Reflections From The World...neon signs

The Christopher Bryson Series

Neon signs 

Most times when I pass these signs it is near dark, or coming out of night. Even when I saw them for the first time I felt that I had seen them many times before.

I know the name is French, after Guillaume Tujague, but I see Tijuana, 1976, the Frontón Palacio and the diner across the street, the constant reminders of Revolución, then the free road south past the bullring, playas, lost and salty coastal days, Todos Santos, the cove and the lobster in foil, Ensenada nights, the neon of Hussong's, and the more intimate cantinas with names I don't recall: Piso Rojo, Manuel's, Abierto 24 Horas, and like that. Street taquitos at 25 cents, diesel-fueled Margaritas in a champagne glass for fifty. The night the contrabandistas offered me pesos for my wife—and when I refused, they sweetened the deal with a wooden box of cigars from Havana. Not believing them, I still refused, and the man with the gold tooth told me that they would take her to their boat if they really wanted her. Under the bar, he showed me a bone-handled cuchillo. I believed him. And the ceiling fans chopped the air like helicopters and deep heartbeats as we eased out of the place, ran like children under the neon light, scared, then later, laughing.

Neon in darkness is a visual cliche, but it remains compelling to me—its shape, its blurred sharpness, color. It can remind me of what has happened, where I have come from, and somehow holds promise for something more in the secret excitement of night.

Tujague's, Bar

Decatur Street

New Orleans

March 4, 2017

Reflections From The World...Sean Dietrich

TENNESSEE WALTZ

THE SEAN DIETRICH SERIES

He talked about creeks, mud cats, frog gigging, bush hooks, and running barefoot through pinestraw and Cahaba lilies.

Mister Vernon died last night. He went easy.

You never met him, but you knew him. He was every white-haired man you’ve ever seen.

He spoke with a drawl. He talked about the old days. He was opinionated. He was American. Lonely.

Miss Charyl, his caregiver, did CPR. She compressed his chest so hard his sternum cracked. She was sobbing when the EMT’s took him.

Caregiving is Charyl’s second job. She’s been working nights at Mister Vernon’s for a while.

She arrived at his mobile-home one sunny day. Mister Vernon was fussy, cranky. A twenty-four carat heart.

She listened to his stories—since nobody else would. He had millions.

He talked about creeks, mud cats, frog gigging, bush hooks, and running barefoot through pinestraw and Cahaba lilies.

And he talked about Marilyn. Marilyn was the center of his life once. His companion. But she was not long for this world.

He talked politics, too. Charyl and he disagreed. Mister Vernon would holler his opinions loud enough to make the walls bow.

He was a man of his time. An oil-rig worker, a logger, a breadwinner, a roughneck. He helped build a country. And a family.

Each day, he’d thumb through a collection of old photos. His favorite: the woman with the warm smile.

Marilyn. The woman who’d helped him make his family. Who’d turned his kids into adults. Adults who had successful lives and successful families. They live in successful cities, they do successful things.

“He sure missed his kids,” says Charyl. “They hardly came to see him. They were so busy.”

Busy.

Last night, Vernon asked Charyl for a country supper. She lit the stove and tore up the kitchen. She cooked chicken-fried steak, creamed potatoes, string beans, milk gravy.

“Marilyn used to make milk gravy,” he remarked.

She served him peach cobbler. Handmade. The kind found at Baptist covered-dish suppers.

“Marilyn used to make peach cobbler,” he said.

After supper, he shuffled to his easy chair. He watched the news with the volume blasting. He got tired. He shut off the television.

“I’m going to bed,” he said.

Charyl helped him into cotton pajamas. She washed his face. She laid him in bed. She tucked the corners of the quilt beneath his shoulders.

“Sing to me,” said Mister Vernon.

“Sing?”

“I wanna hear a song.”

“Dunno what to sing, Mister Vern.”

“How ‘bout the ‘Tennessee Waltz?’”

Charyl cleared her throat.

She sang from memory. Eyes shut. It was more than a melody. It was the favorite song of a man with busy kids. It was his song. His era.

It was girls in faded floral-print. Men in boots. A generation of dirty hands, cutting timber, pigging pipes, and striking arcs.

When she finished, Vernon’s eyes were closed. She kissed his forehead. He was cold.

