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How Very Odd [Mar. 23rd, 2012|10:00 am]
I thought I had forgotten the username and password to this account. Then, suddenly, while I was writing on my main blog I remembered it and was able to log in and post.

The blog I'm posting on now is:

http://felixperegrino.com

Now that I've saved the password again I may write some more here.
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A Day To Remember... eh? [Dec. 21st, 2010|12:22 pm]
I upgraded the copy of FireFox from a long time back, and it had this blog in the Bookmarks I'd sorta forgotten, and so I decided to write something just to keep it active. This is the day of the winter solstice. I haven't looked up the exact time yet. My friend told me it was to happen around sunset so I'm not in much of a hurry. I do want to go out into the woods where I was clearing out the underbrush and use some of the bush heap from that to have a little solstice fire to celebrate. Also, the first complete solar eclipse visible from the United States happened sometime last night. I didn't stay up to see it.
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Mother Mary [Jun. 12th, 2009|11:46 am]
I just wrote about how my mother helped me to do something I thought was important to my development, but what she helped me do must have been horrifying to my father, and sometimes I wonder if she helped me do what I felt needed to be done to spite him.

Committing myself to the State hospital was a dividing point in my life. I was still married to my first wife, and she apparently had no intention of letting go of me just so I could reap the wild wind. No blame. It was in the marital arena that conventionality and the weird fundamentalism she was brought up in that made our marriage uncomfortable for me. At least, that's what I thought back then. Back when I was young, dumb, and fulla cum. Why would I notice that most of the people who admired Errol Flynn's swashbuckling feats were other young men. Wives don't appear to admire swashbuckling adventurers so much, at least not if they're their husband. And neither young men or old men are suitable to me as a wife.

I'm fairly sure committing myself to the mental hospital was a cry for help, but it was the culmination of a much longer scream. There really were good reasons for questioning my own sanity. Chiefly, I suppose, because I experienced what some call Kundalini in my mid-twenties. It really changed the way I looked at life before I ever had a chance to know exactly who I am was.
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New Website [May. 16th, 2008|10:05 am]
_

http://applepandowdy.blogspot.com/
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This is the last entry I intend to post here for a while. I don't like having to jump through my ass or ask for help on how to find out if I have any readers. It's not that it matters so much that I have readers who come here, except that my imagination runs wild about what is or are not, and to prevent that, all I have to do is find out for sure. Google has got me in their pocket now. First it bought blogger.com on which I kept my first blog, and now it's bought Feedburner, a company that provides information on the what traffic a blog has. Thanks, LiveJournal, it's been fun.

The comments made by a bunch of students about which computer to buy to take to college was an interesting read this morning. I'm not in the market for a laptop, so I don't know exactly why I was attracted to reading the article or the comments afterward. A lot of these kids used MacBooks and thought they worked best because they worked... period..., and others seem to like having a combination of a laptop for classes, and a desktop or big monitor and regular keyboard back in their room.

I was surprised as how practical the students were about size and weight, and yes, power. Their comments about the need for power and why they felt they needed was only partially based on games. Above all, at least among the people who commented, they seemed so ultimately practical about choosing a computer to use at college. Personally, I think they ought to take that money and go blow it on a grand adventure, but nobody with any real sense listens to me.

My brother lives further back in the woods than me. He has one of those deals with the trash picker-uppers and a big plastic container with wheels on it. Every week he has to haul it out to the side of the paved road. To do that he has to pass by my house, and most of the time (if he ain't filled up) he stops by to see if I have any trash I want hauled off. Nice fellow, my baby brother.

This morning when he came by it wasn't business as usual. He drove up in one of those huge four-wheel pickups with four-doors and a short bed on the back of it. He had the trash container loaded up on it. It was a used truck that probably (I'm guessing) costs upward of 30-40 thousand dollars when it was new, but he got a deal from somebody he had done a favor for, and did them another favor by buying this dinosaur from them, or rather, his internet company paid for it as a company truck.

My brother is a fairly successful dude. The basis of his thriving business is a couple of books he and his wife wrote from scratch. They set up an internet site to sell the books, and ended up selling a lot of other stuff they didn't create, but make a respectable profit from selling and distributing. Like a lotta successful people they have disposable cash to play with, and to buy things like huge pickup trucks to haul their trash a couple of hundred yards to the roadside.

