and to choose every day of our lives, as we wish... Jonathan Seagull


Photo Art: Ann George



Entry Note To Self... I happened to be standing

I happen to be standing
Journal Entry 10/14/17

I don't know where prayers go,
     or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
     half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
     crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
     growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
     along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
     of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can't really
     call being alive
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
     or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that's their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.

While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don't know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don't. That's your business.
But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be
     if it isn't a prayer?

So I just listened, my pen in the air...Mary Oliver

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Entry Note To Self...more times than not

More Times Than Not

When I get the chance, I like to spend a little time working on my old tractor. It's always therapeutic in someway.  More times than not, I have to tinker with it a bit to get it to run, and always, a little adjustment needs to be made to wake her up to the fact there is a job to be found.

Well, this morning, just as I thought...Now you must know, I am not much of the tinkering kind, but when I do, I usually call my Uncle Rufus to offer a little of his advice. My Uncle Rufus is not real handy with a wrench either, but he has a few skills up from mine so he qualifies as a consultant, and besides, he is one of my favorite Uncles. I don't really call him for his advice, I just like to listen to his b.s. stories and get his opinion on LSU football or baseball, as it was this morning . 

“I would have never taken the first baseman out,” he says, as he hands me a part and points there. I agreed. Who am I to question Uncle Rufus?

The real reason I always need Uncle Rufus, is the fact that he has the phone number to call J.D The Philosopher. Why do I call him that? Because he just is. He can fix anything with his hands. Especially my old tractor, more times than not. 

Because J.D. is so good at fixing stuff he stays busy fixing stuff. Mostly his relatives broken stuff. He lives on his portion of the homestead, raises a garden, drinks a little beer, welds, collects all kinds of shit, but just mostly fixes other people's shit. He has no Fix Shit sign hanging buy his mailbox for others to see...says, “I don't like to deal with the general public.”

J.D. is the kind that studies a problem before he applies his magic. More times than not he will take his welders chalk and draw a few things on a piece of scrap iron, then takes something apart just to see what's in it and of course the thrill of putting it together again. “There, that ought to work,” he says. Sure enough, it did. 

Last evening, about dark, I was visiting with J.D.  We were sitting on his front porch discussing the small challenges in life. He asked me how many bushels of peas would be a good swap for ten pounds of catfish? 

Seems there was a barter offer from his friend TK. Apparently TK was in the mood for some purple hulled peas and quiet obvious J.D. was hankering fish. I told him I didn't know the relative worth of either one, but guess it depended on how bad he could taste those fish. Said he would have to think about it as he lit the smudge pot and cursed the frogs making racket in the fish pond.


J.D. is the Salt of the Earth, the Philosophers Stone, a true friend and more times than not has to fix my shit…my day in the country…:)



Entry Note To Self...

In the middle of the night, a wolf entered the house and spoke to me. “You have had many lives my friend. You have been men, women, rich, poor, a genius and an idiot" “Really?” I said. “No.” said the wolf. “I’m just screwing with you. This life is it. Now get off your ass, and make something happen.”

Friday, November 24, 2017

How do you like your coffee?

I stopped by this little hole in the wall cafe to take on my morning caffeine load...I have a tendency to write some truth into my stories but mostly fiction, just like life, but I swear this is the truth.

In some distant place in the universe, an entire galaxy was pulled through the event horizon of a super massive black hole. Somehow it landed right in the middle of my morning coffee. One alien civilization desperate to survive sent me mathematically coded messages broadcast: ”We are here.  We are here." Two things doomed them. I hate math at 7am and nothing stands between me and that first cup of coffee. I will say this, as alien civilizations go, they were full bodied with a slightly nutty aroma.

Monday, November 20, 2017

Sunday Morning Coming Down...

Sunday Morning Coming Down


I don't know why Sunday mornings always feel different to me. I have never been a deeply religious person, even with my upbringing in the home of a holy man. I can say it has left me as a more spiritual person on many levels. 

