Windy Morning Rumble

Hey there Mister Blackbird

In the shadow of the

Windy morning rumble

The Bottle Came Out Again

The bottle came out again

And with it the words

Verses rhymes

Pronouns and verbs

Lyrically set to please the ear

Hips to a rose 

Hops to a beer

Sitting alone until just the time

Dusty yet fresh

Clean clothes on a line

Showing dark light and desire

Every imaginable color of flower

Remembering things and designing new

Nothing rhymes with orange

Yet Blue with Bleu

Cheesy at times and dry to the bone

Smithing them like a sword is honed

Need to get out and put there for all

Build up paragraphs 

Times New Roman wall.

Beatus Saturnalia!

Done is My Choice

Have finally come to my senses. There is no longer a need to fight or be right (or left {behind} ). For it doesn't matter anymore. 

There are times in life when you must say the hell with it. This is that time for me and religion and politics. 

I know what I think to be the right way to go through living. That is all that matters. There is zero way to change other humans or the behavior and thoughts of others. 

There is a certain amount of humanity that wants to have their ludicrous ideology, their power over others and their penchant for destruction and hatred.     

To them I bid adieu. 

There are only so many more sunrises and sunsets. For each of them I wish for fun and joy for me. I no longer care to waste a moment on religious ideology or lack there of or political persuasion or lack there of. There is no point in my life for me to bother with either of these schools of thought (and schools of lack of thought). 

So vote and pray/prey to your hearts content. I am through. Those in power have and will remain in power. Those who wish to tell you they know the mind and voice of some magical sky fairy have and will continue to obtain their followers and both the religious and the political will continue to live off and rape the earth and the people on it for their own benefit. I will no longer have anything to do with that and that includes discussing these vermin. 

Some may say I have given up or given in. I would agree. I have - and I hope that my days remaining, free of caring about the red or the blue or the left or the right or heaven or hell will be filled with joy, with love, with care, for those for whom I wish to care. 

It won't be easy. There will be the temptation to "get into it" with someone. There will be the occasional sign of the cross or a political campaign that will bring back those feelings - the wanting to make a difference. The only difference I plan to make is for me and for mine. 

"They" haven't won - "they" just haven't beat me. 

http://youtu.be/5hMnWBwgFNE

Stripes, seals and a ghost

He sat in the chair looking out the window, rocking and as he rocked he thought that he was in time with the waves crashing on the rocks below. The waves lined up in stripes to the horizon. Each one grew as it came to shore and as it hit with force on the rocks, large ghostly sheets of foam would splatter and rise, as the resting seals would scatter and swim from where they had been sleeping in the sun.

VOPW

As the sun burned his face, he continued on down the dusty, desert road. Where he was headed he had know idea. Where he had been you can only imagine. Years of fighting and years of death had taken their toll.

With each step he took he kicked stones and small clouds of dust rose from his boots, boots that had seen as much blood and anger and violence as he has. The boots were dry leather, scarred like his face, cracked and old, on their last mile.

He didn’t speak a word as he passed the small crowd of people outside the lonely roadside café. He kept his head down and continued on his way. Although he was tired and felt as if he could sleep on his feet or at the very least lay down by the side of the road and fall into a deep sleep, he continued on.

The voices in his head kept telling him that they had been victorious, that they had won, that it was worth the cost and the price that would have been paid if they hadn’t acted. He knew they were wrong. He knew the price he was paying and would pay for the rest of his days, a burden that would wound him again and again. With each day he would relive the past, he would remember what had been done and what he had to do. He would continue to live, but his live would still hell for his mind will continue to be a battlefield.

Thoughts become things...

...to an extent,  yes. Can I manifest a cheeseburger or a million dollars in my bank account simply by thinking? Absolutely not. Will my thinking have an effect on my life? Yes. If I keep my head filled with negative thoughts and emotions I will surely be a negative person. If on the other hand I look for the good and the joy and the fun, then yes, I will probably be a brighter happier person.

If I think I can or I think I can't, I am right. I would buy into this as well. Certainly if I don't think I can accomplish something that is going to set in motion thoughts about not being good enough or being capable enough. While on the other hand if I think that I will try my best and do what I can to accomplish something then I am surely going to have a better outcome.

