The Process

out of direction, out of streets to drive down for the first time. Haven't written much creative lately, and I feel the pent up insanity slapping slimy old cold fish against the backs of my knees, can't wake up, bloated, green, and covered with a hundred kinds of crabs and flies. Inspiration! Problem solving! Problems that used to baffle me! Conjuring intuition. These are but a few of the benefits of spitting what ought to be spit. Swallowing that black lung butter I hack up daily ain't good for a digestive tract; got to spit it out, in an appropriate place.

Listening to Robert Goulet croon Ave Maria; loving it with the setting sun. Not even five yet, golly is November good for activities best done under cover of night.

Night People, hanging out, talking 'bout "Day People" - they don't know what it's all about.

I'd Flap My Wings

Zimming calm down El Sobrante's main drag this morning, on my way to Richmond, to drop off my darling 3-year old; she busts out with: "If I was a bird I'd flap my wings". If I were a thousand year old thought-dream I'd sing the body electric, zap.

Fall 2009, We Love You

Star filled skies rest gentle in my pupils. Fog drifts in and in then burns off with love. Autumn enhancing earthy nerves tuned to harvest. Better times come; ever new bliss along lonely trails, long piers delving the bay, impending steep ascents.

Chamomile Harvest

First year we planted a vegetable garden. Planted chamomile as a border and it came out great. Turns out that the boy just loves harvesting - kale, chamomile, tomatoes, potatoes, squash, corn, you name it, his joy shines so bright I have to wear dark glasses. Darling daughter likes it too, of course, but the garden started as mainly a father-son project so she just gets in on the good parts. My dad allegedly once told me spouse that I didn't know how good I had it. Sometimes I wonder.

Listening to Funkadelic and loving it, sweaty from too much caffeine.

Campfires & Creeks

Memories of Memorial Park in San Mateo cycle through my mind, giant redwoods, quietly flowing water, and one unforgettable night of crackling fire. The kids want to camp again, soon. This world rises and falls with or without our valiant efforts, but still my chakras glow with growing helpful energy.

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.

Boxcar Bertha would have liked me

Sister of The Road: The Autobiography of Boxcar Bertha - as told to Dr. Ben Reitman by Ben Reitman


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Generations cycle through, cry through endless nights then molder in graves cold, but the habits & desires of society and individuals abide. So modern to believe we live like none before us, but the the things that don't change prove most uncanny & ubiquitous. I love Bertha for her honesty, I love hitchhiking, wide open spaces and concrete jungles. Found out that there's a movie loosely based on the book that came out in 1972 (two stars). One disappointing thing, however, was finding out at the end that it really was written by Ben Reitman, which I admit it says on the cover, but then it also calls itself an autobiography. Bertha still feels real to me, because I got to feeling her strong living as I read. Got the urge to ride the rails stronger than ever. My Uncle Tony used to ride the rails, got shot at by railroad dicks and everything, and I knew some folks in college that tried it, but somehow I missed the train. I'll wait until my kids grow just a little more first, but then it's motorcycle riding, hang gliding, and hobo vacation time, all the time.

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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