Reflections From The World...Pretending

Ed Valfre’s Dreamland...

Every afternoon, she would sit on the same bench under the same tree and pretend to read an interesting book. It had been her hope that a nice young man with intellectual taste would one day notice her and strike up a conversation. She finally met a sweet young man, who as luck would have it, also liked pretending to read interesting books.  

Entry Note To Self...Waiting

Waiting

Journal Entry: 1/2/18

Today, I had to wait for 45 minutes for something in a waiting room full of people. To most people, that may sound quite tedious. However, I didn’t mind. I like waiting. I know... that is strange. But I really do.

Why do I like waiting?  Older people are just good at waiting. We don’t mind, or we don’t show that we mind, to a point. If we do mind or get to the point when we start minding, we complain, but only in a very jolly sarcastic way. We complain with humor. We complain apologetically. That is, if we complain at all. Mostly, we just put up and shut up.

Now I have my reasons. Firstly, if I am waiting then I am not engaged in real life. This is especially so if I have no phone signal (as was the case today). Nobody can get hold of me while I am waiting. They can wait. Bliss.

Secondly, waiting gives me thinking space. All I can do is think while I wait. Thinking is healthy. We all should stop and just think now and then. It’s amazing what your mind can come up with if left with it’s own vices.

Thirdly, I love reading really old copies of Women’s Weekly.  Who doesn’t?

Fourthly, I love reading the random signs and notices that are always present in places of waiting: the adverts for coping with dementia, what to do if you think you have an STD, how much water you should drink a day, where the local support group for people with random unusual disease meet or the signs that tell you ‘please be patient if you have been waiting a long time’.

Finally, and most importantly, I love people watching and eavesdropping on those people. So for me, waiting is like being in the Frozen Frog Yogurt shop.

Today, while waiting, I heard all about one woman’s issues renovating her house and what happened when a curtain rod fell down on her sleeping husband during the night. I helped an elderly lady of 85 work out what day it was. I amused a random man with my desperate need to know more about a ‘Tilt Test’. He asked the receptionist for me, she wasn’t sure. I exchanged mutual society horror stories with a lady called Julie . I watched as a doddery old man with a thatched head of pure white hair called John, (the man, not the hair) as he was called into his appointment. I observed a lady called Florence amble past to her appointment shortly after John. I created a life for her in my head, (lives in the country, higgldy piggldy house, too many books and cats, loves Walmart, eats a lot of potato chips). I saw a youngish man called Paul with a funny hat get called into his appointment. I amused a random couple with my grammatical pedantry. _

_If only I had my sketch pad today. The adventures my pen and I would have told. As it were, I decided that an hour in a random waiting room would make for a great Broadway play or a Samuel Beckett story. It was an existentialist’s dream- waiting for something you don’t want to experience, and waiting patiently at that, and more importantly, being forced to consider your mortality and meaning on this planet while waiting for that thing you don’t want to happen. Arguably, there isn’t anything more existential than that.

When my time waiting came to an end, 45 minutes after it began, I hate to admit it but I was sad. For I will miss my new friends: John, Julie, Florence and Paul to name but a few. Perhaps our paths will cross again, in another waiting room somewhere else?

P.S. hope you like my Andy Warhol selfie??? 

Waiting Patiently...Doc

From Inside The Sane Asylum...Jess

”Hallelujah, Doc said my give a Sh_ **er  is in remission.”

Journal Entry1/1/18

Let’s start the New Year with a friend and a grin...here is to Jess B. Rambling

I don’t know how many of you will remember my friend Jess B? You just may recall that Jess is one of the original Sane Asylum homesteaders.

It is Jess B in present tense and Jess Ben Rambling in past tense. Jess is a wondering pilgrim and not seen a lot in public, but on occasions he will have something to point out and in his cynical way make his presence known.

He usually likes to do nothing on most days and seems he never gets finished of doing nothing. He often relates, that if you never start anything you will never have to finish. He is also quick to remind you that Lolly Gagging and Dilly Dallying are skilled behaviors that must be practiced often.

Jess has this gift of finding Hysterical Sites. He will ponder, travel great distances and investigate well before he documents his findings. He is credited with documenting several pseudo normal sites in The Sane Asylum.

No one really sees much of Jess, but from time to time he will send me facts and pictures from some hysterical site he has run across. Like the time he found a street in Austin called West Street, but it really ran North and South. He sent me a picture of him holding a compass under the West Street Sign to validate his findings that it truly did run North and South. Or how about the time he traveled to St. Augustine to find the original St. Augustine Grass. Picture to prove it.

Then there was this intersection in rural Louisiana where North Tucker Road crossed South Tucker Road. That corner still puzzles Jess to this day. There is not a visit that goes by that he does not discuss it as a true sign we are living in The Matrix.

Well this morning look what walks through my door...Jess Ben, wearing an old pair of fatigue cutoffs and a green t-shirt with the inscription, “Johnny Barber co-ed benefit Softball Tournament 2008.” Don’t know why that caught me as rather strange, but it did.

I asked Jess where did he get that old t-shirt? He mumbled something that sounded like “County Jail”.

“A long story”, he said.

Nothing like a long story from Jess to whet the appetite or is it wet the appetite? Always get those confused. So, I pour him a whiskey over ice and listen to his tale.

The First Lie Of The New Year

As he tells it...

”I went down to get my drivers license renewed this morning. Made it through the long line, passed the eye test after a few tries, took my mug shot and went to the clerk’s office to pay for my renewal with my credit card. The clerk looked at my card, then at yours truly and said “strip down please”.

I really thought it was some new security requirement and proceeded to take my cloths off. It only took seconds and I was subdued by a large swarm of Security Guards, followed quickly by the local Police department Swat Team pushing me in the back of a Paddy Wagon.

The holding cell interview was just shy of water boarding, but I am sure it was to determine if I had been radicalized. Imagine that.

I kept telling them over and over that the clerk told me to strip down! They kept telling me that the clerk meant for you to slide your credit card ‘with the strip down’.

I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding, but I am out on bond, and wearing clothes from the discarded box in County Jail.

They said they needed to keep my clothes as evidence.”

Not half that bad on a good day...Doc

P.s...and yes, Jess’s give a sh**’er is still in remission.

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.