“I love you, Vernon,” she whispered.

He breathed a sigh. His chest rose and fell just once.

Marilyn was waiting at the gate.

Vernon might be the most average elderly man anyone’s ever heard of.

But America will not be the same without him.

Neither will his successful kids.

Enjoy your weekend in Ease and Peace...

Doc

https://youtu.be/zzDUi_L6MzA

Reflections From The World...daddy’s house

She sits on the porch of her daddy’s house

But all her pretty dreams are torn

She stares off alone into the night

With the eyes of one who hates for just being born ...B Springsteen 

Medium by Ann George

Entry Notes To Self...renewal

Our Being Series

My morning walk

Yellow and White Daffodils 

Journal Entry: 1/27/18

I first noticed it yesterday on my drive up from the country. Open fields, now turning a brilliant green carpet of clover. On each ridge in a distance, you could see beautiful patches of yellow and white jonquils. Each showing proudly where families once stood. A not so distant pass, but forgotten still. Generations that were connected to nature and all that sustained that in their lives. Think how connected to nature our Native Americans were. The last totally connected civilization in our history.

On my walk this morning, I felt like Spring today. A time when nature’s renewal is just beginning. Especially near the back of my neighborhood, where Nature meets civilization. Walking the edge between two worlds that depends one on the other. Nature and Civilization...a codependent relationship that has existed from the beginning.

Nature with... her chaos, randomness and patience and on the other side this ordered and impatient but beautiful arranged gardens. Each house displaying their purple and yellow (mostly) rows of pansies, and their dogwood trees with swollen buds. The Society Garlic are standing tall with just a scent of their intentions. So many varieties pushing their way out of their winters pain and emerging into light. All are just ready to surprise you any day now with their new multi colored robe. Spring, the arrival of renewal.

I don’t know why this story keeps sticking with me this morning, but I keep thinking about a news story from a small village where I spend my summer days. Let me tell it as best as I can.

”There were two alerts sent out on Saturday, that a man and women had been missing. Francis, suffering from dementia, had gone missing from her home around noon on Friday. Robert, a 70 year old, was last seen riding his red bike out of his driveway around noon on Thursday headed south on A1A near Flagler, Florida.

After an extensive and sometimes frantic search Robert was found. Seems he had cancelled his phone service on Thursday, called the local service companies and disconnected his water, power and his cable services. Small details, but it was obvious he did not want to burden his family with clearing the details of his life.

He wrote a final goodby note and left it on his nightstand, right next to seventy three cents in change and a receipt from the local pharmacy. Robert mounted his red bike and rode about four miles to a secluded beach near an area called Bings Landing. Out of sight, and at the edge of the Inter Coastal Canal, Robert took the pills he had been saving and thought his last thoughts.

What was it like in that last moment? I suppose it was like going to sleep and never waking up.

Around noon on Saturday, a man on a red bike was spotted and oddly his name was Robert, but not our Robert.  It as around 4:30 p.m. that the Sheriffs office received a ping from Robert’s cell phone. AT&T was able to activate his service and triangulated the location of his phone. It  was left in the messenger bag on Robert’s old red bike.

I found it interesting that he even took his phone with him. No longer working, except for the camera and saved photos. Perhaps he took one last glance. Perhaps not, but those saved memories rode with him to his final moments.

I remember something that my Father told me once. He had been suffering from a long illness and I asked him in one of those moments of pain, “How do you hold on?”

”Never give in to the pain.”

What is it like in that last moment of humanity when one can no longer defend against the Pain? What makes one so deliberate without any notice of return from their sorrow?  That feeling of something more intense than deep sadness. What was it like in that last moment?

 ”Was it like the feeling of falling to sleep and never waking up?”

A reporter asked Roberts son, who lives in Philadelphia, if his father had ever had thoughts of suicide? “Not to my knowledge,” he replied.

Within hours on Saturday morning, the authorities found Francis and returned her to her family. Safe and unharmed.

Our humanity...ever so fragile and delicate. Always walking that line in civilization and trying to stay connected in this Spring of renewal.

I can’t get over how beautiful my first day in spring really IS.

