Chico Wildflower Century

The course as measured on my dad's bicycle computer ran only 97-miles, but because I'm a spaz I inadvertently rode the wrong direction for four miles, for a total of eight extra miles, which turned out perfect because I would have been pissed to not be able to say I'd ridden 100+ miles. You see us here at Christian Michael's fine establishment in Chico. Food was good but the service was weird, but what does one expect from the number one party college town in the country, and what's a little (ha ha) coke between waitstaff anyway?

Temperature ran into the low 90s(F), such that when I reached the top of Table Mountain my dad and Quintan were ready to send me to the medical technicians, not realizing that I look like that at regular weekday intervals. The riders were mostly friendly, and the 100-miles blew by quick enough (9 long hours). Home stretch down frat row, always good for a smile. So let's ride, or die, to hell and back, with goofy grins and devil-may-care attitudes.

"Dark as the night
You're still by my side
Shining side


Gone are the days we stopped to decide
Where we should go
We just ride


Gone are the broken eyes we saw through in dreams
Gone - both dream and lie


Life may be sweeter for this I don't know
Feels like it might be alright."

--from Crazy Fingers, Words by Robert Hunter; music by Jerry Garcia

Fun With Water at Night

Oh sure, we're all familiar with hose fun in the day when it's nice and warm, but what about that underexplored world of fun with water on fifty-something degree nights? I said no at first, but the looks on their faces proved too much for me to argue with. Glad I did, because they had a veritable boatload of fun together. I watched in amazement, my wool trenchcoat wrapped snug around.

Took Gumbo for a haircut the next day. After the cut we checked out the Bone Room in Albany, where they have many bones, fossils, and taxidermied fauna. Bought him a sucker with a cricket in it. Even though the sucker turned out to be mint flavored, one of his least favorite flavors, he ate it steady until able to bite off the head of the cricket, at which point he said that I could have the rest. It's in a bag waiting to be discarded, on top of the fridge.

"He who knows does not speak.
He who speaks does not know.

Block all the passages!
Shut all the doors!
Blunt all edges!
Untie all tangles!
Harmonize all lights!
Unite the world into one whole!
This is called the Mystical Whole,
Which you cannot court after nor shun,
Benefit nor harm, honour nor humble."

from Lao Tzu's Tao Teh Ching, translated by John C. H. Wu

Fishing Marlin in Our Minds

This piece, by the boy of course, now almost 5-years old, captured me with great immediacy and depth, my soul flew into the Marlin on the line, felt the hook in my cheek, bright contrast between air & seawater. Then, as my eyes traced to the boat I felt the ache in my arms from wrestling the formidable fish so many hours, bathed in fat warm Cuban breezes. Having had a recent read of Hemingway's "Selected Letters: 1917-61", the imaginings remained current in my mind, and played a major role in my appreciation of this priceless array of crayon & pastel markings on torn construction paper. The fact that my own son sees what I see, to some degree, and can draw it so expressively, washes me with good feelings & Carribean melodies. "It's A Reggae Christmas" is one of his favorite recordings.

Long Live Anna Nicole!

Turns out that we get to keep this lovely pink poodle about a third of the time, since her owner's new husband doesn't believe in allowing canines indoors, and Anna Nicole's truly a house dog, especially during the colder months. The kids call her Anna Banana, and adore her without reserve. Anna's hair seemed to obscure her vision, so my mom had the zippity idea of tying it up. So much more punk rock now. But really, dogs do rule, this world as well as all other worlds.

Dogs Rule

Dogs show their six years each of living, fatter, limpier, and more rheumy in the eyes. Love them doggies, yes I do. The black dog is mine, funny that way, love them both, but feel much more deeply reflected in the shining ripples of chocolate fur, devourer of souls, loyal to her priceless wild side. Time, always winding up, irrelevant to true enjoyment.

Dogsleeping

The boy has become quite a dogsleeper, practicing for his upcoming raising by wolves. We have evaluated several boarding schools as well as a few packs of wolves, and it looks like wolves are the best choice all around. But seriously, who did "let the dogs out"?

After a Hard Night

You see her now, almost 2 years old, come home after her first night on the town with Poppy, like father like daughter.

Berkeley Steam Trains March 2008

The children have managed to retain their enthusiasm for the steam trains. That is the boy's "trying to be good, hands together" pose. The whole thing is just unimaginably exciting for them. Bubba & I had fun too.

Whale Watching Adventure

Sometime in the late 1990s a dream cast me groggy, staring out a porthole at San Francisco, shrinking . A cabinmate told me that I had been kidnapped, Shang-hai style, and should plan on being gone for at least one full year, maybe longer. The sun shone with sparkling brilliance on fluffy white clouds tumbling low on the horizon, endless ocean stretching lifetimes, and my beloved home city carrying on without me. Heart felt vague fear, unassignable resentments, but mostly excitement for the ocean, the ports, the sailor's life. Figured that I might as well accept my fate and make the most of my new Pacific life. Our whale watching expedition revived that dream as if it had only been napping, drove me wild with hunger for a new life drenched in salty water. The city shrank, just like in the dream, and the icy spray whispered her eternal love & devotion, if I only I'd turn myself over without reservation to her strong currents, depths beyond light.