I sort of envy my brother and sister-in-law, but not necessarily for their success in business, but because they can enjoy the success of their business. That's the part that would drive me nuts. I've been a miser my entire life, but I've only known that I was a miser for maybe the last decade or so. I seem genuinely astonished that I could be the way I am for so long without realizing it's actually me that is that way.

Could anything be more exciting that to realize that you're exactly the kind of person that famous people find fascinating and write novels about. Who doesn't recognize Scrooge's famous cry, "Bah! Humbug!" The people who have known me for any length of time realize that I'm the real thing, and the proof of it is that they hate me just like they hate the character Scrooge, but I'm a real, living boy (albeit without a long nose), and no strings attached.

I've always like to test myself and put myself in harm's way to see if I might survive, and I'm 69 years old. I've actually survive half again longer than I ever expected to. Mostly because I'm a miser. I can't afford death. Death gets snooty when it comes around me. It wants me to beg for it's coup de grace. I whine and pule and claim that I don't even have the coin to pay Death to row me down the river Styx.

Limbo land. I live here in my self-generated limbo land. Nowheresville. I don't dare think it's good or bad. Exactly like Being-in-itself, it just is...
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What? The Internet's Down? OMG!! [May. 15th, 2008|11:56 am]
What's wrong with this world? The crows are cawing in the yellow pines outside, but the internet don't work this morning. That doesn't happen very often. Nothing goes on around here in such a way as to prevent it from working. What the hell is going on? Is Bush making his final push to take over as dictator?

I woke up too nervous to sit here and listen to the drum machine in the background. Never the less, something good was going on in my dream time just before I woke up. I was watching myself play scales on the piano keyboard. When I deliberately brought it up again, it came. I lay there for a while pushing my fingers through the C Major scale, and then the C# Major scale, got altogether too excited, and got outta bed.

If this arthritis will hold off from crippling me just a little longer, I might be able to do all this in my mind's eye, even if I'm crippled and kept from doing it with my hands. Maybe that's the whole point of getting a body. Ya git a body to learn how to do things you don't need a body for except how to do "things" in the first place. It's like having training wheels in order to learn how to ride a bike by yourself. Once you know how to coordinate the pedaling and the steering, then all you gotta think about is somewhere you wanna go.

...
Where do you go
when there is nowhere to go,
and the place that you're at
is kinda blue,
and you've been everywhere
but the stars up above,
and you feel like
you've been up there
too.

I never see the lay of the land when I'm outta mah body. One time i was flying low over this lush, green, jungly place, and the pock-marked image of Noriego appeared translucently across the "sky" before me, and I "knew" that I was located over Panama. That's how silly things get sometime. I need a body with it's brain to figure things out as if I were embodied. If I'm outta body, then what's normally perceivable sensorially doesn't compute that way any more.

I think that's why I'm obsessed with writing. It's deliberate. I'm trying to "say" what I "see". Oh, I can say "something" deliberately, but I can't always say the something that actually sots itself before me grinning with a impudent dare.

That's what was going on when I saw the video of the Sea Folk with the yellow jackets playing. I "knew" the grin of the piano player. I once knew a man who looked like that. He graduated cum laude from a school in Missouri, and was at the head of his class in law school. What impressed me even more was that he taught himself to play classical guitar from reading a book.

People let go of their feigned appearances for all sorts of reasons. Some never come out to play at all, think what you like. I used to get my feelings hurt by people I thought would be okay to come out of myself and play with, but over time learned that was a mistake. I thought I had a friend in this guy whose mother used to make him come inside every day at four o'clock to practice his piano lessons. I thought that because he played the piano that he would naturally be a emotionally sensitive person like I think I am is. He hated playing the piano. He was being forced to do it. His mother, and her sister the piano teacher, thought that learning to play the piano might make him more emotionally responsive. It didn't.

I had the opportunity to meet with this person late in life. We hadn't seen or spoken with each other for nearly sixty years since we were boys together. He was sent to military school when he was sixteen years old, then went to the Navy academy, served six years in the military, and thereafter become a member of the military/industrial complex and a NeoCon. Why am I always the last to know?

The next to last time i saw him, he reminded me in so many words that he was "still the meanest little son-of-a-bitch" in the school group we had both belonged to. Just before he pridefully introduced me to his trophy wife who is probably twenty years younger than him.

How could I have not "seen" how he was, and thus his future? I was the new guy in town. I was desperate for a friend to play with. He was apparently so mean-spirited, nobody wanted to play with him. How was I supposed to know that? My family had just moved to this little town. We were a perfect match. He pretended to be my friend in order to cheat me out of all my marbles. I dumbed down to have a friend. I bet he is a great businessman.