Doc

From InsideThe Sane Asylum...changing latitudes

The Following Wind

Changing latitudes 

Journal Entry: 3/6/18

There was this year back in the 80’s...early eighties, I charted the sail boat named Molly B. Her home Port was Houston, Texas but she was docked and ready for charter in the bay around St. Petersburg, Florida. The first thing that popped into my mind when I saw her name was a tune by Molly Bee, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. The Molly B, however, sang a much different tune. She sang a song of passion and strength, yet, gentle at times. Especially at night with just you, The Sea, and the Molly B.

With Molly B came this Sea faring Captain. His name was Jacques. A full white bearded Dutchman. He called Amsterdam his base, but he liked to change latitudes quiet often and called the open seas his home. 

He looked at me and asked, “Which direction do you want to go?”

“South seems reasonable.”

“Then pull up her anchor. She can’t change latitudes if she ain’t moving.”

It was a great adventure...sailing with Jacques... on the Molly B. 

I recaptured my soul on the Molly B. I saw the Milky Way brighter than I had ever imagined. The intensity and focus I felt in a storm, hearing desperate mayday calls on the radio. The skill of Jacques as he plotted our dead reckoning course, just after we lost our navigational system off the coast of Marco Island. Four hour watches of aloneness, just the night sounds, 75 miles from land. 

Jacques had calculated our waypoints for about four hours stretches. This would allow us a course change at the beginning of each shift. On the second morning out, I had the early morning shift, and if Jacque’s reasoning and calculations were correct, we should be close to a spot in the sea called Smiths Sholes. 24° 43.1'-81° 55.3' W. Just a small marker in the sea with a bell on it. It separates the sea from waters of safe sailing to the warning of: “beyond the dinging of my bell is a military bombing range and the shallow reefs.”

That foggy damp morning... and the faint sound in the distance. Traveling low in the water...Ding-ding, ding-ding. Jacques was right on point.

There was this pirate we encountered while anchored at Marquis Island. It was a brief layover for a little sleep before turning East toward Key West. I heard Jacques calling, “Hey, Doc. Stay below, and what ever happens, he ain’t to board Molly B.” And so it was. 

How about the overnight in Key West after too much rum. Jacques chasing chickens down Duval Street and a mad chicken owner chasing Jacques. The freedom I felt passing Cuba in the night. Seeing the lights on the horizon and only hearing the night sounds of the sea and Molly B as we came about to 280 degrees and entered the warm Gulf Stream. I remember Jacques’ words as I took the helm. ”Keep her at 280 degrees, in he fair wind, until you see the sunrise on your starboard. Our next waypoint, 25.7617° N, 80.1918° W.”

Footnote: Well it is time to change latitudes for a while. I’m headed back to the East Coast for a few months and I need to spend a little more time with some who need more time. 

Fare well. Keep the wind at your back and remember, “You have to pull anchor before you can change latitudes.” So says the Molly B.

Check back often...see you soon.

Boats drinks to all,

Doc

Life Inside The Sane Asylum...resolve

Life Inside The Sane Asylum

Resolve 

Journal Entry: 3/3/18

Yesterday, while-visiting a friend in the hospital ICU, I picked up this little pamphlet. I had the choice between one entitled #REPENT or this one. Hell, I repent all the time. Well almost. But I do say I am sorry when I’m wrong. I’m not sure I would get bonus points for that answer but maybe I should get 1 or 2? So, in my estimation, I have some Repenting skills and besides, the fact that a young person would be walking a picket line with the protest message, Are You A Good Person, is timely.

I have been intrigued watching these young people and their resolve to see change. I remember that resolve. The young people of the sixties had that resolve, along with the resolve to get High and participate in a “free sex” kinda thing. We needed a little diversity with our resolve.

All seriousness aside, we were a pretty stirred up resolve back then. Resolve lasted for a spell and the older generation was appalled. Those lazy, self centered hippies are good for nothing. Yes, we were good for nothing but we mixed in a little music with the resolve and somewhere a long the way we dropped our resolve and keep our music alive. We invented Music Fest. Well not really invented, but as my friend says about the LSU tailgating parties, “we may not have invented tailgating, but we perfected it.”

I hear a lot of comments about the youth of today. All the old cliche’s are familiar ones. Last night I overheard this conversation:

Older Man: ”Our generation apologizes to the young people of today for leaving you a world that is in such a mess.”