From age 8 to about age 12 I wanted to be a merchant marine, then a family friend told me how much it sucked so I gave up on the idea, but it still drifts around in there, asking "What if?". Carol, our docent, gave us a little pep talk before we boarded, told us about a similar trip 20 years ago, when she, all at once, while passing under the Golden Gate bridge, decided that this was her life's calling. I feel the ocean all around me, running through my arteries, roaring in my ears, tasting salty, teaming with life.

The trip was a rousing success, although I did get soaked, and several people puked. We saw Gray Whales, an Elephant Seal, two kinds of jellyfish, and some harbor seals and sea lions. Carol told me about spending nights on the islands, in those houses you can see in the middle of the photo. Haunted she says, and I believe her.

High On Fire at the Uptown

High On Fire at the Uptown went off like salt rock in a shotgun, loud and painful but a ton of fun. All of our party and most of the crowd agreed that the show was excellent. That custom 9-string sounded more magic than ever. Sweated until blind and delirious, short of breath and full of pain, plenty of grins to go around. Got knocked down in the pit a couple times, knocked some people down, helped some people to their feet, met some very fun folks, exhuberant roaring, laughing, classic venue. Julia estimated the ratio of men to women to be 5:1, but I don't know if it was really that much of a sausage festival, although there was an awful long line for us guys to piss, while the ladies just waltzed in and out of theirs.

San Francisco Chinese New Year Parade 2008

"I am become death, the shatterer of worlds."

--passage from the Bhagavad Gita that flashed through Robert Oppenheimer's mind following detonation of the first atomic bomb. The same thought visited my mind at age six, shortly after lighting my first firecracker.

In all my firecracker loving years I had never attended the Chinese New Year Parade & Festival in San Francisco. For someone that loves firecrackers as much as me, to have stayed away for so long, even during seven years of living in San Francisco, was duh, buh, duh, dumb. The drums, the firecrackers, the street food, the half-wild kids, politicians smiling from hopped up mustangs, music & light washed over me, fired up my old explosion craving cycle, eyes wide for concussion colors.

When I was a kid I believed my drug of choice to be the ringing in my ears, and it may still be. We used to cruise along on our BMX bikes, lighting firecrackers as we rode, throwing them at each others wheels, laughing and laughing and laughing. Those were my pre-teen summer suburban halcyon days. Gunpowder in our nostrils, fingers numb and discolored from short fuses, law leering with suspicion from air conditioned squad cars. We ruled the cul-de-sacs and dry creek beds, slinging Black Cats and Thunder Bombs, for as much as $1/firecracker, if we didn't like you.

The crowds were not heavy due to forecasts that called for rain and 60+ mph winds, but the streets were far from empty. I of course love storms and proceeded undeterred. An air of fun and burnt gunpowder danced rainy figure eights up and down the drizzled streets, to the tune of yelling kids. Next year I will drag the kids along for sure, typhoon or not.

Dined at San Francisco's oldest Chinese restaurant afterwards, The Four Seas, pleasant enough, very classic. My mother has said for years that hunger is the best spice, and we were quite famished, so the fare satisfied fabulous. The leek & shrimp dumplings were extra good with lots of leek, and the rest hit the spot.

Woke up the next morning with my pockets full of fireworks, much to the children's delight. When we were done lighting them off I started mixing some unsweetened aloe vera juice into a shake. Gumbo wanted to try some, so I mixed up a little apple juice with a couple ounces of it and let him try it. "Tastes like kid alcohol." he says, right away. Yes, um, kid alcohol, we all know what he means, but, at age 4, how does he know?

Kayaking and Fishing on Tomales Bay

Live in that land of impossible bliss, intense like childhood,
storybook, enchanted. Everything works out pissing perfect, for now.

Tomales Bay took me in without batting an eye, soul cleanser. Left lines in the water
all night but no sharks, rays, or other yummy vertebrates managed to hook themselves, but I tried kayaking
for the first time and loved it. Paddled all around Marshall Marina, saw
a magnificent fire rainbow, an otter, several seals, schools of live jellyfish, hawks buzzing within a paddles distance, and a hundred other kinds of birds.

Moon set one of the best of all time, Li Po joined us in spirit, perfect crescent. Sky so clear the Milky
Way stood out. Could hear the waves crashing on the coast just over the hill,
across the bay.

I got to drive my AWD but not really meant to be taken off-road sedan down the beach without incident (hee-haw). Slept with no tent or tarp, on a very misty night, with my head a long arm's length from high tide. Even though I woke up a few times in the night cold, my good mood shone through so happy that I did not mind, even thought my shivery plight rang funny in the steady wind blowing jets of cold air on my feet. That laughter in the face of an uncomfortable sleeping arrangement indicates an exceptional good mood. Keep that ball bouncing.

So warm the next morning I did pilates in my t-shirt, and kayaked some more in fair rough windy
conditions, which tickled me dayglow with that intimation of mortality, especially once I found myself smack in the middle of the bay having a hard time turning around without capsizing. Kept me grinning ear
to ear, considering how the swim to shore would feel. Spent time paddling around a darling hippy dream ship named Just
Imagine, which I went ahead and did, delicious.

Drove home a way I'd never cruised before that blew my mind with it's scenic folds & rocks, grass & trees. Marshall-Petaluma Road to Lucas Valley Road to Novato. Must try them on bicycle. So pretty they could cause Chuck Norris to bust out with power tears.

