Time Upon Time, Love Sings

Transitions sweet & bitter, still left with now and a thousand thoughts knocking at once. Back to loving gratitude, buzz of insects in the spring, wind in the trees. Purple flowers remind me of how wonderful life can feel, the depths of shared human experience, so good the smiles shine through the thickest of grays. Photos won't upload for now, hmmmmm

I Smell Spring

I smell spring stalking me through tall grass, flowers blooming on islands in the bay, spy hawks perched on crooked telephone poles. To hell with anxiety and tight chestedness, to love and mountain ranges with me, aloft with song and laughing. The world sits poised to open up to me with deep sincerity, and it brings tears of joy to my eyes.

Dying for Laughs

When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? by George Carlin

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
Page 100 has a wonderful description of Uncle D'Artagnan, who apparently like to wear a tassel from the end of his member, so right away I liked the book. Upon closer examination, however, Mr. Carlin seemed to run thin on ideas, with an awful lot of repetition. The good parts were hilarious, but I can't honestly say I read all the book, even though George was one of my favorite comedians. I have vinyl of George Carlin that's more listenable than this book, but as a fan I still enjoyed it overall.


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Turtles Replace Television

As you can see from the photo, turtles have replaced our television. The TV died peacefully in it's sleep, and was laid to rest in a quaint but charming trip to who cares. The turtles provide at least as much entertainment value, and have a longer expected lifespan. Similar to myself, turtles do not age.

Having a two-year old daughter to interact with makes me feel rich.

Smelled the rain this morning and it woke something up in me that hasn't been awake in a long while. Gripped with intense impulse to ride my bike through puddles, drink rain as it falls in my mouth turned to the sky, ignore the discomfort of wet clothes as they bind.

Bradbury in the late 1970s

Long After Midnight by Ray Bradbury

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Mr. Bradbury's words do not shine as cleverly as they seem to in his earlier collections, but there are some very worthwhile stories included. Also, he handles topics outside his usual forte, like gay couples coming out to their families, and Hemingway's pet parrot. What made it all smiles for me though was the very scary story titled The October Game - super scary, wicked scary, like I like them, and isn't that really what it's all about?



"By the sound of the children you knew the calendar day. By their screams you knew what evening it was. You knew it was very late in the year." --from The October Game


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Can't Forget That I Can't Remember What

The Seven Sins of Memory: How the Mind Forgets and Remembers by Daniel L. Schacter

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Well, it turns out to be mostly common sense, but not quite all of it. I am enough of a nerd to love knowing about the how and why of my sometimes spotty, sometimes very vivid memory. My grandmother's battle with Alzheimer's made it more interesting also. The author tended to ramble on a bit, so the book doesn't exactly read itself, but I would still recommend it if you have a tolerance for psychology.


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Rainbows & Happiness

December brought brisk weather and rainbows, the holy days, and my dad took his own life, with a gun. Dealing with suicide aftermath takes focus, hence my dearth of posts. I only knew him about 2.5 years, but we packed a lot in, 100-mile bike rides, delicious lunches, holidays, truly great times and sharings. I consider death my good personal friend, always up and to the left, so the whole deal doesn't sound particularly sad to me, although that remains the most common comment. Plus, he left a note that gave specific instructions to not mourn him. Long live Dad! Long live Hunter!

Ripping ride Sunday. Rockridge BART to Skyline Boulevard, down Redwood Road, up Pinehurst (ouch, been awhile), down Shepard Canyon. Hell to the yes I love cycling - fly high, hit hard.

Childhood Ambitions and My Shadow Side

Spiritual Dimensions of Healing Addictions by Donna Cunningham

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
It is my belief that various levels of addiction comprise major parts of most people's lives, whether they realize it or not. This book was a valuable read for me, and I think that would be true for most open-minded adults, struggling with addiction[s:] or not. The approach runs deep, dealing with parts of ourselves we often fail to acknowledge, the socially or morally unacceptable & shameful thoughts and desires Cunningham refers to as our shadow sides. Cunningham then directs us to embrace ourselves, shadow-sides & all, which felt just awesome when I tried it.