So despite what Esther and Abraham and The Secret and the rest of the Manifesting/Attraction gurus profess, I can't simply become rich by thinking it. I will not be healthier just by thinking that cancer won't affect me. I won't live in a dream house in a dream land with a dream career just by thinking that I will.

Thoughts become things? To an extent. Thoughts can set us in motion or keep us standing still. That much is indisputable. 

Bookends of the Day.

Supporting and keeping upright the chapters and volumes of our life, these bookends I adore. Last thing or first each has an equal role, each supports half. A search of Google Images for bookends brings up as many as you can imagine.

In looking through the images I came across a Peanuts bookend and could have posted that, as predictable as that seems, so I went with the "pick a number between one and 50" and picked 47. Counting down the page I discovered this Lucite bookend. Just one. Very 70's feel to me.

My bookend is beside me and with me all the time. She supports me and loves me (and she knows me, and still loves me).  

Fool Walks Merrily Down the Street

With his brim pulled way down, low
Taking time the only way he knows
Looks from house to house and complains
Why others have it made, the lucky and few
Seem to have it all

But the fool is not merry and holds in his heart

Darkness and vile thoughts of those within
Hatred spewing through his lungs and veins
Deep and biding

That inward bile grows but has no where to go
He can't scream and if he did who would hear
So he curses on his way
Those that are more

The sting turns and tightens
Inside it builds and builds
With no release, perceived or real
A victim it ensnares

He learns to hate himself as much
As those he sees inside
Not thinking he would be enough
To rest and come sit down

So onward down the road he skulks
From window, light to light
Feasting just on hate and fear
Morning, noon and night

Never resting or at peace
In the street he only sees dark
And lets it rest upon his heart
To slowly turn it cold and black

Still focused in on those he sees
Without the same and so at ease
Living clean and bright and new
Never learning how to do

Really not allowing change
To take him over and rearrange
The path he is on and continues down
The fool walks merrily, acting the clown

He wanders on an endless road

Until a day he allows what has been told
To take hold
And reshape

The time has arrived
To ignore others who strive
And do his own moving
Progress and going

Each day, each hour, minute and second
The fool continues to stoke the flame
The days and hours, minutes and seconds
Disappear and diminish
Things just remain the same

There is only so much saying
Hoping and praying to get
Through the human condition

For sins of the past and
Things regretted done
Just proclaim your  contrition
And move on

Down the road to your very own home
Light bright and clean
With all that you need
To rest and enjoy
The final decision
To stop going on
With self derision
For day will come surely follow by night
The light will end
and will come the Great Fright
That moment to shall pass
And disappear and fade

As he turns to go inside
He hears her say again
You have to lay
In the bed that you made

Make your bed each day
To be of comfort
Joy and discover
Each day what you can uncover

Leave it better than you found it
And if there is a legacy
Let it be that old reliable
It is never too late

Universal Truths

The air is one and the water two
Salt and fresh
We bleed we cry we care we wake we sleep we dream we think.

Sky above and earth below
Round ball of iron
At the center of us all

Iron in our blood
That same color red
Without dead

Today is new tomorrow not here
Yesterday a vapor that shouldn't hang on
Blown away by the setting sun and the rising moon

The man said there is a hurt, a feeling
Of being less than
At the root of our troubles










The business of war continues to thrive
While others among us struggle to survive
Keep alive

It's None of Your Business

Not one tiny bit. Your business is you and you alone. Never mind what the other may do or is doing. If you don't stick your foot in the aisle you can't be blamed for tripping someone.

                Now pull up your socks and get to work.                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Eyes on your own paper there mister.

Should Have Known Better

Have you ever been face to face with a wall of fire? Not a campfire or even a big campfire or a bonfire can compare to that conflagration that bakes your skin and screams in your ears.

It was 1972. the summer Olympics were held in Munich and with the spectacle of the opening ceremony still fresh in my mind we headed uphill to the 'back road'. We should have known better. The decision to get the cigarettes may have been the fateful choice, or was it the choices made once we reached our destination?