I remember a Sunday morning, many years ago, riding a horse into the mountains above a small town in Costa Rica. The path was narrow, crooked and steep as I made my way upward through the coffee plantations shaded by the banana trees. The beauty of the misty valley falling on my eyes. The sounds of birds I had never heard ringing true in my ears. The cool damp air as it drenched my skin the higher I climbed.

There...coming down the path...my first encounter with a man, I now greatly admire. From under the brim of his straw hat came these words:

"No No agarre bien las riendas.
Es posible que desee que el caballo tenga
Alguna vos en el asunto.
Es su vida tambie’n.”

"Don't grasp the reins to tightly. 
You may want the horse to have some voice in the matter.
It's his life too."

The first words I heard from Humberto Maturana, a Chilean biologist and philosopher. He had taken refuge there after the 1973 Chilean coup d'état which was a watershed event in both the history of Chile and the Cold War. Days later, as we shared conversation in his small casita, I reminded him of his words and he said "just language."

My, how there is power in language. Humanness is not a genetic mutation. It is a manner of living where there is pleasure in each others company, sharing food, nearness, caressing and tenderness – nor is the capacity for language a genetic mutation – it is an evolutionary drift emerging from the intimacy of
human community and the coordination of actions in language together. 
It is in the intimate community where humanness arises as a network of
conversations that is conserved over generations as a lineage through
the raising of children over hundreds of generations in manners of living that are conserved in that lineage.  Humanness did not arise in competition and struggle .  It arose in intimate family, and community co-existence.

I leave you with some Sunday morning language scribbled by a man, who taught me to loosen my grip on the reins of life...Enjoy your Sunday...Doc




Of You

Of you I tell and teach my children, don’t hurt that soul! Never, never, never,
But treat them like something very precious that’s been left in your care forever.

Yes, now and always, for they're a human being too, not a thing, nor wood or steel, but a living, breathing part of all we are, another who can think and feel.

And no right having been given us to act otherwise, via word or deed,
Injuring being a weakness, not a strength, and cursed are they who cause to bleed.
Such but evil, love knowing nothing of it, and why of you I tell and teach,
Don’t hurt that soul! Never, never, never, but always higher and better reach.


Friday, November 17, 2017

The Jon Berry Series...Interlude


This photo was taken by Jon Berry from the Red Stick. Look him up on Facebook. He is quiet a character and it shows as he post his work.


Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Thought Experiment

The Ship Of Theseus

One of the oldest of all thought experiments is the paradox known as the Ship of Theseus, which originated in the writings of Plutarch. It describes a ship that remained seaworthy for hundreds of years thanks to constant repairs and replacement parts. As soon as one plank became old and rotted, it would be replaced, and so on until every working part of the ship was no longer original to it. The question is whether this end product is still the same Ship of Theseus, or something completely new and different. If it’s not, at what point did it stop being the same ship? The Philosopher Thomas Hobbes would later take the problem even further: if one were to take all the old parts removed from the Ship of Theseus and build a new ship from them, then which of the two vessels is the real Ship of Theseus?

For philosophers, the story of the Ship of Theseus is used as a means of exploring the nature of identity, specifically the question of whether objects are more than just the sum of their parts. A more modern example would be a band that had evolved over the years to the point that few or no original members remained in the lineup. This notion is also applicable to everything from businesses, which might retain the same name despite mergers and changes in leadership, to the human body, which is constantly regenerating and rebuilding itself. At its heart, the experiment forces one to question the commonly held idea that identity is solely contained in physical objects and phenomena.

“Which you is ‘who’? The person you are today? Five years ago? Who you’ll be in fifty years? And when is ‘am’? This week? Today? This hour? This second? And which aspect of you is ‘I’? Are you your physical body? Your thoughts and feelings? Your actions?”

What is it that makes up our personal identity through time?