Young Boy: ”We accept your apology, and now we are going to fix the F####d up mess you left us.” 

Resolve

I have always had this thing about being a good person.  Think it was from being raised around good people. There was a certain standard of goodness that was the norm. I remember well those affirmations of goodness about others. You noticed that goodness and told others about it. The word spread around and when you would attended their funeral years later, they were acknowledged for their goodness. What resolve.

Well, I glanced through this little pamphlet and noticed there were degrees or levels of goodness. You can score yourself. I have never really thought about scoring myself on a scale of goodness, but here it is, right in front of me. I guess it is like being half way pregnant?

I knew I should have picked up that #Repent one...

With great resolve,

Doc

Are you a good person?

Step 1: Read these stories and decide what you would do.

You are walking down the hall when a $20 bill falls to the floor at your feet. Looking up, you realize that “Mr Money Bags” is in front of you digging through his pockets. He already has everything: will he never miss twenty dollars?

What would you do?

Take the money and run: 0 points

Donate it to charity: 2 points

Give the money back: 4 points

Uh-oh. You forgot about today’s math test and did not study. Luckily, you sit beside “Miss Know It All” and her answers are just begging to be looked at. Your teacher walks out of the room. Here’s your chance to “borrow” some answers.

What would you do?

Copy the whole test: 0 points

Use a few answers: 2 points

Do your own work: 4 points

The school bully is walking through the cafeteria with a tray full of chili and pudding. He is about to walk past you when you notice the backpack in his path. If he trips over it, things will get messy. You have to act fast.

What would you do?

Grab your camera: 0 points 

Yell “Look Out!”: 2 points

Move the backpack: 4 points

Step 2: Add up your points 

If your score is...

4 points or less: you should really try harder.

6 or 8 points: A good score, but it could be better.

10 points or more: Way to go! You are a very good person.

Step 3: Resolve to be a good person unless you scored 10 points or more, then I guess you are already one. Unless you were untruthful?

I wonder...how many points do I need to go to Heaven? Do we get to collect our points along the way and have this Heaven Mileage Account? Kinda like my Air Miles card? So many questions left to answer...;)

Footnote: Just as I am writing this, a news clip came across my phone...Breaking News: man shoots himself in the head in front of the White House. Another form of resolve...I suppose.

The Cynical Psychology Series...Lacan

Cynical Psychology Series

You must have been potty trained to early?

Journal Entry: 1/22/18

Anytime I see the word Lacan, I am always reminded of a boat I once owned. I named her Toucan. Like the Bird. From time to time I would pick up this pirateious acting crew for a weekend of sailing. For some strange reason on this weekend, we got on the subject of my boats name. One thing lead to another, bit by bit, one snide remark after another, so I finally said, out of disgust, ”OK damn it! You rename her.” So they did. “Toucan Do It Too.” Still remains one of my favorite boats of all time. I had one other boat that I was quiet fond of. The Mary B., but that is a story for another time.

Today, I am in a more cynical mood. I want to think about some shit. Heavy shit, if you know what I mean. So I’m thinking...what’s some heavy shit to think about. That’s when Jacques Lacan crossed my mind. 

I see a lot of quotes and post that reference JACQUES LACAN, so let me give you a very short version of my thoughts on the man and his myth.

So fasten your seatbelts and put your seatbacks and tray tables in the full upright and locked position, because you're gonna need all the help you can get to grasp the Psychoanalytic Industrial Complex that is Jacques Lacan, the bigwig of French psychiatry. (Freud was Austrian, so pull it together).

Let it first be known that Lacan coined a lot of phrases and used complicated language to describe various psychological phenomena (mirror phase, objet, The Real, The Thing… yadda yadda yadda). Plus—bonus!—Monsieur Lacan was considered very controversial, even scandalous at times.  My, aren’t we all?

Think of Lacan as the Johnny Rotten of the Psychiatry World. First, there was that whole abolishing the Freudian School of Psychology in Paris thing. Sure, that hardly sounds like a high crime against humanity to most of us, but trust me, a whole lot of French intellectuals got their knickers in a twist over this move. But hey, Lacan had good intentions. He was worried that people had gone too far from the true Freud. Heaven forbid.