Why not play with this? It suddenly crossed my mind that his family had moved to this little town after the Civil War during Reconstruction. They probably moved there to take advantage of the total failure of agrarian economic system due to having lost the war. No blame. Lots of carpet-baggers and bluebellies did that. I traveled to where there was economic opportunities all my adult life.

The local people in this small agricultural center probably knew his family came there to take advantage of them, but not anymore than Wal-Mart came here for the same reason. Who gets close to the Wal-Mart people who come and go through here. It's not like they're here to be good neighbors and find a house with a picket fence to settle down in.

I have stopped writing several times to see if the internet is back up. I don't remember it being off-line this long before. It was up just long enough to download my RSS feeds, but was gone again ere I could punch any of them up. At least from that I know the problem is not here on my end of the big show.

#094 RumbaFlamenco

This drumbeat moves fast and furious, and because "it" is actually just a ROM program on steroids made up of ones and twos, it does that over and over again, and will, until either I turn it off or the power fails for one reason or the other. Do we make machines to do what we can't... out of pure spite... or romanticism?

I'm a great romanticizer. Not only am I able to make mountains out of molehills with aplomb, but I can furnish those mountains with secret hideaways that makes all the girls and boys in my mind's eye crazy with lust and dissatisfaction. It's all about that species flaw Sartre wrote about. You know. The flaw of not being able to see our own possibilities in real-time? What other species flaw have I been writing about for the last year?

I romanticize the events in my life in a frenetic effort to grasp or grok my possibles in real-time. Why else would I concern myself with always being the last to know? Romanticizing my unworthy life into The Hero's Journey is a fairly futile effort for me to indulge. Getting to the grail castle and sucking up well enow for a chance to sit down in it's inner courtyard (together with my own self-generated, phantasmagoric images) under the bow tree (yew/you/world tree) is one thing, but getting back ho-me (whole me) with my as yet unseen gift (Something simply fantastic and utterly supercilious, of course, a somethingness that might wow the current warlords, and earn me seventeen virgins on Earth while I'm still alive [and still have a horn to blow]), all without revealing what I experienced in the kingdom to show modesty and respect, is yet another variety of tomatoes altogether. I described this dilemma exactly in 1972. I didn't have a reason to live after that.

Maybe I couldn't get on the internet this morning because I needed to write something I needed to hear. Synaesthesia? I don't know. I tortured myself for a while. Got up and looked in the stubs in my checkbook to see if I'd paid my bill. I had. I called my brother to see if he was online. Yes. Then, I realized I'd telephoned my brother over the same internet connection I wasn't supposed to be getting, and rebooted my computer, and as you can readily see, it worked.
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Seemingly Effortless [May. 14th, 2008|09:37 am]
#092 Beguine

Wanna perform a simple, interesting online gimmick/test that might intrigue you or no? Follow the link below for as long as it interests you, and you may find yourself a little surprised at what you might not know about your eyes and your vision. You literally have holes and blind spots that you can witness for yourself.

http://serendip.brynmawr.edu/bb/blindspot1.html

I rushed over the introductory remarks, did the test according to what i thought I was supposed to do, but it didn't exactly come out like the post remarks stated, so i went back and read the instructions aloud in order to get it right. That worked well. Even I got it.

I have a huge blindspot in each eye that's apparently part of the design of seeing. I've known I'm going blind, but I didn't realize how much. Oh, what a thrill it is to be human and have to rely on a deteriorating body to tell me what's what. It seems I haven't been getting reliable information all along, even when my eyes were bright and saw the world perfectly.

This is just another warning to not get cocky and swear something is there that might not be, even though I've always "believed" that it was. I've seem to have had more than my share of the gift of over-exaggeration anyway. Why go just a little over-the-top when I can make an entire continental divide from a molehill?

This "blindspot" business must be why misdirection works so well. If anything critical has happened in your life such that you get hurt because of these blind spots, then you might question how perfectly you see without understanding it. For me, it's just the fact that as I've grown older and had more "accidents" that weren't really accidents as much as simply not seeing danger to avoid it, I think I naturally resort to strategies that reveal the danger to me "in other words". Everybody knows everything in other words. Okay, maybe some people don't.