Entry Note To Self...

Order and chaos


They are both the same in many ways, especially in our lives. We are either in control of our lives or merely think we are. I try to control some of my chaos as best I can or think I am.

My days are fairly routine. Filled with have to’s or I don't want to’s, but do it anyway.  The one thing I control in my life is the time when I make my daily entry notes to myself. That takes place around noon each day…not everyday but most. What truly fascinates me.. is the order that comes while writing one’s thoughts. Order out of Chaos in a way. Order to the randomness of our minds. 

Just random thoughts of memories...there for no apparent meaning, unless we wish to give them meaning…some measure of order to our lives…perhaps?


Today’s Entry Note To Self:  “It is no secret that there are things we cannot control, but is this chaos? I would be so bold as to say yes. Even in our controlled self, there is a deep rumbling chaos that we call… life.”

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Let Me Tell You A Story...

The Story Of The Wishing Well
Tom Thumb, The Story Teller

Before the world was mapped there were many more places you could go. The only borders were the natural ones – impassable mountains, violent oceans, treacherous swamps and… the limits of your imagination.

These days, of course, we live in a world that has been mapped and measured, examined and explained. We know where everything is, how long it’s been there and how long it will last.

But it was not always so. Once – and it may well still be true for those with particularly strong imaginations – you had only to dream of a place to be sure that it existed somewhere. The world was but a mirror of your mind.

One such place was the Wishing Well. It didn’t look like anything special, just an ordinary wooden and stone well with a wooden bucket, out in the middle of no where. But drop the bucket down into the Wishing Well and it came up full, frothing and bubbling with your deepest desire. Childless women came to the Well and pulled up a bucket with a new born babe inside and many were the musicians and philosophers who came to drink deeply for a draught of Inspiration.

But few saw it in their excitement of finding the Well there, carved on the rim of the wooden well were six words of warning; an old curse.

"May all your wishes be granted"

A magical wishing well? It was said, those who came seeking riches, found themselves pulling up a bucket of gold but discovered their treasure was too heavy to carry. Their skeletons were sometimes found resting upon their riches, teethmarks left behind on their gold coins.

The brokenhearted, too, came to the Wishing Well, desiring only to forget. But after drinking deep from the Well, they forgot not only the name of their Beloved but also their names, origins and professions, condemned to wander the world for the rest of their lives like aimless ghosts.

It was said that the Wishing Well was only found by those who believed they would find it. No sooner had they emptied the bucket of their wishes, the Well would vanish and reappear somewhere else.

So it was perhaps ironic that the last person to find the Wishing Well was one of the rare souls who wanted nothing at all. His home was wherever he lay his head to sleep that night and, owning no more than the clothes on his back, he was grateful that he had nothing to carry. His friends were the people he happened to meet as he walked the earth and he traveled wherever the winds blew him – until one day when a mischievous gust nudged him into a large open field with a stone well in the middle.

It was a hot day, so he walked up to the well to quench his thirst. He lowered the bucket to pull himself a drink of it's cool water. The rope seemed creaky and reluctant and when it came up too light to have filled, he expected to find holes in the bottom of the bucket. Instead there was a folded note. Opening it he read:

"Are you sure?"

Scratching his head he suddenly saw the words carved into the stone rim and all at once he understood where he was and broke into hearty laughter. What on earth could he wish for? He needed new shoes, it was true – but the ones he wore were so comfy now that his feet were used to them. He could do with something to eat but he was willing to bet there were berries in season in the forest. He briefly considered asking for a new razor as the one he had was going quite rusty – but it seemed a waste of a wish and he rather fancied himself with a beard anyway.

It struck him as a little sad that so many people would have given their little finger to be where he stood and yet he couldn’t think what to wish for. Then inspiration struck and he lowered the bucket, chuckling as he dunked it in the water below and pulled up a load of…dynamite. Striking a match on the stubble of his chin, he lit the fuse and, as he let the bucket fall, he ran away as fast as his legs would carry him.