Then there's the fact that Lacan was so radical that he and his peeps got booted out of the International Psychoanalytical Association for "deviant practices." I know that sounds straight up insane, but it really came down to the fact that he didn't believe that 50-minute sessions were fundamental to analysis. He was more into this whole psychotherapy-as-speed-dating. A ten, five, or even three minutes on the analytical couch would do just fine.

Sadly, I must say, explaining his theories would be impossible to squeeze into a Lacanian-length therapy session. So for now I will just state his basic premise: 

Lacan's thing was that learning to talk was the crucial event of childhood. Once a kid gets to yakking, they have to parrot what the family and society tells them to say and they just bottle up all of the those little magic ideas they ever had before they could talk.

Guess what happens when that little kid does a really good job of holding those ideas inside? That's right: he gets himself a nice little mental illness—psychosis, if he's lucky. And that's where the psychoanalyst comes in: he's there to decipher all of that stuff held in from the pre-language phase. When you were still peeing in your diapers. 

And that, ladies and gents, is Lacanian therapy in a nutshell.

But always remember...things do not exist until they appear, 

We still have hope! Don’t we?

Doc

P.s. Did I ever tell you I did not want to be a doctor? I just wanted to be a bum and my mother wanted me to be a doctor. We both got our wish. Now I am just a bum doctor..;)

Medium By, Bill Gekas and his beautiful daughter from down Melbourne way...

Life Inside The Sane Asylum...the story of it all

The story of it all..

CITIZENS of THE SANE ASYLUM

And their illusions of truth...

I think I shared with you in an earlier post how this idea of The Sane Asylum came to be, so I think it only fair that I share with you the story of it all...see how transparent I am becoming?

Well, you have this thing...this Sane Asylum Thing that seems pretty logical. So you start thinking...right? Now, who do I want in my Sane Asylum? My entourage, so to speak. 

Well, Me of course...not a real me, but a reflection of me. An Alter Ego perhaps. Like a real selfie. So Dr. Ego Prozac was morphed...just like that. He became a Thought Placebo Researcher and the primate zoo keeper. A man with a mission to create brain ease...Yes, he will do just fine and besides, Ego Prozac sounds very Austrian. I just hope the big Pharmaceuticals don’t make me change my name.

Now, Ego as we call him, needs allies. The sort of allies that are a little corked in their thoughts and habits, but they have asemblance of a sound mind. Those you want to have around at your last dance. 

So neighbors and friends he gathered... Neighbors like most of us have...Dr. I B Thinking for example. One of those kind of thinkers that’s open and free with his theories. Always thought out, but when he is finished you need brain optimization treatment to understand what he is saying. He believes language has created all of our “illusions of beliefs” about who we are. He is like a linguistic medicine man that wears a bow tie.

Then in strolls Less Wrong. I always admired Less for his strong belief of not knowing WTF he is doing. He does not have therapy sessions, his therapy sessions are always in progress. He started out wearing a different color pair of glasses to match his different hair color. Now, Less just seems to take pride in making offensive comments. He is good to have around when you feel cynical about things.

There is this one special fellow Ego created to be some mysterious messenger. He just had to have the name Moore Wright, and so he did. He is like one of those people that just out of nowhere show up and delivers a coded message. It really became confusing because he was an emigrant or is it immigrant! One is coming and one is going, I think? Anyway, Moore Wright shows up and delivers these cryptic messages from “They.” We all have those, “They”, in our lives and we are always trying to figure out who “They” are? Moore is married to Mammy Dell Small and they live out on the edge in a Yurt. Did I mention that Mammie Dell is a big ole girl? Well at least in my illusion she appears that way.

Of course you want some friends, so you add sometimes Jes B. Rambling in the present tense or Jess Ben Rambling in the past tense. You see, it’s the tense and grammatical stuff that gives a reason to ponder the deeper meanings of life. Jes is skilled in the fine art of doing nothing and never tires of it. Make him, cynical, hard to know his whereabouts and always looking for Hysterical Sites. So Jess he will be.