I got curious about the people who operate this website because they keep mentioning members, contributing guest writers, etc, who are also familiar naymes on the Edge website.

http://www.edge.org/

Reading what this group of people appear to say about themselves has a tendency to cause me to believe they think they are actually evolved to another species beyond homo sapiens. The problem with me about that is they appear to get older just like me. Whatever they might have accomplished with their theoretical mind, they haven't achieved immortality, and that's the ring-pass-me-not for true evolution.

These steroids have allowed me to use my fingers somewhat adroitly again for a while. The deep pain is still there. Particularly around my forearms and shoulders. Especially when I suddenly reach for something. WHOA!

When I played the scales last night my fingers seemed to fly over the keyboard. Okay, fly over the keyboard like a clumsy third-grader, but compare with how deliberately I had to move in the last week to get less soaring results, they flew.

No matter how much better my hands, wrists, and fingers felt after taking these miracle drugs I've still only been attempting to teach myself to play the major and minor scales for a month or two. It's not like arthritis and carpel tunnel syndrome have interrupted a lifelong career as a concert pianist or even a hack playing for drinks at the corner bar.

Rick, a fellow traveler who lives out in San Francisco instead of Boston now, questioned what exactly is it that I'm attempting to learn by what I'm doing now. He stopped writing soon after that. He described how when he was in his formative years (mid-thirties now) he was forced to learn to play all the scales and arpeggios so well that his teachers could place a dime on the back of each hand, and if it fell off during the time he was playing these exercises, he had to start over again until he got it right. When I wrote back and told him that i envied him for that, he hasn't written again. I don't think I got it. Why am I always the last to gnow?

Since then, I've questioned myself why I'm so driven to learn to play these scales, and eventually, the arpeggios too. In fact, it's become somewhat of an obsession. I stopped all my other musical exercises I had taken up. Maybe that's why the arthritis has flared up again. It's my body demanding that I stop torturing it to make up for the sloth I exhibited in the past.
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Yesterday [May. 13th, 2008|09:45 am]
7 Jesus said, "Lucky is the lion that the human will eat, so that the lion becomes human. And foul is the human that the lion will eat, and the lion still will become human."

http://users.misericordia.edu//davies/thomas/Trans.htm

One of the most interesting e-mail discussion groups I've subscribed and participated in is centered about a specific writing in a group of old writings found buried in a large earthen container in Egypt that was supposedly buried to hide them from the Papists over 2000 years ago. The #7 saying written in this writing opens my entry today because I woke up early this morning thinking about a situation similar to what this saying is about.

It's my considered opinion that what I drempt of was what this saying about lions is about. It's not the truth. I don't know what the truth is nor rightly care. So, if you're reading this journal in hope of discovering the truth here, whatever you take with you when you move on is your own conclusion, and you're welcome to it.

I studied astrology in a deliberate way for over twenty years. I had a mentor of sorts when I first started out. She was there for me in a casual way at first because our real connection was that she was the goto person if you wanted me to read your Tarot cards. Other than my brief discussions with her I pretty much taught myself how to make charts on my own from buying and reading the books I read.

If I'm interested in a subject or topic of my own curiosity, then I'm pretty much of a self-starter. Nobody has to push me to study. Either my curiosity leads me to it or I'm gonna eventually let what the other recommends for me to study go the way of all earthly thangs. "Dust into dust... ", et cetera.

The Sign Leo never meant anything special to me. In my natal chart it wasn't emphasized. That means there were not any of the planets inhabiting that Sign nor were there any important points to be especially considered. Leo is one of the four fixed signs of astrology, and is probably most famous historically in that regard. Particularly in the Jesus stories repeated in what the Papists call the New Testament.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_Horsemen_of_the_Apocalypse

In the last Book of Revelations Leo is represented as one of the four creatures surrounding the throne of God, written as the calf, the lion, the eagle, and the angel. All this could lead one to think of Leo as a very powerful force along with the other power/fixed signs of the Zodiac. Since the main components of my natal chart concern themselves with two of the other horsemen, Taurus (the calf/bull) and Scorpio (the scorpion/eagle), I paid a lot of attention to these power Signs.

The Gospel of Thomas e-mail discussion group has been around for many years. I don't know how many. The old man who created, and therefore owned it, is considered to be dead. The moderators he used still run the group. I've participated on and off for maybe five years.

The group responds to one of the 114 sayings in the Gospel at a time. One of the moderators sends all the group members an e-mail with six different translations of the same saying by different scholars, and asked for comment. The discussion theoretically ensues about the "saying of the week", but in actuality goes all over the place according to the current interests.