A loud explosion from behind sent him sprawling flat on his face and suddenly the air filled with a cacophony of sound; elephants blowing their trumpets mixed with the sound of roaring locomotives and a New Orleans jazz band. He raised his head to see all the water from the Well shooting up in the air in an impossible collage of images – flamingos performed ballet upon the back of an enormous sunburned whale, polar bears kissed passionately in tuxedos and telephone boxes argued furiously about whether there was such a thing as free will…

And then it was all gone. The water of the Wishing Well evaporated into the sky and mingled with the clouds. A sharp breeze came along and in no time the clouds were dispersed far and wide across the planet.


Which is why, if you ever want a wish to come true, all you have to do is take a walk in the rain, stick out your tongue and maybe, just maybe, "you’ll catch a drop from the Wishing Well."

Life At Windrush Lake

"medicine he needs is a draught of morning air". Thoreau


My home, my Wladen Pond in many ways, as I sit quietly for a spell. Listening in a distance...two Whip-poor-wills singing. It's my special place. 

We all have our special place. That tree in the park, a favorite cafe to spend a selfish hour on Sunday mornings, that unexpected conversation with a neighbor and you suddenly understand why you like them so much. The special moment when you decide they could become your friend. 

By immersing himself into Walden Pond, Thoreau hoped to gain a more objective understanding of humanity through personal introspection. Spend some time in your Walden Pond. It's there, even if it is only the quiet field in your mind. Maybe it is the last kiss of sunlight on a face. The unexpected moments of clarity that rush over you like the North breeze… If the day and night makes one joyful, one is successful, are they not? What makes a deliberate life anyway? A choice...of course...to be forever on the alert and looking always at what is to be seen.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.” Henry David Thoreau


Make peace with yourself, get along with it all, and forever be on the alert and looking at what is to be seen...

Not half that bad on a good day...don’t you think? 
Doc

Thursday, November 9, 2017

We Live In Language

The Boy Said To The Fish...

“How’s the water?”
And the fish answered...
“What’s water?”

The individual component of language-text-is the prime vehicle used to express the experiences of our existence—from minor moments of daily life to the grand nature of the human condition. Our ancestors as far back as the cave man have been using symbols to document and record experiences.
Today, the visualization of our personal stories is an integral and essential part of nearly every moment of life, and we use text in all of its forms to define reality, emotions and even time itself. We are now living in a world wherein the condition of our visual communication reflects the condition of our culture and reflect both how we live in language and how language now defines our lives.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Entry Note To Self...quietness

My Quiet Space

Coolness To The Air


Sitting in my quiet space this morning...just listening… to the gentle breeze that made her visit early in the morning.  I noticed her presence around midnight. She silently passed in the night leaving a renewed freshness to all that resides in Nature. ..That gentle hush as you feel her cool change seeping inward.

Notice there. A bird hovering around the fountain. Just a glimpse . Ah...just as I thought, my winged messenger, the Cardinal. I'm quietly thinking… "where's your mate? Is it really true that it could be a visit of you? From the saintly world, I presume? Maybe just a visit to wish me health? Whoever you are, I pause and honor your space."



"I feel your breeze of the night...and hear your melody as you stroll through the wind chimes, tuned to the pitch of G... I listen now… for the farthest sound…only silence of the breeze and the steady thump of my heart."...Doc

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Lemme Think About It


Lemme Think About It


“Will Think About It." That's one of my favorite expressions. It's nothing original, nothing new, just a vague proclamation I often push to the limits of usefulness. Like making stacks of "open later" mail and coding e-mails in "respond later" color. "I'll give it some thought" is a well-intentioned procrastination tool which--when paired with a slight chin-tilt and brooding nod--provides a polite delay: 

My young daughter once asked, "do you have a think today Daddy?" Seems my pat answer of, "I’ll give that some thought baby doll”, made an impression on her. I was just thinking yesterday that through the years I have given this too much thought. 