We often spent hours and even days just wandering the foothills behind our home. We would sometimes pack lunch. Sometimes just take water and sometimes just climb to the top of the hill and sit on the edge of the 'back-road' and spy on the neighborhood. This day would be like no other.

The green car was parked by the curb. I had carefully gotten the keys from my father's room and opened the passenger door. I knew where he kept them. In the glove box or glove compartment as he called it and there they were, an almost complete pack of Parliament cigarettes with their royal blue colored box and stiff foil wrapper. He had smoked them as had my grandmother. I knew I would find some.

We had the treasured cigarettes as we got to the top of the path and on to the 'back-road'. We head south, to our left. The retirement homes were on the left. We were just behind the last home in our own neighborhood. There was a vacant lot that went back about a half acre and then went straight up hill. We didn't normally climb up those hills. The footing was awful and even though we were only 11 and 12 we did know that trying that climb could put us in danger of slipping a falling.

Instead we walked under one of the oak trees, into the cave made by it's thick canopy. We sat down and formed a circle. The four of us passed the pack around. Each one taking out a cigarette and attempting to handle it like we had seen so many adults do. Then we passed around the matches. We were all puffing away and talking childhood nonsense about tv and games we could play. One of us said we could 'pretend'-kids always pretend - but as any good pretender knows you have to pretend correctly - we are soldiers escaped from a Nazi prison camp. We were hiding in the treeline until we met our contact. We had great imaginations, fired, so to speak by the constant viewing of Rat Patrol, Hogans Heroes, World At War and Audie Murphy.

There we were, four comrades - American soldiers in WWII - two white, Irish-American kids and their two Japanese American friends. Playing at war. Being kids. Hanging out and being 'bad', thinking we were cool or hot stuff or something other than little kids. Then it happened. For whatever reason. WAIT! For whatever reason? You have four kids, smoking stolen cigarette in the middle of a hot summer day, hanging out underneath an old oak tree, whose base is littered with years and years of dry leaves and fallen branches and fallen bark. We had to have a fire. We are cold. It is now a winter night and we need to stay warm. so we scrape the ground and stack some twigs and leaves and did I forget to mention we have matches? We light a fire. It is small and we cough from the smoke of burning oak and Parliaments. We hear a plane. Now what? The Luftwaffe is out in force hunting us. (but isn't
 it night - lol) We are worried that the plane will spot our fire. We panic. We really do panic as we see the flames have crept out of our small circle to ignite some other leaves and twigs. Wait, it isn't the Nazi's, it's our rescue plane. I must signal them. I grasp the best thing to signal a plane at night, a long, dry, crackled and curled piece of eucalyptus bark and I dip it's tattered, arid end into the fire. It takes just a second for the end to be a bright orange flame.

The signal flame is now a torch and the Olympic Theme is hummed. Trumpets blare as the Olympic torch is raised and the parade of athletes begins. As the torch approaches the stalks of grass as they sit in the stands, it is dipped in their honor. Flames lick the dry grass and it ignites. Within seconds a foot of tall, dry, grass is on fire. Then two feet, ten feet, ten yards. Higher and higher the flames reached. The hillside was slowly being eaten by the flames as they methodically moved up the terrain and as the fire moved the flames reached higher and higher. We ran.


As we reached the 'back-road' we ran into a truck driven by an official looking man and his official looking partner. They seemed official so we gave them the official story. The one we just made up on the spot. "We were walking down the road and we saw this fire and we started to try and put it out and we tried to stop the fire and we couldn't stop the fire and we were trying to stop the fire but the fire kept going and we couldn't stop the fire.". With a knowing glance the man said something to the effect of "You tried to stop the fire?". I don't recall exactly what he said or we said after that but we ended up at home. As we ran down the hillside to our home, our father was just pulling into the driveway. They were yelling about how big the fire was and did you see it and what were you doing up there and why do you smell of smoke?". We were smoking! Yeah that's why. We stole some of your cigarettes and were smoking. Not wanting to rat ourselves out we had just ratted ourselves out.