Recently, a student at Virginia Tech went on a rampage and murdered over thirty other random students. What he did was all over the media for weeks. It was during this period that the introductory saying was the "saying of the week" for the group, and one of the members said the mass murderer at Virginia Tech was the perfect example of what #7 actually meant. The reason he did what he did was that the lion ate him and became man. That was the first time I realized what the saying meant.

I've been eaten by the lion a few times that didn't result in anybody getting murdered, but every other factor was in place except for the dead bodies. I killed my second marriage by allowing myself to be consumed by the lion. I almost completely lost my temper and hit my wife with my fist. She didn't die or even miss work the next day.

She went to work with a couple of shiners to show my hometown people what an asshole I am is, and the marriage fell apart, and I can't be friends with anybody who knew us as a couple, including the children we had together, so I might as well have murdered her because the result is about the same as if I had. If I had not studied astrology for all those years I might not have understood this ancient principle of cognition.

I understand this arthritis problem I'm having currently through astrology. It has to do with the planets Mars and Saturn inhabiting each other's rulership and bones. My hands, wrists, and shoulders are the main points of how this reaction is attacking my body. The steroids I took has helped, but I know from how I'm feeling presently that this is merely a temporary solution. It will return, and I'll be reduced to begging for relief.

There is not a question in my mind that I'll beg anybody or anything I even suspect will help relief my aching joints. I got no pride when it comes to pain. If it hurts, I cry like a baby. I've never seen where it's done me much good to suffer in silence. The people around me are altogether willing to ignore my problems if I do. Screw that!
At some point, somebody will get sick of my whining and knock me in the head to put me outta my misery, because I'm too cowardly to do it myself while I'm still able.
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Becoming Less Memorable [May. 12th, 2008|04:52 pm]
It was a strange morning and I didn't get much done. My hands are feeling much better due to the steroids, but I've got a lotta energy and having it caught me off guard. I bought that converter box to get digital TV reception and I'm getting such lousy reception just the changes in the weather screw it up. This reminds me of all the problems I have with trying to get wireless reception from my brother's house 300 feet (91.44 M) away. It doesn't take much to lose the signal. Just like the Bluetooth keyboard before Apple fixed it.

So, I'm trying to spilt the antenna signal so I can get digital through the converter box, and the old analog signal straight-wired until the analog signals go away next year. The poor get poorer. This is not my area of expertise. I have to work at it until I get stumped, then stop for a while until I intuit another idea to work at that usually fails.

So, as an aside, I started cleaning up in my old bedroom some more. I'm putting in some more sub-flooring, but i have to move a bunch of stuff out of the way to get each 4 X 8 ' sheet of flooring in. The lumber is stored downstairs, and I have to pull it upstairs with my bad hands. That was no fun, but I'm only gonna move one piece today.

If I can get it situated it will show me how I have to lay out the other pieces of sub-flooring. That means I will be able to nail a couple of pieces down, and when I move stuff back on to the nailed down pieces I won't have to move the stuff so much any more. At some point I'll be able to move my bed back into that room, put up some shelving, and get most of the stuff piled on the floor up outta the way.

I'm eager to get my upstairs rooms straightened out. I haven't acted too eager, but mentally I wanna get back to where i can walk out on to my upstairs deck and look around just for a change of scenery. I'm up off the ground and feel safer. If the boogie man were to come after me, he'd have to climb the stairs and I'd at least see him coming.

There is something very arboreal about hanging out on that upper deck. Something deeply instinctual. It's not that I'm actually any safer up there than anywhere else if a homo sapien decided to stealthily attack me. It's not like orangoutangs don't have predators that outsmart them. I just like pretending I'm back in the old days when I lived in trees for many, many life times.

I don't know what people do who haven't had their remembering vision. Since there was a time I hadn't had mine, I have to assume that some people have and some people haven't had remembering visions. It's difficult to imagine someone having a remembering vision and forgetting about it, but I have had people tell me that after hearing my story they suddenly remembered what I was talking about in their own lives.

The first thing I did after it happened was to run to a place where i could get pencil and paper to write it down before I forgot it happened. I think I might have looked like that piano player that was all wigged out and flirting with ecstasy. I didn't care what anybody thought until i captured what happened with words. I went to an all night restaurant, begged a pencil from a waitress, and started writing what i remembered about what i experienced on napkins. I wrote furiously for about half an hour or so, and then stopped. What I experienced wasn't a dream. I realized it wasn't going away, and threw all the napkins away.