“Let me think about it,” is another favorite of mine. While it provides that polite delay in one way, it is also denotes an active process of thinking.  "Let me think about it,” would be a great response to a question like, “how do you decalcify your penal gland?” How about, “are you still you if everyone looks at you differently?” Yep, Lemme think about that.

Why is it, when your driving you have to turn down the music so you can see the street address? Think about it. You do that, you know you do!

Would mad cow dis-ease be the same as a moo dis-order? Do dogs worry if they show up late? See, there are so many questions about life that just requires a little more thought.

Now, when I'm in a pensive mood, and something requires some deep think, I will just “stop to ponder.”

*Stopped To Ponder*

"the idea that nothing is unknowable is due to our minds being unable to process the thought of it. It is conceivable that nothing could exist; we just cannot imagine it."

Think About it.
Make peace with yourself and get along with it all...Doc




From The Road...Horace

"If you give energy to what annoys you, you are keeping it alive..."


I remember well the moment I heard those words. I walked in to a small bar in Algiers and he looked up from the corner table and asked, ”Are you lost?" 

”Been that way most of my life. What about you?" 

”Not lost, but ugly. Born that way and I kinda like it." He quipped...

He spoke with a mixed gumbo French accent, much like the half a bowl of mixed sea food gumbo he was caressing. An old grey hat pulled over his eyes making each remark a surprise. Said he was from up around St. Landry Parish. Part of the Chachier clan but has lived in Algiers for over thirty years. 

”Just call me Horace, named after one of them Roman poets," as he reached out his experienced hand.

We had a beer or two before it was all over...along with some good laughs and stories he shared of life along the Mississippi. He works on a tug boat and has for thirty two years. Lost his wife in the Katerina flood waters. Said his wife was a fine woman and a blessing . Two grown children, that in his words never amounted to much...

I asked him if he gives much thought to Katerina and his loss, and his answer was my lesson for that day...

”You know Doc, I did for several years. After one of them sleepless nights,
I decided that if you attend to what annoys you...you are giving it energy and keeping it alive."


Those little moments in our lives when we remember the smell, the visual, the arrangement of words strung together in a way we can easily draw from our memory. How our mind works to hold onto to painful memories and how it works so we can finally make peace with ourselves. In those moments we realize that peace has always been ever present in our Being and always resided there...just waiting and completely available through all our experiences...if we so choose...Doc

Photo By: Dado...from the Austin video



Monday, November 6, 2017

Entry Note To Self...ramblings


Ramblings From A Twisted Mind


"Do you have a Twisted Mind…?"

That’s assuming we consider our own minds twisted. I don’t consider my mind twisted at all, but many others have told me that they think "it" is. They say how my mind thinks and works gives them some cause for disturbance. Only a few have ever said that they were just joking. My shrink friend I have known for years, certainly wasn’t joking. As for how I like it?...I do, I really do. It keeps things interesting. What is it like? Well...it's great. Plus, "it’s just who I am."

Every individual is under the influence of a twisted mind. Each person is a paradox. He is ambitious but lazy, he wants everything perfect yet complains when things move towards perfection, he wants to be happy yet thinks of things that makes him sad, he always has doubts over himself yet doesn't want to change, he craves attention but rejects it when it comes his way, he wants to be loved yet hurts the people who love him the most, he wants a true friend yet he isn't able to handle the reality when it comes into his life, "he is a conflicted contradiction". Each person out there is twisted. "It's just who we are."


Photo By, Bill Gekas from down Melbourne way...

Saturday, November 4, 2017

From The Road Series...Bimini

From The Road Series
Field Notes: An Afternoon In Bimini

”They call me Peanut!” he said through stretched lips. Only he didn’t just say it like in sentence form. He sang it, mouthing the syllables slowly, assigning each one a different note, and drawing out the “Peeaaaa-” in “Peanut.” 

