Growing Pain

Wish to uplift, but I'm a bummer, most all the time. Had so many years of regularly feeling good, at least at some point each day or week, and felt fabolous beyond compare for many of those times. Will I ever get that ever new bliss back? Still believe in finding fulfillment in the now, which is why these words appear on this screen. Want the light to fill me, consume me, shine all around me, like it is. Too blind to see it. "That's not the electric light, it's just your vision growing dim." --L. Cohen. I see now why men perish after losing their families and money, harder than they could have imagined, emotionally honest or not. Of course, the October Country has left us to deep Autumn, the helladaze season, the frosty dying season. Must learn from then let go of past mistakes, work to feel light, remember to eat. Bless my friends and family for continuing to put up with me, believing that I'll come in around in awhile like a guy with a hangover sipping coffee.

Creative Processing, Ghost Dog Love

Ghost Dog Love

da pain, da pain, da pain
rains snows sleets dogs and dogs.
epic dogs, pheonix dogs, Rumi dogs
across my core, through our collective soul

Brother John taught me Stinkface.
works for bright light
hard emotions, angry or sad
a mask of facial tension
reflected darkness of our abyss

Ghost dog becomes ghost dog
charges forever inside me.
energy seemed boundless.
Now so in soothe

April 2010, in Some Walnut Shells

Spring storms blow in rough and wild but cannot quench my blistered feet blazing around the verdant trails. Wind and rain, flowers and sun, this tree huggin' soil worshipper zims that vernal edge singing the body electric, feeling real Walt Whitman up in here, Leaves Of Grass, up in here.

"Buddhas do not wash away ill deeds with water, Nor remove transmigrators' sufferings with their hands, Nor transfer their realization to others. Beings are freed through teachings of the truth, the nature of things. --Buddha

Swam Donner Lake at 9:00 AM 4/26/10 for ~1 minute. Yes, there was snow on the beach. Immersion in cold water is some crazy stuff. I do believe I liked it. Then I learned to snowboard; loved it.

Used to wait for my favorite pet wild freshwater crab sitting on the shore of San Francisquito Creek. I did not know one could find crabs in freshwater until she scuttled by my favorite creekside basking spot, little blue devil with her home under rock. I hope her descendants scuttle there still.

Kids' art takes me places people plumb forgot existed, and beyond. My son convinced me to roll down a steep grassy hill in Tilden Park with him, the one between the botanical garden and the Brazilian Room. Had completely forgotten how dizzy that can make a person, but now it's the freshest, way. Daughter did it too, of course - 1st time's free.

Son says "I wouldn't want to live in a little bitty world, and have a little bitty life, because then you would be born and die in like five minutes." Might be good enough for Alan Jackson, but we're looking for that step up.

"Surrealism is not a school of poetry but a movement of liberation, a way of rediscovering the language of innocence, a renewal of the primordial pact, poetry is the basic text, the foundation of the human order. Surrealism is revolutionary because it is a return to the beginning of all beginnings." --Octavio Paz

Chthonic. Look it up. Jung laughs with us while Faust and Faunus smile vacant past unthinkable dreams, or are those memories? Reflections of reflections through looking glasses and shattered knives.

"This life disappears only very quickly Like something written in water with a stick." - Buddha.

Found daughter trying to figure out the cover to Cheap Thrills by Big Brother and The Holding Company, yes the real album cover from 1967. First it brought back memories of myself trying to figure that art out, then I went ahead and actually looked at it. It has to the funniest album cover of all time. Long live R. Crumb. About Janis on the back my daughter said "She's happy."

"There ain't no money in poetry. That's what sets the poet free...cold dog soup and rainbow pie is all it takes me get me by." --Guy Clark Windy

Winter night, edge of Tomales Bay: no tent, old bag, let breeze in strong through zipper. tickling chill woke me every 20 -minutes - I laughed and thanked lucky stars for wil...d gifts, turned over to more ochre dreams.

Feeling inspired for more night hikes after last full moon traipse in the howling cold wind & pouring rain. Have finally realized, with a little help from a extraordinarily visionary friend, that we do not have to wait for any weather, moonphase, or water temperature to arrive.

"May we have the confidence of joy and delight When food and wealth accumulated with miserliness are left behind And we separate forever from cherished and longed-for friends, Going alone to a perilous situation." -The First Panchen Lama

Tidbits, Trains, and Cycling

"I'm ain't nothing but a dirty dog, a briny hound, a dirty dog." --Jimmie Revard's Oklahoma Playboys

Cycling loves me so much that reciprocating comes preternatural. Had a way sweet ride along the Richmond shoreline Saturday - Point Isabelle to Ferry Point then back through the tunnel by Point Richmond, through what the wife & I used to call "Illegal Activities Land", back to Point Isabelle. To top it off our wonderfully unhurried trio threw in some impromptu adventure mountain biking to attend a King Cake party at the Albany Landfill, where I of course got Frog (the saviour) in my slice of cake, and so will be hosting a party this Friday in Oakland (buzz me for details, or comment on this post). Little sore, super stoked, "like a couple of kids, flipping our lids".