Wonderful time with my kids all afternoon, filling their new sandbox together,
cooperating, playing, no shirt, no shoes, shorts, running, napping. Then I took
4-year old Gumbo to a BBQ at Maira's house in West Oakland, where some excellently insane
artists live. We checked the fire sculptures, electric motorcycle, robots, got
a personal blacksmithing lesson complete with souvenir, met some cool folks, and then raced home to rock us all
gently to sleep.

Portrait of An Artist as My Sweet Daughter

Sweet daughter stays focused on the art supplies, wherever they crop up. She typically insists on pens or play-clay, but you see her here working on a "sour cream on blue plastic plate" piece. All the wooden toys have been marked up magic bus style, and her own skin has served as a canvas many times. From early in the morning until bedtime the girl wants to create, and much prefers it if I sit next to her during the process. "Sit! Daddy, sit down! Please." Hard to walk on by that request, just a minute Papa. Her specialties are fish and cats.

First bicycle ride of the year

"...we are not endowed with real life, and all that seems most real about us is but the thinnest substance of a dream - till the heart be touched. That touch creates us." --Nathaniel Hawthorne, from his notebooks

First bicycle ride of the year yesterday. Mustard flowering, pine smells wafting, birds blue. San Pablo Dam Road to Bear Creek Road (The Bears) to Alhambra Valley Road (looks like the way wild west ~100 years ago) to Castro Ranch Road to San Pablo Dam Road, full circle. Road late in the day, shadows grew long, felt my spirits grow with them, joyous whooping in the canyons, echoes & grins followed along. Bicycle became invisible, a part of me, turned riding to flying, flying ecstasy inches above blood hungry asphalt. Flew by a charming brown horse so close I could have kissed her, and then, while physically embracing a sharp rural curve, did kiss her, in the bright sun comfort of my mischievous mind. Still more altitude to attack, legs screamed for mercy, burned, ached, threatened to stop revolution, but I flogged them straight to the gasping brink of their limits, a salt skilled pain/play partner having an excellent afternoon. A tolerance, if not a love, for pain goes for many a switchback bicycle mile. Now that that 90 minutes in the saddle has given up the ghost, the phrase "Let's do it again, do it again." sings itself in drunken laughter rounds to all that will listen. Ride with passion.

Merry-Go-Rounds Across Centuries

"A really fast car gives more intimations of mortality than a sack full of certified cancers." -- Ernest Hemingway writes to Harvey Breit from Paris, 9/16/56

"Has she used Serpasil? It is very good. Also DIURIL. If the Serpasil depresses her she can counter-act it with RITALIN. Have her ask her doctor about these." -- Ernest Hemingway writes to General Charles T. Lanham from Ketchum, Idaho 1/12/60

"I had meant to write long ago but the work has been continuous and difficult and all the news sad." -- Ernest Hemingway writes to Gianfranco Ivancich from La Finca Vigia (Italy) 5/30/60

They say that last line shows the mental change that preceded the last hurrah.

Fulfillment Permeates Now

"...when wildness is not included within the life and definition of man, something crucial is missing from manhood. Zorba said it best: "A man needs a touch of madness, otherwise he will never be free." The shamans of every tribe have always known that man has a dream-body, or what Freud called the libido. If we lose touch with the outrageous, contradictory, excessive life of our dreams we easily become too domesticated by the social order. The playful child and the wise old man live side by side in the psyche. Impose the tyranny of seriousness and both die." --from Fire In The Belly: On Being A Man, by Sam Keen

As you can tell from the quote above, Mr. Keen tends to talk like a doof, but sometimes makes sense. I take great comfort in knowing that fulfillment permeates now, rather than face cruel imprisonment by ghosts that insist on being addressed as future. My innermost senses reach out to this moment, feel it hum, glow, wash through me and all around planet. Electric arcs flow from north pole to south pole, passing from the tips of my toes out the top of my head, and then reversing so that lightning shoots from my flaming feet to the core of the earth, so warm, with roses raining all around, smells terrific. Waxing sharp crescent moon speaks with me, and in a language all our own we explore the other side, senses sing and play ornate hand made instruments, a few of my favorite things.

Theodore Roosevelt once stated that Mother Jones was the most dangerous woman in the United States. She was 83-years old at the time. Happy tears danced from my eyes when I heard Utah Phillips tell that anecdote this morning. Most folks, especially women, get tricked into relinquishing their "dangerous" status at a younger age. Mother Jones rocked a loose cannon, a strength respected, reminiscent of my own dear mum. Aspire to "most dangerous person in the world", no age or gender restrictions, going to revolutionize the present.

Best Mardi Gras Ever, Again

Every year gets better. I remember this year's festivities as one huge unforgettable Kodak moment, each and every second.

Waterfalls careening over the edge of the world, you know how I feel

Falcons on the wind under a big yellow moon, you know how I feel

Tigers leaping 12-foot walls become me

Sequoia yelled out to me as I danced fantastic leaps backwards while holding the parade banner, "You'll never grow old." Feel that too.

