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

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...

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 

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

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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."