It's true. I never have "forgotten". It's not possible for me to remember it in consciousness all at once. I remember when something seemingly mundane event reminds me. I once posed a question to myself about how homo sapiens got all those brain receptors for all those different plants and stuff in their brain, and almost immediately i remembered being a grazing animal and eating ground plants with all sort of spores all over them. I could smell them. I knew the effect they would have on me if I ate them.

I remembered being a crow myself when I saw one playing with the wind currents down in Big Ben National Park. That's where i learned i could be-co-me with what amounted to one of my grandchildren. It was easy to leave my human body laying beside my second wife and become one with the crow and remember what it was like to soar with an updraft until I was just a speck from the ground.

Granted, i don't know how to show other people how to be-co-me. They have to realize there is only One me by themselves, and let themselves be enveloped within that One-ness. Once that happens they don't need a mentor. They remember. They re-me. They get a do-over. Temporarily. Long enow to gnow. To find the glow. To say hello to what once was possible for them then, and ken the manner by which what they are now are merely those ancient possibilities extended extemporaneously into the specious present.
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(no subject) [May. 11th, 2008|11:30 am]
It came down to searching through my dead mother's old prescriptions and coming up with some steroids to help my arthritis. They were old pills, but they seemed to help a lot. The severity of the pain has eased off. It's not gone, but the sharp edge is only nicking my throat a little each time it swings both ways.

I'm beginning to see where this piano thing could go. Rainey brought his guitar over last night and we played together for a while. We were able to find a meeting place by agreeing on the same chords and playing the twelve bar blues structure. l need to play the bass line over and over again to get it down pat, and he seemed to need a bass line to play against. We both needed some sort of mutual framework to know where to go next, so we both had a good time playing the stuff we both enjoyed without taking away from the other.

I got a chance to play a "walking" bass line that came to me last week after only sixty odd years of listening and playing tuba in the high school band. I knew it sounded about like the stuff I've heard before, but I wasn't sure it had the same number of measures as the original, before I "walked" it. When the counting was all done, it was right on the money. It's little incidents like this that allow me to take chances with more confidence. I only appear to be daring. With every chance I take there's a lotta homework in the background. I hate for people to hear me practice.

I got the impression from just the short amount of time we spent playing last night that eventually, Rainey or some other musician I play with (just in case this fool thinks he can learn to be-co-me without me), will be able to show me what they want me to play, in order to set them up to break out with they own stuff. I work with the idea that many people haven't gotten the cooperation they needed to play what they personally calculate and demand from the other, in order to lay the law down. I'm starting to think that my efforts to learn the major and minor scales has been done exclusively to accommodate the other, more so than for-myself. It's a designated energy of play in which I can kowtow to the other exclusively, slovenly, adoringly, and do what they need done, in order for them to see if what they've been dreaming of will work out right in mixed company.

I'm thinking this is more universal than me and Rainey and Ben. They give me what I need to be myself, how can I not acknowledge my debt by performing a chore I'm perfectly aware nobody else will. Most people don't have the understanding it takes to put they own shit on the back-burner. It's embarrassing that it's taken me so long, and that my ability to let people use me in this way without incurring debt is threatened by physical problems like arthritis and carpal tunnel.

It's not been an easy trick for me to learn. How can I deliberately betray the very principles I have been taught to hold in the highest regard, merely to allow some obsequious bystander to perform the same thoughtless act in the wink of an eye without the slightest concern? Is this the example I need to witness in order to take myself down a notch or two until the dealings done? I meet people all the time who can ignore every passion I've ever obsessed about. Why am I always the last to know/no?

Rainey has been telling me during our infrequent visits over the last little while that he's been playing this song he likes that's in a video on youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZAZqSo2XlM

I brought it up last night and realized that he's told me about this before. He even had me search for this video before. I bookmarked it to my Favorites at my youtube account, but I hadn't realized that this tune/video was the same tune he had been talking about "getting down" with for some time now. He memorized it from playing along with the sea folk album. What an idiot I am is. It missed his point completely.

So, when the video was playing, he started playing on his guitar. He's always noodling around on his guitar. It took a while for me to realize he was playing along with the bass line on the video. So, I asked, "Duh... er.. ah... Damn... Rainey! You're playing the bass line that's on the video!"

"Yeah, the whole song is wrapped around the bass line. If you learn the bass line you've learned the whole song. It's in E, then A, and then B."

"Sevenths?

"Yeah, yeah... you can use sevenths...."