Our two Japanese American brothers in arms were gone by this time.. Headed to their own home to give their own explanation as to why they wreaked of burnt wood and grass and tobacco. But we stood firm and we hoped that out comrades wouldn't crack under pressure as we were told to go take a shower and clean up. My brother and I knew we were in trouble. I was responsible for the fire. I had to have an Olympic torch parade in the middle of summer on a hillside covered in tall, dry grass. But as we washed up we tried to concoct and corroborate our stories. We wanted to make sure we would both say the same thing and that we both would stick to the story that we tried to put out the fire but the pressure apparently got too much.

It was rumored that our comrades had broke under the excruciating pain of their father and their mother and their endless interrogation and whatever tricks that interrogation might include. We joked that it probably included Japanese water torture. We were kids and 1972 was not nearly as 'PC' as today. However it happened and however the officials found out is really inconsequential. From what I understand we were suspect the minute we ran into the two men in the truck. Anytime there is a fire, officials are trained to watch the crowd and watch who is around and as important, who is leaving the scene. We had been had. We had been caught. Not by the Nazi's. The Luftwaffe never spotted our fire and the rescue plane saw more than just our signal fire. We were caught with our smoke scented hands in the cookie jar. Busted.

The fire was brought quickly under control. Fortunately the fire department arrived and only four acres were lost. If that fire had continued it's course it would have run into the million dollar homes of Hope Ranch. We got lucky?

Next thing I know we are at the fire station on Hollister Avenue.

Who we talked to and what that conversation entailed has faded from memory. I do know that I was scared and worried, probably more from the wrath of the father than the long arm of the law. Our punishment was to be determined and meted. There would be no jail time nor fine. We would suffer enough.

For the next two summers we spent the day with hand tools, rakes, shovels and sickles cutting back the vegetation on the hill behind our house. It was a dirty, hot job that caused blisters and dry mouth. It had a lasting effect, which was probably the point. That hillside was stripped of all dry brush and we knew that we had escaped a much larger can of worms and punishment. No homes were lost nor were any lives. Lives were changed that day. A day when we should have known better.

Morning Poems

ISN'T IT

Isn’t it a pity

When you can’t see the beauty
And the pretty

Is around you everyday?

Isn’t it a shame

When there  is no one

Else to blame

The things since done

Isn’t it a joy
Go home with your ball

When you act the little boy
Mister Know it all

Isnt’ it a trap

This place you’re found in

What is sitting on your lap

Your self made jinn

Isn’t it the best

When you finally realize

This is the test
What’s in front of your eyes

It isn’t too late

To make the life you want

There is no fate

Don’t let them be a haunt

========================================================

The Joys of Noise

He finds it to be noise

It is only the joys

And squeals of girls and boys

As they pass on the street

In the early morning air

Why should he care

Their noise making

Inside his head

This poem is baking

To get inside and write it down

To do it now

Fast and HOW!

It struck him then

To understand

That being mad

About these things

Is wasted time

Wasted youth

Wasted life

Wasted breath and thought,  heat and seething

Wasted dreams never sprouting from seedling

Small ideas grow large

When they are in charge

Who’s the boss

You’re not the boss of me

The time is lost

In the future don’t let it be

Repeated like it was

Make this your noble cause

To live the life you want

For the days and years remaining

Any other way is just too draining

Tired of that path and way of thinking
So let them be a reminder

To not sit back and linger
The nauseating repeating of

The never followed mantra

Should shake you where you stand

And make you move ground

Earth, stone and sky

To LIVE

Today
Nothing more to say

Moving out North

The ever present presence
Subtle, benign, loud, omnipresent
Thudding and creak
Quiet withdrawn

Passing by no sound
No speak
No interchange of life
Just the ever present presence

Late at night
Again by day
Passing again in night glow
The ever present presence

Dog Sense and Scents Ability

Find it. He seems to respond to that command and enjoy the sniff, sniff of the hunt. He pulls slightly to get to that next droplet of odor as quickly as he can. Some do some don't. Nose Work? Cadaver work? Search? Fun? Be one of those people with that dog mentality?

What a month...so much to learn and lot's to do with the new addition. He is totally awesome. Deanna picked a winner, however it seems like he has picked me. D and I have talked about the bonding and are working on it but I think it will always be a case of me being primary to the dog. Bums me out but I also think that I can break him in? If that makes sense.