The book also leads the reader back in time to childhood ambitions in an attempt to help people hear their own calling with more than just their ears, no small or idle task. Cunningham presents many guided visualizations, that, if one tries them in earnest, are quite potent and freeing. Due to the New Age bent of the book, mentions of past lives, etc., most readers will find something to disagree with or disbelieve, but as long as one tries the exercises with focus, variant paradigms should be irrelevant.






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Dharma Bummin' Hard

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
I thought that I read this whole book long ago, but it turned out that I had read all but the last 20-pages or so, which were stunning and grand. The whole book seemed to be about me and a certain set of my friends at a certain time in our lives, which I think is part of it's genius. It helped that I knew most of the places he wrote about, made me have goosebumps more than once.



"During the night I had a vivid dream, one of the most distinct dreams I ever had, I clearly saw a crowded dirty smoky..."



From the mountain climbing to the hitchhiking to the suicides & orgies, Kerouac paints complex pictures of their idyllic lives that cyclically became painful. I like the way he tries to extricate himself from pursuing sex, and warmth, the whole time feeling a nagging desire for a little smooch in a heated bungalow, classic theme.



What I liked the most though, were the demonstrations of manifestation. Kerouac hears about stuff, gets excited, and is able to make or let the stuff happen, with a little help from his friends & family. Sometimes it's little stuff like food & booze & transportation, while other times it's life itself, fulfillment & bliss & loving friendship.



One night in a meditation vision Avalokitesvara the Hearer and Answerer of Prayer said to me "You are empowered to remind people that they are utterly free" so I laid my hand on myself to remind myself first and then felt gay, yelled "Ta," opened my eyes, and a shooting star shot.


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Gwar at the Grand Ballroom at the Regency

Gwar! Gwar, Gwar, Gwar, Gwar, Gwar! Shirt soaked, pants quite wet, sticky with Gwar blood. Rocked the pit almost the whole time, saving folks from being crushed to death, booted in the face, etc. All of the five men in my group, most of them quite a bit younger than me, claimed to be too old for the pit, and it was too crazy for my lovely spouse, but Ann held her own and came out blood soaked too, love that woman. The crowd wild and drunk with testosterone, heat, blood (real and Gwar), and lack of air, looked fabulous & raw, jagged. Women laughed as they crowd surfed, wowed the fans & band with the tried & true method of baring their tastefully pierced breasts while sitting on someone's shoulders, although Odorous did say "Unfortunately, I prefer the breasts of dogs." Shortly thereafter they brought out the dead dog to squeeze blood out of.

My G.G. Allin & The Murder Junkies shirt shows the blood real well. It dries quietly at home now waiting for the photo shoot, smelling manly. What a great time. Most psychedelic Gwar show ever. The blood would shoot straight for my eyes in rows of streams such that I was able to observed the rounded tips of the bright red streams right up until my eyes snapped shut 0.1-seconds before impact, such crazy fun. Turns out that bloodlust is more than just a pretty word for repeating when out of earshot of others.

Enclose Me In Your Gentle Rain

"The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain" -- from Crystal Ship by The Doors

Good rain today. Went outside and felt it on my freshly shaved scalp, stuck out my tongue to taste it, smelled it, felt it with my face, saw the pigeons lined up on the wire, dripping, happy.

Leaning back in my chair I balance a small piece of Mount Everest on my forehead, imagine myself the mountain, peacefully cold in late October, neutral.

I Feel Numb

"The numbness started in her fingertips. She felt it flow up through her hands, into her wrists and on along her arms to her shoulders and through her shoulders to her heart and up her neck to her head. She was a numbness, a thing of nettles and ice and prickles and a hollow thundering nothingness. Her lips were dry petals, her eyelids were a thousand times heavier than iron, and each part of her body was now iron and lead and copper and platinum. Her body weighed ten tons, each part of it was so incredibly heavy, and, in that heaviness, crushed and beating to survive, was her crippled heart, throbbing and tearing about like a headless chicken. And buried in the limestone and steel of her robot body was her terror and crying out, walled in, with someone tapping the trowel on the exterior wall, the job finished, and, ironically, it was her own hand she saw before her that had wielded the trowel, set the final brick in place, frothed on the thick slush of mortar and pushed everything into a tightness and self-finished prison." --from Ray Bradbury's short story Interval in Sunlight, published in his Long After Midnight collection.