13 More Hours Until Mardi Gras Dawn

Last Mardi Gras lifted me so high that I could never finish the post about it. My Fat Tuesdays have only been better and better since I quit drinking (2004); more than just your garden variety fun, truly wild times. We had the second to last King Cake party last Friday at sunset up near the headwaters for Derby Creek, in Berzerkeley. The photo shows the tasty view from our chill party spot, ever new and powerful, rife with inspiration. Expectations are delusions, so I keep my hopes in check, while working steady setting up my fun dominoes to wash over me in way fun second line time.

Boy Loses Afro

Gumbo had been asking for a haircut, not a head shaving, for a long while, so Mama took him down to Snippety Crickets in Albany for a new 'do. Some say that the cowlicks you see correspond to his wildness. Shit, I'm so wild that most of my hair took a permanent vacation, so go figure; apple, tree.

Maria pointed out last Sunday night that the boy reflects my id with uncanny accuracy, and while I'm not quite ready to explain that statement in essay form, the innate truth of it resonates with my myriad moonlit visions of our Sinbad-style sailing future seasoned with hilarious inside jokes.

Vitrine at St. Regis

To celebrate a little engineer certification hurdle I recently cleared, my officemates took me to lunch at Vitrine, inside the St. Regis Hotel, next to the SFMOMA, posh deal. The art, the staff, the elevators, all pointed to awake relaxation, I liked the fire you see in the photo a lot. Carol and I got excited enough about the food that our cheeks flushed and we got all giddy, while Al, 40+ years my senior, got less worked up. Truly a delightful lunch that concluded with a butterscotch pot de creme that invoked my dear departed maternal grandmother's presence in such a precious way that lucky stars a million light years out felt my loving gratitude raise their core temperatures ~1,000 C.

After lunch we strolled out onto 3rd Street, and at the corner of Mission & 3rd, just after the light changed I caught a fat raindrop on my tongue just as I had opened my mouth hoping to catch one. I grinned wide, feeling like Mama Natural had just dosed me, let me connect with all my faraway friends, my near friends, and the real deal electric tangerine fun-loving me. Got to get me back in my groove, and this kind of stuff points the way, as did Schoggi Chocolates, which we hit hard before cruising back to lofty office.

Colorado Elk Turns Me Into Wolf

Mikey went to grab us some bush meat as the family & I prepared to depart he & Nay's enchanted Guerneville homestead. Christmas Eve day shade covered missions had us all in somewhat of a hurry, so Mikey lacked sufficent time and patience to dig for the pile of meat he usually gives from. That means we got a pack of the high-end Colorado elk steaks, which generated unnamed fears and reservation in my wife's appetite, while offering me the promise of edible adventure. I broiled them, both kids loved it, took me a minute to get used to, but then I felt the sinewy strength of the elk rise up within me. As my hair and nails grew my incisors swelled and pulsed to twinkling dog star waves of canine brilliance. I called Nay, told her that each steak ate like an Italian poem harvested with grace from the heyday of Italian poetry. Now I'm the new, post-elk me, the me that always lay within, waiting for the right revolution minute.

Swim in night netherworlds much more of late, since we joined a club with a picture perfect outdoor saltwater pool. Every sixth stroke I glance up at the moon and trees, then take the energy from that powerglance, dig a little faster, kick more like practicing Tae Kwon Do, terrific races for breath in howling winter wind. The moon takes me deeper within her transformative rays, caresses away whatever forgotten teardrop worries that placed these creases in my brow. The deep end of the pool stays warmer.

Pink Poodle & Silver Needle

We had this fabulous pink poodle named Emma on loan from our dog groomer. Her shop just happens to be named Deseree's Pink Poodle. Deseree also has a Clydesdale that the kids have both ridden, eternal gratitude for that. The dog wanted to live with us forever, but mommy came to get her, maybe to visit again after a minute. That dog was heck of trippy.

Just finished up a nifty half-ounce of Silver Needle, a rolled white tea. My good friend that hails from Canton showed me how each leaf dives to the bottom and then floats back up to the top three neat times. Memories of my toy submarine from a 1975 box of Cheerio's, that did the same trick powered by baking soda tablets that were apparently difficult for my parents to procure, because that worked like once, and then remained forever without fuel but with me always hoping. The tea leaves from this mega-high quality tea I picked up at Far Leaves did the trick perfect though, and then lay ever so mesmerizing with their stems sides down and the tips risen, like heck of good whole tea leaves should. The color brought memories of dawns that made me cry with joy, like dear Emerson crossing his field of snow, self-reliant. It'll heal all time when you drink it right, laying waste to both future and past, along with their seventy-seven billion legions of demonic ghostriders. Blessed are the tea growers.

Waxing Winter Moon

Took this photo of the waxing moon on the solstice. Now almost a month has passed, and the moon moves colder, growing again.

Easy to indulge in feeling bad what with all the "bad" poking sharp sticks at me, but little blessings distract me from that ancient pasttime with poised regularity. Smiles hide in vain, laughter erupts star gazer faith through tired eyes. What would my health coach say? Make a goal, follow through, feel good. Mardi Gras season has arrived. Who has time for all this life? Just a few more laps, another minute in the sauna, one more story before bed, a final fifth of 12-year old single-malt, unplanned delights, stolen afternoons, missed oppurtunities, devoured by thick coastal fog and falling temperatures, salty water and sand.