Jess hangs around this man of La Mancha and Friend...the most fascinating La Mancha in the world. Let’s just call him Dado for short. I first called him Doda but that’s not a very good La Mancha name. We need someone from afar to be the historian of the Hysterical. The resident photographer of sorts. The In Resident Photographer Of The Sane Asylum he will be.

Add in Old Goat Man, the wandering sage, and Mr Bill the 96 year old BBQ Pit Master... just to give character to a very uncharacteristic bunch. Mr Bill, who always smells like smoke, reminds me of the uncommon man that made peace with himself and just got along with it all, while the Old Goat Man, never lets us forget that we all have goats. We just happen to see his.

There are other homesteaders I met along the way. Amy G Gala, the blast from my past. She stores all the emotional history. Kinda like an Anal Historian. And how could I forget Ima Aging and her sister Ura Wrinkling. There to remind me of youthfulness as they swim nude around midnight in the Mill pond with the Frazier brothers and sip on the Angles Share of only the good stuff. Even Chuckle MeSum and his out of focus Three Quarter Time of misfits shows up from time to time.

Now how can we have a good illusion and not include family? You just can’t. Well my family thought this was a pretty cool idea so they created their altered selfies. Let me say they were somewhat cool with this idea. I think they thought WTF lame brain Idea is This? I could tell they did not want permanent residency status in The Sane Asylum so I negotiated and we came up with Visitors VISAs. I can’t much blame them. So, Izzy Isness, M.T Lot and N.D. Shadow they came to be. 

More homesteaders could be added, but it seems there is just not enough time to bring them around to my way of thinking.

There you have it...The Sane Asylum. At least my Sane Asylum. That part of me that likes to smile, be punny, be cynical and above all, make it up as I go. Just an illusion. Don't take it serious!! It's just a hobby. I don't really know how I got this post up and running. Once it popped up on the screen, I had to write something. Now it has become a community of Altered Selfies or basically a halfway house for Altered Selfies. Most of all, it is my preservation site for those with a twisted mind and a crooked smile.

I am Dr Ego Prozac, a Cynical Psychologist. Some would say I am an alter ego. Others say just an illusion of another ego. It makes little difference since meaning only exist in our minds and I will only be what you believe me to be. What I observe are not things, properties, or relations of a world that exists, but rather the results of distinctions about reality I have made. So I could be wrong. I would never ask you to deal with your reality better, but I might ask you to change your beliefs, which changes the reality you have to deal with. My desire and endeavor is to try and realize what may be of value in life and have a grin along the way.  

Make peace with your self and get along with it all...

My friends call me Doc

Entry Note To Self...purpose

At Play In The Fields Of Now

People With Purpose...Sister Margret

Morning Meditation

Journal Entry: 1/11/18

There is a story behind this photo entitled Morning Meditation. Just a memory. Perhaps those mental things we keep around to remind us of certain feelings and affections. This photo is by John Donnels Of New Orleans.

For most of my productive years, at least those that had any value, were the ones I spent working alongside Catholic Nuns in healthcare.  A strong and dedicated group of women. Since I am deeply rooted in religion, but not a deeply rooted religious man, I have always remembered that I was raised by a Holy Man and worked most of my life with Sister’s of Charity. My entire life has been around people with purpose. So in a way that has become my religion. *

*Anyway, I visited with this one Sister each day, and hanging on her wall was this picture. I always gave it a nod and a praise. When my career ended with this Order, Sister Margret presented me with this photo. What a gift. I entitled it People With Purpose. I look at it each day with fond memories.

I just happened to be in New Orleans one year during the French Quarter Festival. It was one of those short trips that turned into a longer trip. I made it a purpose to stop by Mr Donnels Photo Gallery down on St. Peter Street. St. Peter’s Street is nestled in close to Jackson Square. What a nice walk it is to revisit a few times of year. I usually take St. Ann down to Cafe Du Monde, have a cup of dark coffee, stroll the River levee and pick up St. Peter to Mr. Donnels studio. It’s like you need to check in again with all those first impressions.

Mr. Donnels did not know me, but I felt I knew him, maybe just a little, by looking at his photo each day. His gallery was filled with pictures of his neighborhood and its people. His kind demeanor, only confirmed my belief in his purpose.