Almost out of the October Country, for better or for worse. It's been an amazing month. Hard to believe how much got packed into it, but now, like the girl in the story, I feel numb, and more than a little trapped. Just my subconcious telling me get more exercise and meditate deeper, because when push comes to shove, I am as free as the wind, and can send the numbness away at will.

Know Her Quiet Love

Racing round & round the hills & valleys of these beautiful Bay Area counties I have gradually come to realize that, deep within, my true search is always & only for the Goddess. She etches figure eights around Twin Peaks, ambles enlessly around the peaks of Mount Diablo, sits in silent meditation on lonely beaches from Alameda to Tennessee Valley, suns herself by the shores of Lake Merrit, whispers through my open windows, lays waste to ego & self-consciousness when the inevitable tears of joy storm from my eyes. When I find her I receive whatever gifts she bestows with loving reverence & grace, and request nothing more for all eternity except to know her quiet love.

"…I waited on a bench for my next bus trying to sleep on my arms on my rucksack but kept waking up to see the pale ghosts of American bus stations wandering around: in fact one woman streamed by like a wisp of smoke, I was definitely certain she didn't exist for sure. On her face the phantasmal belief in what she was doing...on my face, for that matter, too." --from Kerouac's The Dharma Bums

Pig Butcher Chen

The Butcher's Wife by Li Ang

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Lin Shi's mother was all dressed in red. Her legs were bound with several coils of a long, thick rope. Stretching her arms out toward her daughter, she said over and over: "Ah-shi, I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry...go beg some food for me, I'm hungry, I'm hungry."

Lin Shi discovered that she couldn't move a muscle, but she didn't know why. Momentary confusion followed. Unable to wait any longer, Lin Shi's mother plunger her hands into her own abdomen, fished out a mass of bloody entrails, and hungrily shoved them into her mouth, giggling as she said: "I've got nothing to eat, just this sweet-potato mash."

--excerpt from The Butcher's Wife



This is one of my wife's women's studies books that I just happened upon and found readable. Based on a true story, it's deeply sad but also oddly neutral. This book, maybe because it is Chinese, seems quite distant from the other women's studies type books I've started, most of which I could not make it through. I have to wonder about what's lost in translation, perhaps quite a bit. Even though the man is of course an evil fucker, the author manages to practically force the reader to empathize with him. One aquires an acute sense of being trapped in relationships: marriage, family, societal, and the world of pain & sickness to which those feelings lead. Tom Waits sings about in that song where "Frank hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife's forehead...bought himself a couple of Mickey Bigmouths, then he parked across the street, watching the thing burn all Christmas orange, and laughing; turned on the top 40 station", or something like that, folks losing their minds because of persistent belief in limits & measures in a limitless & measureless universe. It's the goddess forsaken dark ages in homes around the world, unfortunately.



Trapped as you agree to, trapped as you want to be, is how I figure it. Do whatchalike Kid.


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Fantasy Beach Cottage

A weathered ghost of a stainless steel kettle on an antique stove prepares to
whistle for our tea in my fantastic daydream, a small vase with three
small geranium blossoms in it graces a table carved for two. The ancient hardwood table waits with unimaginably vast patience & poise. This is a voracious & recurring dream that cyles deep, corkscrewing itself from one end of my mind the the other, and back again without rest.

When I wake into yet another dream I sit cross-legged on dry sand, near waves, with a few symbolic pieces of driftwood forming five sides around me. The wind calls coldly & the ocean wears a gray cloak. I hitch hiked there, and now wonder about my ride home, because dusk has come and soon will go, but I am so very happy.

Much thanks to Matthew Lichau for the picture.

EPMD @ Club 6 in October Rain

Wowie zowie this night sparkles in the rain. What a great night, for all the right reasons. Met one of my brothers and his girlfriend at Club 6 to see EPMD, the legendary rappers. I got a call from my dear friend Anjeni while parking my car, and it turned out that her plan with her couple friends wasn't working out, so spontaneously, at the last minute, she shows up with her buddy Manjou and her osteopath mentor/boss. It was shaping up to be a fine fun night anyway, but when those lovely osteopaths and Manjou, who compliments them well because he's an acupunturist, showed up the dance party blew up bigger than life. We were wild, we were crazy, we knocked into people, Anjeni and I bumped knees as hard as I've ever bumped knees with anyone. We danced upstairs, downstairs, I danced in the rain in the smoking pen, we watched the too-cool-for-words break dancers upstairs, they went off. I had so much fun that I gave a homeless guy paper money when he asked me for it after the show, which I don't do except when in full celebration mode.