Train To A Castle

"I have seen where the wolf has slept by the silver stream.
I can tell by the mark he left you were in his dream.
Ah, child of countless trees.
Ah, child of boundless seas.
What you are, what you're meant to be
Speaks his name, though you were born to me,
Born to me..."

--from The Grateful Dead's Cassidy, words by John Perry Barlow

Gumbo explained that the reason for the semi-precious colored stones were used as base material for the railroad tracks involves the fact that this particular track leads to a castle. If you have the means, go to the extremes, like the bottom of the deep blue sea, or mountains on high, to push luck, first time's free.

Master Engineer Preparing to Put His Socks On

Notice how he used regular blocks as column supports for the elevated section of track and platform. Who would not love a giant rain stick with a stair bridge over it running through their town, who? His track designs of late have blown me away with their elegance and color schemes. My mom got him an old "how-to" video about the world's fastest growing family hobby - garden trains, and the obscession grips him with no mercy. It does look fun. Look how much fun Mr. Roger's had.

Big Storms Love Me

Big storms all lined up to take their turns with California, just like in my life. Sixty-plus mile per hour winds expected on the flats, which means we can expect gusts past 75-mph at my house, lucky enough to have been constructed along the centerline of a ancient laughing demon wind tunnel. I can hear the howling souls rip by already, going to get my head shaved in a few. This lovely grandmother off downtown Oakland wields a straight razor and bottle of sting juice with charm reminiscent of my adolescent fantasy image of Dr. Feelgood, for a reasonable price, winter be damned.

Winter Queen Takes Throne

Winter arrived with little fanfare save frosty mornings and daylight hours increasing ever so slightly in length. Death and new beginnings, bring them on, with cups of hot tea.

Darling daughter, almost 20-months now, learned how to start the iPod boom box playing. You see her here having just played some Johnny Cash for her own enjoyment. Notice also that her hair is freshly brushed here, yes, by me, at her request.

Both kids got bikes for Christmas, although the girl is small for hers yet. The boy seems to be starting to get the hang of it, with the training wheels attached anyway. Mama talked him out of the light blue bike with pink flowers, in favor of a more boyish green one, but sweet daughter was allowed a pink one - The Tigresse, which I've nicknamed Tatiana in memory of our lost wild-hearted Siberian.

Beach in Alameda

Kids & I had a great time at Crowne Beach in Alameda the other day.

Nothing Like Family

So here one can clear see the blatant insanity that runs in my family. Such a delight, to run wild, unfettered by the chains of reason. Mother, John, and Sam, of course, on Thanksgiving. Dough, for some reason the machine won't let me post these photos, but soonn....

19-month Old Rockstar

With my enthusiastic coaching and the promise of candy our darling daughter managed to push poop directly from her body into a small pink European-style potty the other night. Cheers filled the air, candy for all, and the good feelings go on forever, like rural roads. I have to give the boy some credit. The night before he overheard Mama Bear and me discussing potty training, and afterwards he insisted that we read them their new potty training book "Lift the Lid", a book featuring many flaps to lift to reveal hidden objects and such. He kept asking to go back to the first page and look at the candy hidden in Mama Rabbit's skirt pocket, such a smart boy.

The girl grows every day. She used to cry when she woke up, then she moved on to calling our names. Now she just stands there grinning, practicing psychic paging, and it works heck of good.

We used to forget to clean her old bottles out of her crib right away, which led to some sour milk drinking incidents. Now she hands me her bottle before I pick her up each morning, such a good helper. She also insists on brushing her teeth each morning, something the boy never did.

Me, Walking Up A Hill, Away From the Fire

The boy impressed and touched me with this one. According to him the drawing depicts me walking up a hill with the assistance of a walking stick and a helper dragon fly, away from a hot fire. I love dragonflies, love fatherhood, love fire, love love, so stoked. At first I thought it was a cane in my hand, which made me feel a little funny since I don't use a cane, but then he explained that he only added the walking stick to memorialize the time we tried to walk up a hill too steep to climb. Stick or no stick, that hill proved too steep and slippery, so we just kept sliding down to the bottom on all the leaves, a memorable experience for all. You never know how steep is too steep until you try, true for walking, biking, and driving, smoldering fun.

Wild Artichokes In My Blood

Add "wild" to a word and right away it appeals to me more. Got this pu-ehr tea made from old-growth, semi-wild tea trees. It steeps up dark as coffee and feeds my wild side bold, which roams the wilderness around my home with garrelous gusto, night or day, moon or stars, clouds or rain, wild-eyed and open to new trails that require crawling and bloody sacrifice. You can see my house in the lower right quadrant of the photo. Photo taken looking northeast.

Splish Splash, But Keep The Water in The Tub

The bathing ritual steams oppurtunities to appreciate warm fluidity. Tonght we did simultaneous baths, Sissy w/ Mama in the master bath, and me with Gumbo right on the other side of the wall.

Sissy showed me that she can wash her own face last night, something which the boy can do but usually won't. She helps around the house constantly and in the most amazing ways. My wallet was lost for days and she found it behind the downstairs toilet. She found the long missing valet key for the SUV too, along with many a remote control and mobile phone. She'll deliver anything asked of her straight to the compost, trash, or recycling bin, or to another person. She lets the cats in and out, rearranges furniture, and loves to give kissy encouragement.