Date Night

WoooHoooo!

Friday night and time for some dinner, coffee and tonight, a trip to Home Depot, then a stop at Nose Work class. Exciting.

St. Hallmark

Celebrated at random times throughout the year and observed by most (US) Americans, St. Hallmarks Day is a day to remember. What are we remembering? Well, what would you like to remember, because, St. Hallmark is the most miraculous of all Saints and can provide a card, some candy or even a stuffed animal                
(or space alien) to help you in your hour of celebratory need.

February 27 words

It was like a wet, asphalt, escalator spread out before him. As he walked down the gently sloped entryway, the rain followed in step. It echoed the footsteps he made on his way down from the street to the parking lot, just outside the warm townhouse they shared.

Rounding the corner at the bottom of the hill he noticed a moving truck and realized to himself that three years had passed and he had know idea who was moving out. He knew from the empty truck interior the movers were here to remove not to bring. There was a time and perhaps in some neighborhoods it still happens, crowds gather, watch, help, laugh, cry, shake hands and hug. Welcome. Good-bye!

He headed inside to write, to place a log by the fire and feed the cat. As he set the log on the hearth and tossed a few treats to the cat, he thought about that moving van, the neighbors and the places, the people he has seen come and go and have seen him come and go. Those simpler times for which he longs.

Every generation, in fact I would think every civilization and iteration of man has longed for when "things were good". When times were simpler. The good ol' days.

Simpler times are always recalled for their style and panache. Life was better. The sky was bluer and the birds all sang and people frolicked in the woods. No one went hungry and everyone worked at a job they enjoyed.

Any attempt to describe the feeling of longing for a simpler time would be trite and meaningless. You can't really describe what you have not been through or witnessed.

It's a longing for the familiar.

WAITING ON THAT RAINSTORM the prediction is or the forecast is 40%. Didn't do what they did and didn't live their life. Wasted time? Waiting for that big break. That moment. My time. Waiting? Wait no more. Take it. There is no time to waste.

Yet, look back on that style and for the most part, the greater portion of, the largest slice of the style pie was hideously horrid shlock. There are the classics for every era, t-shirt and jeans of the fifties, or the tux and tails of the 20's and then there are the oh holy hell moments. Look at some pictures from the 70's. I rest my case.

He longed for a simpler time himself.

PITA

People for the Ingestion of Tasty Armenian Food.

There are many benefits to dating a girl with an Armenian Step Family.

An Elaborate Array of Hiding Places

The little toe still hurt. It has been what, three weeks? Long time to heal. There is so much that I need to do. I am torn between sitting here and typing and getting up and loading the dishwasher. Writing seems so much more pleasurable. I fancy myself a writer. I use the blog. I Tweet and Facebook. I even FaceTime and Skype. Occassionally pouring some nonesense from my brain in to the vessel of words.

The music is relaxing but not motivating for action, for contemplation and thought. The oboes and clarinets in time with the violins and cellos. He puts on his glasses to see the name on the screen Tor Aulin. Sweet and cheery the music comes across the room and dances into his middle ear.

He is looking for just the right image to place in the blogpost. The image must convey what the entire post is about with as much clarity as possible. The image must state this in one glance.

Roger Williams of Temecula

Roger Williams (left) of Temecula, CA expresses his appreciation for the
prompt service delivered by In N Out employees Seamus Cowan (center)
and David Collins (right) during Saturday's Grand Opening.

Here, In the Now, lies...

Here in the now lies the answer. Not later, not tomorrow, not then but here in the now. Today. Not "after" anything. After life, after death, after birth, after burner, after the thrill is gone, after we move, after we paint, after we go to the store, after we get a new...that won't and doesn't work. N.O.W., the National Association of When states quite clearly that it is NOW. Today. At this precise time and space.

We just need to go, to move, to set ourselves free, right here and right now. Tick tock. Many have and will talk about the passing of time. Don't waste anymore time talking about wasting time or passing time or wanting time to hurry up...I hope this day never ends. Run up the hill through the tall green grass and be the first to get on the swing. Go! Fly! Swish! and do it all again, then run back down and get a big drink from the garden hose and head across the street to the next adventure.