Anjeni & her entourage split, which left me to join my brother & his girl for a tasty breakfast of waffles, eggs, and bacon at Mel's Diner at Mission & 5th St. And I'm still in a good mood, so thankful for the unexpected night of dancing with some crazy good dancers. It rocked, way-way-sha-nay-nay-way-hay-eh.

Not To Be Confused With Heartburn

Fire in the Belly: On Being a Man by Sam Keen

My review

rating: 1 of 5 stars
Keen writes way too preachy, and although he dug up a few clever quotes, the book disappointed me to the point that I could not finish it. That surprised me because it came highly recommended and the title sounded quite promising. The title thing was big for me due to my extended romance with the concept of having a fire in one's belly. One bright San Francisco morning warped by a twenty-something hangover my friends & I came across a raspy wino sitting on a steep street outside a liquor store that happened to be in a fair to middling mood. We gave him some dough for booze and he explained to us about the fire in the belly. The grizzled little man had a way of yelling "fire, fire in your belly", with a very strong accent on the fire part, that my friends & I would take turns bellowing to each other when we were drunk for the next ten years. You see, said the wizened wino, "a 40-oz malt liquor in the morning won't give you that fire, you need wine, or perhaps whiskey, to give that wondrous burn we call the fire in the belly." We roared with laughter, overstanding, and devil-may-care alcoholic bonding before setting off to chase that flickering flame across ten-thousand twilights, and again tomorrow. Cannot count the times I have cried for that fire, done violence for it, gone hungry, pushed my body to collapse, and still I would swear by it's unassailable greatness without hesitation. Keen does not this concept justice, in my admittedly arrogant & condescending opinion.






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Launch To Crater

We missed the fun in the desert with rockets this year, but Seth turned me on to this wonderful series of the Maveriks 2 rocket that he worked on. The parachute plan did not work out. Recovered the electronics about a mile away.

Death By Work

John Henry, the Steel-Driving Man by Corinne J. Naden

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
Not many children's stories tell about a guy that works himself to death, but this one is different. There is, of course, more to it than that, but sure enough, at the end the big loot dies with with a hammer in his hand, and his baby in the other. I remember reading a different version of the story as a child, which I recall as having had better art than this version. Loved how John Henry kicked that steam engine's sorry ass, but then somewhat dreaded the pain & mystery of his death that I always knew was coming (after the first shocking time reading it, that is). Our cat Henry is named after him. John Henry was bad ass, and I still race cars, scooters, and motorcycles on my bicycle in the spirit of such. I totally kick their ass off the line, even the muscle car guys sweating the light turning green, and it hasn't killed me yet.


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Flirting With The Snow Queen

The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
"Old memories mean nothing to me" --Hazel Dickens



This book stimulated shadowy memories of a teacher reading all or part of this book during classroom storytime, or maybe it was just a similar story. Whatever the case, at various points I sensed myself sitting on the floor of my pale yellow 1st grade classroom in the Petaluma hills, the blinds drawn to dim the room, feeling the resonance of the woman's enthusiastic voice, think it my have been Mrs. Geotzinger with her dark hair, during a string of cloudy & rainy days in 1976.



It took a number of tries to get my son & daughter interested, but once we got going with a real book mark & all it was on. I enjoyed it quite, as did the wee ones. The thing that got me the best turned out to be the cold, illustrated with snow & ice & wind & bare feet with forgotten jackets. Hans wrote a cut above for this one, in my opinion, seemed to take more than his typical degree of care with the sentence composition, with very balanced and complementary themes - men & women, heat & cold, animals & humans, kindness & cruelty, heaven & hell, reality & illusion, old age & youth, all the deep topics to which humans perpetually return. A part of my soul dwells in the Snow Queen's palace evermore, in a vast hall of ice & pain, layered illusions entwined intimately with razor shard frosted edges of eternal death. One could think of it as how I might remodel A Clean Well Lighted Place For Books.



At the end Hans goes uberChristian on us, but I forgive him this, chalking it up to the time & place in which the dear boy dreamed up his darling little masterpiece.


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