924 Gilman Spectacular As Ever

Got to see one of my very favorite punk rock bands from yesteryear, MDC. They played with Citizen Fish at 924 Gilman in Berzerkeley the Sunday before last. Many a show I have seen at Gilman, but not for several years now, don't know what I was thinking, the place serves up fun like it ain't against the law (which it isn't, technically, yet). Siobahn steered me right by doling out the clue to expect dancing, that's right, slam dancing, right there in good old Alameda County. One of the best things about Gilman remains their all-ages policy, nobody slams quite like a 15-year old, which makes sense, new blood; that's about when I started getting my neck stepped on. A guy in the pit asked if anyone knew acupressure or massage; I looked down and noticed he wore only a dirty pair of white socks that were starting to come off, ouch. It was a beautifully co-educational pit, with one ~13 year old boy in an over-sized white t-shirt, weighing about 65 pounds. Massive power & healing to them; I survived with a fat lower lip, a bloody right knee that still hurts every time I bend down, about as many bruises as Evil Kneivel had broken bones, and a much looser fitting pair of eyeglasses. Gilman does not officially allow stage-diving but MDC said that the rule was suspended for their show, so I got to witness one ebullient young man fall from head height to the concrete floor with a resounding and sickening smack of a whack heard clearly over the music. He hopped up displaying two thumbs up and a shit-eating grin while doing a little hot dog dance; had to wonder how he felt the next day.

Ween at the Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium the following Friday did not hold a generic butane lighter to the Gilman show. Sold out show, no pit, and although one lovely "E"nhanced young lady did compliment the wife and I on our dancing, which was funny because the wife wan't dancing at all, the crowd was generally uptight like wealthy arthritic caucasians at a members-only ski resort. My friend Evan's mom had passed away the day prior, and he accordingly danced a wee wild, bounding into the other attendees from impossible angles. The group to our right sent forth a thin-lipped spokesman, a tall blond roll-playing game type from Harry Potter's generation. He tried to mellow us out without appreciable effect, if you don't count the drunken laughter. We had fun all in all, but will stick to shows with more funner dancing closer to home from now on.

Dylan's "I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine" started pumping harmonica from the corner of my family room last night. The boy asked me and Gumba "Can you feel the song?" I told him I could, she did a little dance. He replied, "I feel it in my back, [pause] and in my belly. It tickles." I recall washing dishes at Negri's at the age of 16, belting out the lyrics to that song almost every night for a time, and listening to my mother do the same while battling endless chores around our old Occidental homestead. Had to wonder what of those soulful renditions the boy could feel, or what he felt at all, since the volume was pretty low. Maybe he just felt the same thing my mom and I felt, "I Dreamed I Saw..."

Halloween 2007

The boy drew on the pumpkin and I carved it into a jack-o-lantern. You see the light at the bottom of the lantern because he insisted on drawing onto the pumpkin upside-down, something that had never occurred to me.

Mama kept saying he was a dragon, but Gumbo corrected her each time. He was a dinosaur.

Little Gumba had the cutest little stinger, and one antenna permanently cock-eyed, adorable. She and Gigi play the pointing game here.

Water is Water

Those kids sure do love water. We're considering becoming a family of dolphins with our very own plastic surgery island survival reality show. Halloween photos coming soon, more human than human.

Too Much Fun a Myth!

Too much fun? Like a girl too pretty or a car too fast, I don't know anything about it.

Harbingers of doom rock High On Fire rocked the Independent deep, certain members of the audience even slam danced (yes! in San Francisco!). Lead singer strides onstage, shirtless, tatooed, giant stratocaster in hand - rippppps into it, sweat starts pouring off his frame, maniac grin the whole time. My hoodie-beanie combo had me sweating too, like a pig going down the chute to the killing floor, but just dove further towards the death, pulled the hood tight over the beanie to sweat more, busted hip-hop moves zig-zag through the pit, jumped, jump, jumping, shook my head from side to side like an angry bull, went into an alligator trance with those eyes that shine realms beyond fear. Rock and roll all the way, impossible loud, so loud my ears rang for days even though I wore those wax earplugs. Have a High on Fire disc but it never sounded like this - soooo boss. Next time they party through town you could not keep me away with a line of riot police brandishing cotton swabs soaked in pepper spray, but I'll look for a Sacramento show, where they slam more like the old days, more danger, more fun.

Kid's first time trick-or-treating. First house the boy tried to give away the candy he'd picked up at church earlier, with truly touching generosity. When he figured out that he received candy the excitement only mounted. He kept asking jack-o-lanternless people why they didn't carve a pumpkin. Love that boy.

Later that night...

HallofuckingWestOaklandween, had flame-throwing vehicles shooting 30' (10m) blasts, dancing in the streets, pissing in the streets. A plain blue mini-van backed up the street toward the crowd slow, stopped, dropped, rear doors popped open, two guys plugged a guitar and a bass into two amplifiers, launched in a legendary set of Misfits covers. Not quite slamming, but at least we were dancing. Maira had a party right nearby too, featuring the giant propane jet backfiring wild concussions and spewing various colors of flame. The main attraction at Maira's growled the eyeball of destruction, a track-mounted wrecking ball that shot multi-colored flames out the eye-ball while dripping burning methanol mixed with copper acetate down the chain. It wrecked mock office towers made from dressers, jack-o-lanterns, microwaves and every damned thing it could - my kind of remote control toy. Pumpkin pinata hell to break, especially with Maira swinging it like a madwoman. Organic suckers, what more to say. Siobahn! I told you to come.