"Rainey will be able to show me what he wants me to play to set him up to break out with some stuff he hasn't gotten the cooperation he's needed to play what he thinks will lay the law down."

We all wanna know the right way to lay down the law, and have it work right the first time. but not everybody's daddy was a lawyer. Patience is required especially if all one can do is cut bait. The way that I was taught to "lay down the law" got criminalized in the early sixties and fishing instead became practically impossible.

My pappy went to extremes to pass on the old ways to me in my formative years. When I arrived at pubescence and rebelled against the established order in order to establish my own identity as a man, the entire political system of the United States decided they'd had about as much as they could stand of it too, and stood by my side to crush the old system my father thought was the cat's meow.

How could my poor old father have survived this I don't know. I was formidable enough of a challenge for my father's authority. I didn't need the government's help to make him feel like a total asshole for listening to his old father and respecting the old ways.

The old ways were not that old either. Most of the societal stuff I was taught about the culture I was raised in were only enforceable before women's suffrage laws took effect. The North was unable to enforce the terms of surrender after Reconstruction, and I was taught the loser's laws still prevailed. Just what the hell was I supposed to do? I was taught to fly in the face of the publicly acknowledged law of the larger political state, because it wasn't "our" unwritten law.

If I were to follow my people's ways, I would have to own my wives and children as if they were chattel. Giving women the vote before I was even born took the teeth outta any respect I "oughta" had for the old ways, and yet, because I was raised by demons dancing around this fiery cauldron, in my moments of doubt, I reached for those ways as if in my desperation they might provide solace, and they provoked heart-break instead.

I have a woman friend with a huge heart who spent years researching and assembling her entire genealogical heritage on both sides to leave as a heirloom for her adopted children. She has a Master's degree in Education and a room full of pulp fiction romance novel's she reads herself to sleep with every night. There is a secret grinning idiot in all of us that is gonna find a way. You can bet your life on it.

I got only the little bit of land my father gave me to build a house on, and never really wanted that. I should have. I didn't have the foresight. I couldn't see the future. I felt stupid and spent my life attempting to "see the future" and only realized after it was too late, that I had to create the future by learning that I'd always done created my own future, and this is it. What a drag, man. I "see" people creating their own future without their knowing that's what they're doing all the time. It's the story of Everyman.

The piano player in that music video has a recognizable expression on his face. He's deliberately being a blooming idiot just because he can. He ain't got no couth. He got no nevermind. Just look at him. He acts exactly like he don't give a shit what you think about the way he looks when he's in the groove he created for himself to crawl inside of. No blame.

Is there a deep craving inside each of us to be-co-me with whatever need be to feel what we only dream is possible? How much of our life gets wasted learning how to look a certain way to get a predictable result? Why do poor people dress up to look rich to approach God to learn modesty? Why do college professors wear buttoned up stiff collars with ties while they attempt to teach their paying students how to remove the yoke of ignorance from around their necks.
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The Sun, The Moon, And The Rising Sign [May. 10th, 2008|09:55 am]
It amuses me that people in general seem to find the word "masturbation" unsettling. I can talk and write about murder, rape, and any other sort of mayhem and it causes less concern with people than the topic of masturbation. About the only comment I've had from my daughter about the content of my blog was about masturbation. She apparently doesn't like the idea that her friends might think her father would masturbate. That makes me wonder how her own children would fare if they were curious and asked her about it. I can hear her now telling them about how it would make them blind or crazy or both.

A friend the other night asked me " Where's this leading to?" when i asked this same question in real-time conversation. We've talked about every subject two people could talk about, but the idea of talking about masturbation is more repulsive to him than serial killers or genocide. I got the distinct impression that he thought I talked about masturbation as a come-on to having homosexual sex.

No, I would be much more direct than that. I haven't made a pass at anybody to have sex for any reason for years and years. I don't need to make a pass at myself to have permission to masturbate. As a matter of fact I have to force myself to think about doing it. Being so detached from any subject allows me to explore that subject to it's limits. I have definitely explored sex to my limits, but not music.