Been wondering what gets us through the nights not fun. Each of us with our own set of tools - meditation, liquor, television, books with yellowed pages, hot baths, the wild wonders of ancient and modern medicine, + a wide variety of excercise routines. More to the point is what might get me through this dark & stormy now. Sleep, bicycling, better things. No Selping! (not Sleeping + Not Helping)

My favorite part in André Gide's "The Counterfeiters" was when they dared each other to lie between the tracks as a train passed over. Then that one guy (my hero) did it. He passed out from fear as the train passed over him, then woke up feeling transformed, not to mention with an awful ringing in his ears. I'm a firm believer in donning one's stunner shades, ear plugs, helmet, gloves, and going dumb. Push your luck!

"I'm going down to the railroad, lay my head on the track. When that train come along I'm going to jerk it back." --from Dirty Hangover Blues by W. Lee O'Daniel & His Hillbilly Boys. That line cracks me up every time. As Homer Simpson so astutely put it: "I thought I had an appetite for destruction but all I wanted was a club sandwich."

Heritage

As the 1st anniversary of my father's suicide (12/15) approaches I feel much while coming to terms with the fact that I ain't nearly processed this whole deal yet. Not sure I ever will, but the heritage part's been bugging me for awhile because the stuff I wrote about it in 2006 did not include detailed blood quantum analysis, so I am:



1/4 Scottish
1/4 Sudanese (Arab)
1/8 Welsh
1/8 English
1/16 Creek
1/16 Black
1/16 Irish
1/32 Cherokee
1/32 Choctaw

dig it

Fear of Cycling

I'm guessing that my father's passing last December had a more profound effect upon me than I first would admit. The thing is, cycling, one of my favorite things, has fallen by the wayside, which I now blame for myriad mental and physical pains. Enough blogging about it, I've just got to get back on and peddle or find some other strenuous exercise to enjoy.

Life is for the living.

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.

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.


View all my reviews.

O Death, O Death, Won't You Spare Me Over Til Another Year

The world is a sacred vessel, which must
not be tampered with or grabbed
after.
To tamper with it is to spoil it, and to
grasp it is to lose it.
In fact, for all things there is a time for
going ahead, and a time for following
behind;
A time for slow-breathing and a time for
fast-breathing;
A time to grow in strength and a time to
decay;
A time to be up and a time to be down.

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

Back in March 2007, late on an El Sobrante winter afternoon, my mobile phone sent a series of emotionless vibrations into my left thigh. Bret's girlfriend Suzie said hello when I picked up the line. I could tell right away that something serious had taken hold of her mind. A jovial mood was busy echoing through our house at the time. We were nearing the end of a birthday party I'd thrown for myself, so before I heard her voice I figured that Bret was calling to wish me a happy birthday, but that wasn't it. Rhabdomyosarcoma, a sinus tumor, behind the left eye, a sizable mass of cells gone wrong that had his left eye bulging half-way out of his aching head. Bret had been asking me for advice with regards to a persistent sinus infection that he and his physician had thought he had for the couple months prior to that. The alleged sinus infection had been puzzling me because the treatments that I prescribed had no effect, and I'm somewhat of an expert on sinus infections due to my own painful experiences. The "infection" did not respond, of course, because it was cancer, scary, kills-you-dead cancer.

I kept my party face on for the rest of the afternoon, but afterwards the malignant enormity stunned me deep. My only other friend that had shown up with a giant cancerous tumor, Paul, his was in his thigh, a grapefruit-sized melanoma, died within about a year. Bret was scared and full of pride, didn't want to tell anyone, which is why Suzie called. They had moved to New Mexico from Oakland a few months previous, and had a son in December 2006. Bret & Suzie got married in a New Mexico hospital later that March. They moved back to California, got a place near Suzie's mom's house in Merced, and started treatment at UCSF, arguably the most advanced cancer treatment center around. The doctors told Suzie early on that Bret's cancer was in stage four of four, and that their goal was to improve the quality of the remainder of his life rather than provide a cure. They advised her not to tell Bret any of this, lest it freak him out, which I thought was weird, but I'm not an oncologist, so who's to say. Just like the doctors said it would, the sickness got worse, worse, and more worse. The sinus tumor shrank, but a hot spot in his pancreas flared up, and then it strangled his spinal cord, paralyzing him from the waist down, which is where the salt water refuses to stay in my eyes, very painful even to contemplate. Bret was a strong athlete and profoundly graceful capoeira artist. I recall a time that the police arrested him but could not get his hands behind his back. He had his arms out like Jesus on the cross, and two burly San Francisco police officers, boots & knees dug into his back, muscles straining, sweating profusely, could not bend those big tattooed arms, not even a little bit. That damned rhabdomyosarcoma, usually a childhood cancer (it accounts for more than half of the soft tissue sarcomas in children), sucked the strength out of him like no cop ever could, like a vampire from hell.