Sister's An Artist Too

Little sister gets in on the art game too, as shown. My mom showed her the trick where the kid lies down on a big piece of paper and lets you trace him or her. Last night she kept wandering the area near my chair, placing the paper on the floor, and then lying on it at various angles, until no daddy in the world could have resisted the urge to trace that little girl. Her toes came out the cutest because I ran the crayon around each one with the feet pressed flat to the floor. We had great fun drawing with chalk on unplaced hexagonal pavers in the back yard the other day too. And who could forget the fun we've had with modelling clay - the tools they give one to work clay with these days, snakes and boulders incredible. I'm tellin' you, kids know how to party right, all night, every night, so we get along swell.

Two nights ago the kids were tearing around the yard looking for goblins in the dark corners. Sister got bored of that and climbed into the wagon, wanting to be pulled around. I pulled them both over terrain 98% of adults would consider impassable with a Radio-Flyer. These moves would have added more value than dollar-Budweisers to the thrill of any monster truck mud bog dirtbike jumping alcohol burning funny car stuntfest, with only minor screaming involved. When we were all finished up and inside getting ready for bed I found a large black beetle deep inside poor Gumba's rainbow stretch-pants. Surprised me. Must have crawled up there during the the wagon adventure. The boy said that it stank. I took his word for it.

All My Friends Are Artists

The boy amazes me with his art. I drew some similar stuff at that age, but his work often more resembles my art from two or three years older. That's a snake, not a worm, by the way. The starry night takes me places difficult to describe. And the "horn trying to blow the sun away" offers just a glimpse into what he must be thinking about. I mean, this is something I never in my whole life considered, me of the giant guitar-car ideas, lover of Tesla and sound demolitions, sonic weaponry and stereo wars. Much thanks to mama and both grandmamas for encouraging the art angle.

Iron Goddess

Claudia gave me the figurine on the left for my birthday, and a coworker gave me the box of tea on the right because she knows I'm a tea junkie, and it was just moldering away on her shelf anyway. Introduction to the Iron Goddess goes on, one leg tucked in to represent constant meditation, and the other ready to launch the body into action to help those in need. A female representation of Buddha. The tea (Ti Kwan Yin) drank down real delicious and invigorating too, superfine. These forms have drawn me to them, inspired heartfelt peace and aspirations of growth. I like the story of Buddha where she lets ants build a hill on her as she meditates. Life force control, it's the shiznits.

Another storm on the way. It kneads me and needs me. Just a few blue patches left in a darkening sky, no turning back, nothing to say or do (other than drag all my crap getting ruined in the rain into the garage).

Storms-A-Comin'

Accordion skies contort, invert, and weep young widows' insanity laughter. The muffled shrieks follow me as sudden pressure changes, send icy fingers through my open window. Some would call it a storm, but I take it for a gray harbinger of clockwork death driving mindless dust devils to engage fallen leaves and relapse victims, cutting out the dead wood, cleaning up the cities and poisoning the bay. The rain falls on Mt. Tamelpais, I can see it now, but not here yet. The rain calls me, texts me, clogs my inbox with invitations, knocks on windows at odd hours, asks if we would join the dogs of weather that rule the sky, text messages of the wild just a short vibration on my hip, again, again, persistent canine questioning. This storms-a-gonna wash me right down the stormdrain to the bay, and from there into the wide Pacific, just what Dr. Feelgreat ordered.

17-Months of Soul Instruction

Seventeen months old now and growing fast. Peed in the potty for the first time last weekend. Twenty-nine pounds now, well on her way to catching up with her 40-lb brother. The line between walking and running blurs as she passes. Last night she passed me and I thought she was her big brother because she moved and sounded so much like him. She doesn't cry when I put her to sleep in her crib anymore, just lets me tuck the blankets in around her while singing the goodnight I love you song, so sweet.

Window on the Seine

My coworker went to Europe and brought me back this nice little print of a scene on the River Seine. Quiet river noises on my cloth-covered partition wall, turn my head to the right and there I feel. French accents, the male voices only minimally annoying, mix with the sounds of watercraft and small splashes, birds talking. As long as I cycle, dance, and swim plenty in the good old US of A, there seems no pressing need or desire to travel, but as my gaze flows from the Seine to the mottled French sky, and back over the city skyline, I consider what wonders would come to light during such a journey. All the same, I'm sure, but is it? Fly high, hit hard.

Through Other People's Eyes

Not always easy to see oneself through other people's eyes with any clarity. I did not believe that this wonderful image could have been based on a photo of my own face, but it turns out that my vision has some growing up to do. The funny thing is that I imagined what the life of the poor soul whom the piece was based on must have been like. I thought he must have lived in the late 19th century or perhaps the early part of the twentieth, having come upon that hat by a wild story in his wild life of alcohol and fast living. I felt both sorry for and jealous of the poor bloke, obviously prematurely aged by his wonton ways. So so so surprised to be shown how it really is me, even though Bryn informed me of that at the beginning. I'd thought that I'd scientifically determined that it couldn't be me. I didn't want it to be me, even asked my coworker. She assured me it couldn't be me. Thanks Bryn for tripping me out so completely. I see it now.