”Peanut?” I said to confirm, ”I’m Doc.”

We didn’t extend hands since his were covered in conch slime, instead, we offered head nods to each other as he told me about his favorite niece, they call Conch, while swiftly slicing the googley eyeballs off a conch with the single pull of a knife.

As I stood on the dock, Peanut working his way through shell after shell after shell of Bahamian Queen Conch, I found myself mesmerized by the ease with which he worked. The swing of a rock hammer here, a few flicks of the wrist there. The conch flew out of one bucket, the meat was hurled into a separate bucket, and the occupant-evicted shells were tossed back into crystalline water. The gap between sea water and the dock below us was several feet wide and most of it was already filled. Not with air but with mounds of those emptied conch shells, thousands of them, likely tossed in by Peanut.

Fresh, salty conch meat, chopped roughly with a machete and tossed with cubes of finely diced green bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes. It’s a hit with a lot of lime juice and a little bit of orange juice, both squeezed fresh, and tossed again. There are some extras that can be added to the salad, or not, depending on the makers’ tastes: a sprinkle of garlic salt for seasoning, a little extra diced habanero for spice, or maybe a dollop of mayonnaise for fat to round it out.

But all of that aside, the secret to the best conch salad–according to Peanut –lies not in the extras. You see, when it comes down to it, conch salad in the Bahamas is like made-from-scatch pasta in Italy. You can box it up and you can freeze it; you can manipulate the ratios and some of the ingredients. But there’s nothing that can compare to the tender chew and delicate brine of conch salad made with mollosk pulled straight from the sea. Chop the conch meat, fresh from the water, and serve it just after it’s eye stalks have ceased to google.

That’s where Peanut–a hammer-swinging, Vitamix-slinging, top-100s-of-the-90s-singing expert of cleaning conch–comes in. Peanut pounded into a shell, blasting a hole about a quarter of the way down its side with a single swing of his rock hammer. He pulled the meat from the shell, as he sang some Whitney Houston, and then he pushed the conch’s long meandering eye stalks towards me and said, ”Here’s lookin’ at you kid,” then laughed at his own wit. I laughed too, as a flash of Casablanca raced through my mind.  

Peanut went back to cracking and slicing and singing, this time Rhianna as he pulled a long, clear worm-like piece of anatomy from the grey-skinned conch meat. He held it out towards me and said two words that told me everything I needed to know. 

”Bahamian Viagra.”

He shoved half of it into his mouth and left the other half dangling between the parallel gap in his upper and lower teeth, spilling out between his stretched wide lips. He flicked it up and down with his tongue, laughing even harder as the worm whipped his nose and his chin, and then swallowed it in a single gulp.

I was a mix of infatuated and disgusted and I also knew I wanted to eat a little clear conch worm myself. Peanut passed the next one to Me. ”Better than the Mezcal worm,” he said to me. 

It was delicate and salty, like an oyster liquor-flavored gummy worm, and I halfway wondered if somehow I could use the transparent sea-birthed gummy worm in a fine dining kind of dish. ;)

When the sun started to sink, I passed Peanut a couple more VitaMalts as a thanks for sharing his time and songs and laughter and also my first true introduction to Bahamian Viagra. 

Peanut waved and told me to enjoy the night, shouting down the dock through his own belly laughs, “
”Mate, you will be up all night long with that thing in your belly!”

As I walked away, chuckling with him at the thought, I heard the beginnings of another conch salad in hammer swings and empty shell tosses, along with the faint sound of Peanut singing...This time, though, it was Michael Jackson. ”Don’t stop, til you get enough…”

There will always be a memory of that afternoon with Peanut and the conch pistol, and a salad that tropical dreams are made of, and maybe also there’s a small hope that the Bahamians are onto something with the pistols that evades scientific reason.

From the road...see you soon...Doc

Journal Entry 10/15/17

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