Suzie called me yesterday afternoon. Bret had not woken up for more than 24-hours, and had been unable to speak for at least a day before he lost consciousness. His breathing became rapid and stressed early yesterday morning, so she pulled him onto her lap and held him close. The fast breathing gradually changed to slow breathing, and the slow breathing got slower, and slower, and even slower, until stillness settled into that space. Suzie kept holding him, cradling him, and loving him with all her might, for another three-hours. By that time all the warmth had left his body, death hovered in the Central Valley air, and morning was on it's way to an afternoon overflowing with tears.

One time I loaned Bret a bicycle, my old Fuji Special Road Racer, and we rode from my old flat on 29th Street near Noe, right across the Golden Gate bridge, through Sausalito, and out to the beach at Tennessee Valley. Bret complained about the long distance, but we had a rollicking time. When we were having fun we flew like kids, laughed like hyperactive teenagers, drank hard (back when I drank), told each other stories like long lost brothers fresh home from the war. Bless those good times.

We discussed death and the dying process a good amount, when Suzie wasn't around to get upset about it. Bret & I shared huge love & respect for death & dying, talked freely about how the final time might be. We decided that the best thing would be to instill as much grace and charisma into his dying as he could, to set an example, and to feel that we'd each done what we could. It worked out swell in that regard. Bret made me feel proud and happy the way he died, cool as a cucumber, exuding much love, that's my brother, my friend, my blood. You did it Bret! You stayed strong and kind, ever true. I hope to be cool like that when my time comes.

O, Death
O, Death
Won't you spare
me over til
another year
Well what is this
that I can't see
With ice cold
hands takin' hold
of me
Well I am death,
none can excel
I'll open the
door to heaven
or hell
Whoa, death
someone would
pray
Could you wait
to call me
another day
The children
prayed, the
preacher
preached

Time and mercy
is out of your
reach
I'll fix your feet
til you can't walk
I'll lock your jaw
til you can't talk
I'll close your
eyes so you
can't see
This very air,
come and go
with me
I'm death I
come to take
the soul
Leave the body
and leave it cold
To draw up the
flesh off of the
frame
Dirt and worm
both have a
claim
O, Death
O, Death
Won't you spare
me over til
another year
My mother came
to my bed
Placed a cold
towel upon my
head
My head is warm
my feet are cold
Death is a-movin
upon my soul
Oh, death how
you're treatin' me
You've closed my
eyes so I can't
see
Well you're
hurtin' my body
You make me cold
You run my life
right outta my
soul
Oh death please
consider my age
Please don't
take me at this
stage
My wealth is all
at your
command
If you will move
your icy hand
Oh the young,
the rich or poor
Hunger like me
you know
No wealth, no
ruin, no silver no
gold
Nothing satifies
me but your
soul
O, death
O, death
Won't you spare
me over til
another year
Won't you spare
me over til
another year
Won't you spare
me over til
another year"

--Ralph Stanley's O Death

Long Live Vonnegut

Vonnegut is dead. Long live Vonnegut!

The guy felt like a family friend, somebody that knew me too well. Concepts I read about in his books have floated to and fro in my mind's sky ever since I saw Slaughter-House Five at the ripe age of five, and then more so once Cat's Cradle tore and rip van wrinkled it's way into my brain five years later. Another five years passed before Breakfast of Champions brought me closer to Elliott's family, slapping the tar out the last of the generation gap. His step-dad Rotten Barton had read it, his brother Morgan had read it, Frances the mom too, and I got to read it too, all the same frayed copy, sitting in his living room, hung over, in a single sitting, immensely. Once that little initiation had washed us, we all shared in the jokes for years by acting out the little pictures, hilarious, asshole eyes. It also served as the off-center hub of many a drunken diatribe, providing a magic set of words, names, and quotations that became passwords to absurdity, with a touch of elitism thrown in, the type of post-modern conversation that satisfies better than cigarette butts out of the gutter when you're fucked up (good enough for Huckleberry Finn, good enough for me).

Ten years after that I ended up train commuting a bunch during graduate school, a school that happened to have a library chock full of Kurt's books, which allowed me (psychologically) to read several more. The two most noteworthy in my opinion were Slapstick and Fates Worse Than Death (non-fiction). He got deep into the phenomenon of suicidal tendencies in Fates Worse Than Death, pointing out that, during his visits with people experiencing famine and starvation in Somalia, he found no suicidal people. Back there in cozy New England or whatever idyllic American burgs however, just about all his friends and him were trying it, for some reason or another, bored with privilege perhaps, strung out on opiates & alcohol more likely. Much props for his attempt at that happy topic. Kind of a crazy asshole I guess, which makes him a special kind of loveable to me. Vivid imaginations of Slapstick's tidal gravity and thumb-sized people (well, maybe he stole that from Tom Thumb) lurk eternal in my psyche. Big inspiration. Thanks Kurt.

"Charm was a scheme for making strangers like and trust a person immediately, no matter what the charmer had in mind." from Breakfast of Champions