Equinox Cometh

The autumnul equinox exerts her limitless power upon my every blood cell, ebb tide, high tide, and again, ever stronger. My heart sings sinking spirals of senescence, turns colors bright with transformation. The moon grows large in anticipation of harvest. My fleshless skull streams long yellow flames of directionless desire about 30 feet out behind me every time I ride downhill, feeling springlike when I let my thoughts lose track of time. Have you ever taken a nap in the afternoon, woken up at sunset thinking dawn had broken, and then realized your inner clock was off by 12 hours? It's like that - wolf smells spring sometimes and fall other times in this chameleon climate, times for love and times for death, transposed. My life, my love, where dwell they now, deep in some October countryside?

Tea the Magic Key

I love plants. I love water. Tea brings my old friends together to flash memories and myriad visions of the now through simple smell, taste, and feel, sometimes tingly, sometimes deep in the earth growing up through rare orchids. Found the boy playing with my favorite tea strainer when I got home last night, the kind that you squeeze to open the little mouth. He had a green grape of questionable edibility bouncing around in it. I asked for it back straightaway, informing him that it was meant for tea only. He, obviously & deeply enamored with the non-toy, refused to relinquish it, based on the argument that he was about to fill it with tea. It seemed an unlikely proposal at first thought, but when he flew out the back door to the mint patch it seemed more reasonable. Gumbo came back with the little leaves arranged just so in the strainer. He told me it was for me to make for myself a cup of tea. I predicted a weak brew because the leaves were few and unchopped, but set about with the water boiling regardless. After pouring the water and letting it steep for awhile the rich color surprised me. Then the smell hit and that extra bit of magic that a good cup of tea, traditional or herbal, can invoke got invoked. Turns out that he must have chosen one of the varietal mints, probably pineapple mint, maybe lemon. Smelled delicious, tasted tingly, invigorating. I poured a couple small cups for the little ones. They took turns taking long sips, standing facing each other in the kitchen, letting out exagerrated "ahhhhh"s after each drink. Moments like that ain't for sale. The boy got a little excited and said "This is the best cup of tea I've ever had. I love it." One of the best cups I've ever had. They both wanted seconds, and when my cup was done the boy came by and drank the very last magic drop.

My mind drifted back to caveperson times, the first cups of tea, the first cups, the joy of discovery, a future of scented steam wisps letting lightning & desire find their harmony, sing about life fantastic, beyond pre-conceived notions. False fences fall away, once so high I couldn't get over them, so wide I couln't get around them, one of the first songs I learned, like it was yesterday.

Chilling With Bret & Son

Got to spend a nice evening with Bret, Suzy, and their 6-month old son last Saturday night. Doesn't his boy look just like him? Apparently my son has done and joined a gang of pre-schoolers and chose this photo to represent. Came as rather a shock to me. You just can't talk to them too young about the pitfalls of life.

Bret's been getting daily doses of radiation to treat his rahbdomyosarcoma. I read quite a bit about the effects of exposure to radiation while reseaching a term paper about nuclear war back in nineteen-eighty-something, and sure enough he' got them. Body temperature regulation, burned tissues, etc. all present, and painful for Bret. I always figured that I would see this in the other fallout victims and myself, after the limited exhange. I used to scan the sky for incoming missiles, but nope, the radiation is deliberate and will hopefully save his life, amazing.

Notice Jim Morrison in the upper right corner on the back of his American Prayer album. The boy wanted to hear some spoken word so I turned him on to Jim rambling about dead native Americans scattered along the desert highway. He thought it was alright. We just finished reading the original unabridged Pinnochio, which was at least as heavy and 171-pages long, and we both loved that, terrifying mayhem and all.

End of Summer

Summer ends and the seed pods prepare for the driest part of the dry season. Our old manx sits on the dried out rear lawn, as did Black Panther, our old manx. He's been puking all over the place a lot and I wonder what pains he endures sometimes. He's a good cat.

The darling daughter, also in the picture, advances along in leaps and a bounds. Just the other day she said "That's a ball."

Hiking at Dusk

The boy and I got to enjoy some of the exquisite wonders of dusk hiking over the Labor Day weekend. Twice we ventured out a little before sunset and returned well after dark. The last rays of the sun shining on Mt. Diablo looked absolutely heavenly, and the tranformations of the woods around us in the later stages of the deepening gloom seemed ever new. On one of the nights we had left without a flashlight, and twice I had suggested that we turn back, but Gumbo kept pushing to go further, so on we went. Then we came to a section of dense oak trees that made the vanishing light all the more apparent. There, a particular tree caught the boy's eye, "Whoa, that's weird, look at that!" he exclaimed, referring to two trees growing out of one stump. "That's not right" he continued. We checked it out together for a minute, and I assured him that the treee was not so unusual, but did not manage to fully convince him. He responded with "I think it's best we head back now". Coming back in the dark, the last orangeness fading into the bay, the thistles were more difficult to avoid, so we each got spined majorly. Since then he always calls it "the Prickly Woods", a name that seems to be sticking. Sweet times up on that wild hill, so glad we live so close to nature.