The azalea blossoms are about gone for the spring. There is a few stragglers on the multicolored bushes, but the red ones have been gone for over a week now. I guess the only concern I have for my plants now is to wait and see if I get any fruit from them this year. When the old fig tree sprouted leaves this year I was a little surprised to see some early fruit appear, but now they're all gone. Reading about how some stem cells can become anything they need to be, it made me wonder if that's what happened. They started out to be fruit, and then changed themselves into leaves or new branches. f

I went to the cafe to eat yesterday. A woman friend of my approached the booth where I sat to ask why she hasn't seen me lately. I told her about how between the gas prices and the food prices there at the cafe have risen I just haven't been able to afford it, so she tried to cheer me up by telling me about the new car she bought. I asked her if her boy friend had bought it for her, but he hadn't. He bought a new car the next day just to keep up with her. I was surprised when she told me that she had read in my blog about my troubles with arthritis. I didn't think she read my blog any more.

I'm pretty good with words. I oughta be. I've spent my life learning how they can be used to manipulate people's feelings. People come to me all the time to get their feeling manipulated. They get stuck in one mode or the other and don't know what to do to change with the changes. One of the ways I use words to change people's feeling is to indirectly attack their ennui with shame. No. Not my shame. I'm the sha-man, not the sha-me itself.

The reason people don't like to converse directly about masturbation is that they're ashamed they do it. I can talk about masturbation for hours on end without ever using the word itself. I don't care what has anybody stuck for whatever reason, they can't hang with it when I start pushing them around with their own shame. Then, I have to beg them to stick around long enow to plow the new ground.

If you've ever questioned whether you really understood what a shaman is, then all you have to do to reach clarification is to take the word apart with hyphens. You be looking for the root in order to stroke it for what it worth to conjure it into Being. Well, it is better in the belly of a whore than to spill it on the ground... right? Things can't maintain themselves as a separate reality without establishing they own ground of being. No being? Then, nothingness.

I've written a lot about visualization. If I haven't, then I should have. Our ability to do that is what makes homo sapiens the ruler of the roost for the "time being." Visualization is the tool homo sapiens use to create their own separate reality. Presently, I attempt to use visualization to create an 88-key grand piano keyboard in my psyche to use as an input device to a world beyond words.

The fact that I created a typewriter keyboard in my psyche to create a world with words only has residual benefits to my current pursuit. Both keyboard pursuits are threatened by the problems I'm having with carpal tunnel and arthritis. I may have arranged the whole thing. My body may be legitimately telling me to stop, and to keep my stopping still.

It's very difficult for me to realize how stubborn I am, have been, and inevitably will be. I can't perceive myself that way except through my projection of myself on to the other. I really don't like doing that a lot. I'd rather pretend I'm looking deep inside for the real me. Nobody knows. I'll do what I like.

That's one of the problems my extreme stubbornness creates. I'm even more stubborn because nobody knows. Yet..., and yet again... everybody knows... and that makes us all dishonest, and gutless wonders.

I got an excuse. I'm the only person in the universe who understands the excuse I use to be stubborn. My natal astrology chart reveals that I was born a double-Taurus, both Sun and Moon. The waxing crescent was barely visible at the moment I drew my first breath. It was sprinkling rain. The blessings of heaven were compromised in that moment by the occupation of the eastern horizon in the Sign Scorpio.

The three main components in astrology are considered to be the Signs currently habituated by the Sun, the Moon, and the eastern horizon. In my natal chart they all occupy fixed Signs. Power signs. Two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The other two Signs that make up that foursome are only emphasized in my natal chart by their in-sign-if-i-can-ce.

#106 Rumba

Those other two signs are Leo and Aquarius. I state that they are insignificant in my natal because they're both unoccupied. Period. In my chart there is nothing there in those two Signs, and none of the air Signs in my natal are occupied by any planets or significant points of interest.

I'm definitely not an airhead. It doesn't matter. I got enough sense to bring in consultants. I'm surrounded by airheads. All of them wanna share, and if they don't, I just take what I need anyway. Why would I not? They're not labeled airheads for naught. That's the precise reason nobody knows. We're all airheads in some form of being.

One can't be too particular about whatever kind of being they can come up with. Being is hard to come by. It ain't something one should spend a lotta time culling through to pick out the cream of the crop. Grab what you can while the grabbing is good. I've watched fairly normal looking people get jiggy trying to catch worthless, plastic-bead-necklaces tossed from a float decorated by a DMT-crazed designer during Mardi Gras.

I've been told that a person has to grab for any sort of being they can compete for and be glad they got what they did. Plastic-bead-necklaces, particularly the ones that are liberally decorated with sparkling sequins, are mo' bettah than nothingness. But, you gotta be careful. Lotsa people like gewgaws that be willing to wring yo' neck to git 'em.

Being is created through a specific, self-generated visualization technique that's deliberately done without inspiration or just cause.
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