Mr. Donnels died at the age of 84...a local documentary was made of him. It was called the Pink Satin Suit:

The Pink Satin Suit documents the struggles, perseverance and discipline that go into the making of a self-made man. Johnny Donnels is an icon of the French Quarter where he runs a gallery filled with his own art. Revealed in a lover’s embrace with the life that he has created, he is, to many, the last of the great Bohemians: a symbol of freedom and ease.

Entry Note To Self...rainy morning

Life At Windrush Lake

Rainy Morning...

Journal Entry: 1/20/18

It’s a little more than a drizzle this morning. In the back of the house I hear the alarm sound of a severe weather warning. I think to myself...it can only be one of two things. A flash flood warning or a tornado warning. Can’t do anything about either one. And besides, there are some things that can only be learned in a storm.

There is a very remote possibility that it could be a North Korea nuke warning but I think the warning sound would be different...more like Siri screaming at the top of her frequency, “duck tape your doors and windows,”  Don’t know, just a guess. I can’t do a lot about that one either.

So here I sit, a person, with not many troubles, healthy of mind, body and spirit. 

Enough of the Zen, pensive stuff. I almost stepped inside The Sane Asylum again. The Sane Asylum, as I call it, started out as an illusion that I created for myself. It went something like...What if one day we had to create an Asylum for the Sane? 

Think about that...it could happen. What if being Sane became the abnormal and “they” have to put some of us away? Well, I think it would be a pretty good gig. Maybe they will give us Music and Art Therapy everyday, pills to make you forget and Maybe a little ECT when we forget... and we will be normal again.

I kinda like the idea... so this illusion has grown over these years as I try and act as Sane as I know how to be.

Each morning I rise and take my first steps into My Sane Asylum. Each day a little different in the have too’s and don’t want too’s, but do it anyway, it has to get done. Chores, I call them. Always a list of things to do. When those are done, or a least some of them, I get busy at My Want Too’s for the day.

I don’t have a list of those, I just make them up as I go. Usually on my morning walk I will ask myself, “What can I do today to be a better person?” Lol. Not really. I just ask myself...”Man what are you doing here?” 

Anyway...it’s one of those whiskey and cigar kind of days.

Quiet a gig...on a rainy morning
Doc

The French Quarter Series...Mr Okra

Arthur "Mr. Okra" Robertson lumbers down Esplanade Avenue in his rickety pickup truck. Hot, sodden air blows through the open window and his sweat dampens the towel draped around his neck. Holding a jerry-rigged microphone in his hand, he calls out in a thick, furry voice, chanting a simple tune that is somewhere between talking and singing.

I have oranges and banana...

I have eating pears and apples...

I have peaches, I have plums...

I have cantaloupes...

I have watermelon...

Mr Okra passed away on Thursday of this week...

Entry Note To Self...the ecotone

The Ecotone

Journal Entry: 1/11/18

On my morning walk this morning, I noticed the beauty of where the forest meets the meadow. The ecotone...that defined space where two habitats merge. That threshold where water meets the shore, where the forest comes to meadow, where woodland ends at a cultivated lawn, or where the sky meets the earth. It is the edge habitat where everything, soil content, vegetation, moisture, humidity, light, pollination, changes. It’s also where species from both sides converge, rendering it a place of complex interaction and diversity. 

The edge...

Things are always happening there. The small sea birds as they scramble from the edge of the waves, poking their beaks in the sand looking for that bite size crustacean. The Osprey as they break the edge of the water then tower to the sky with their next meal. Life just seems to happen on the edge.

It is a place of constant change and unexpected appearances. Such a distinction can be helpful when you are trying to distill a nebulous idea into a handful of words, or just in reflecting on a memory from our past. It is nothing more than noticing that space where broken sea shells become the sandy shore... just a glance is enough to remind us of the intensity and yet simple complexity in these places of transition, where one thing manages to become another. Edge walking with our mind and bodies.

We are all edge walkers when you really think about it. Always looking at the edge for our inspiration, our thrill, and our transition. Looking outward at the horizon or inward trying to discern the edge of our soul. That edge between depression and happiness, between control and freedom. The edge between love and hate, compassion and resentment. That space on the horizon where night becomes day and day to night. Life just happens on the edge and we all are just edge walkers between life and death...make your distinctions well my friends ...Doc

Photo Art: Marc Wabler