A Long Overdue Sayonara?

Greetings, Any and All Who Are Left.

Recently, I was speaking with an acquaintance who mentioned that she had "googled" me and stumbled upon "a weird website that had your name on it and showed some stuff you've been reading. Is that you?" she asked. I played dumb (often easy for me ;) but it did give me a moment of pause because I was made aware of how far removed I've become from this creature. Call it writers' block or lack of inspiration or even a greater need for privacy, all of which I think I have already attempted to convey in the few last sporadic posts.

It was really interesting for me to go through the process of starting this thing up in very high-minded fashion and watch myself go through various machinations to establish a public voice that ended up saying things that were far from my original intention, i.e. my originally stated intention. And even now I am being wishy washy because I began this wanting only to say thanks and goodbye, while issuing an invitation to view my new baby monster, Medicine: A Soul Journey Home, but I see I'm not quite ready to give up the ghost.

Well, perhaps there will be new things here from time to time but no more promises of prolific regularity. Nor do I believe that Medicine will necessarily hold the same interest for the same people. In fact, unlike Sleepwalkers' Glory, Medicine is meant to be a quiet little spot to which I can retreat and that hopefully won't get ahead of me like this one did.

I think the real roadblock here came for me when my very good friend Brandon died earlier this year, quite unexpectedly. Already my energies in this direction had waned, but I remember that I felt this great, great need to write something about him and to write for him and even for his family. But I couldn't do it, and that kind of stunned me. Even now I feel sort of bad about it. Believe me Brando, I have many words for and about you. But I guess that was the beginning of this private thing and of me finding that there are actually some things I have to keep to myself.

I come from a background in which family business is family business. Our secrets are our own. While there's something to be said for not airing one's dirty laundry in public, as I got older, I became stiffled by that because I associated keeping quiet with feeling shame, and I didn't feel there was anything about which I would ever need to be ashamed. I'm not a total exhibitionist, but I do believe there is some power in being able to state your truth and not really give a damn who is listening.

I even had a friend comment that I should watch the things I say in this forum in case I ever decide to run for office. First of all, don't worry: I will never venture to be your ruler. Second, that was just sad to me because that's very close to the heart of what is wrong with politics in this country. We long ago ceased to select from falliable humans with all their foibles, now choosing to vote for shiny machines with broken parts. If I were ever to run for office, I could only run by admiting the whole of who I am so that in representing you, you, or you, all would know who I am. And that, my friends, is nothing but sheer idealist liberal gibberish at it's best. What day and age am I living in, right?

Then I started recounting some of my more or less charming escapades, and while that was enormous fun, even that came back to bite me on the ass. I went out on a date with a woman about whom I knew little more than her name, but she had also "googled me,"--in search engine fashion, not as a euphemism--and knew more about my dating forays than I found was probably ideal, especially because there's no way to take back any sort of poetic or literary license once it's been used.

And then my 9-to-5 life, which I'd voluntarily changed up, became severely detrimental to my physical and emotional well being ... and then Brandon passed away, and I found I had nothing left with which to defend the notion of sleepwalking. The glory was gone.

So anyway, I think I've said all this before, a few months ago and then a few months before that. I don't know how to end it. Breaking up is so very hard to do. I so much perfer leaving the door open rather than securing it firmly shut. But I do, as I said, invite you, to my new little blogspot. No promises, but I think it shall be nice.

Adieu. For now. And thanks for all of it.

-M

Midnight Confessions

have you ever felt like you're going to crack but you know you won't? it's all so tedious sometimes. i start to get worked up and then i remember that ultimately it doesn't really matter. but lately, i've been confused about that because i used to think things don't matter in the long run because you die and then it's over. but lately i've been coming around to the belief that this is only part of our existence, like an extension of our real selves. if that's the case, and we're really here to experience some kind of growth that wouldn't otherwise occur in the "main" part of ourselves, then everything does matter. in fact it matters more than if you think this is just an isolated instance of consciousness. isn't that a bitch.

really though, i don't know what i'm talking about. i'm tired, it's late, i feel crushed by the weight of this stupid work shit. but if that wasn't the crush it'd be something else. but at the same time i'm very happy. i've got this nice thing going w/ this girl, spring is here, i've been financially stable for a while now (although this current crisis is a real threat), and my spirituality has been taking off exponentially. but the dichtomy between the happiness and the crush is exactly what has thrown me into the knowingness that this consciousness, this self that is writing this, is, in some ways less real than my dream selves and even less so than the selves of which this self is unaware.

this mind can barely grasp these concepts without also holding steadfastly to a belief in gravity. gravity must exist because if it stops ... well, i just can't picture it.

The Gift of Gab, or Attack of the Main Yak

yak 1. congnac. as in the brandy. 2. cocaine. 3. to eject the stomach contents in a forcible manner. 4. a jewish fellow from a rich white community who gets no respect. 5. One's girlfriend or wife. Usually used as a casual term of affection 6. short for Yakuza (Japanese organized crime). 7. To talk most indefinitely. 8. The designation of plane types for the Yakovlev company, a Russian plane designer. 9. a long-haired humped domestic bovine found in Tibet and throughout the Himalayan region of south central Asia.

I rolled the dice, and it came up seven. So, why haven’t I addressed you, my audience of one, for oh-so-long? Yes, I’m talking to you: why oh ewe.

Just kidding, I’m not talking to anyone in particular—and that’s why I haven’t said anything worthwhile in such a long awhile. It got a bit weird. Writing and posting started to feel like exhibitionism, which in a sense, it is.

But that’s of no consequence now because even if I’d wanted to address you—and I did—I haven’t had the time. Can you believe it? It’s true.

Mpho at the beginning of 2006 is quite a different animal than the Mpho who, last year, began applying herself to bringing forth the glory of the sleepwalk. That Mpho had an epiphany of sorts (recall the magic circle; see "The Abracadabra of Silence" and "La Dolce Vita") in Fall of 2005. And now that Mpho has become this Mpho, who is only at the beginning.

Nah, that’s all bullshit. I stopped writing because it all became too personal, and I started to feel too exposed, and the exposure made me feel beyond buck naked, and I started not to like it. But now I’m ready to try again, although the exhibitionist in me is keeping her hood and sunglasses on. I’ll try again because I believe firmly, truly, deeply that there is nothing to hide. The hiding is only force of habit. Once that fear is overcome next comes transcendence. That’s a lot less risky than me packing a suitcase, leaving my tennies at the end of my bed and taking an overdose of bennies to await the little green mennies, isn’t it?

So where should I start? Don’t say at the beginning because every moment is a beginning and being so, every moment was an end. Thus, to be fair and do this right, I must start in the middle.

For those on patrol of my lovelife, I met a girl. One particularly auspicious weekend, I met a few girls actually … but I’ve honed in on one, letting the others fall by the wayside. Though probably if you asked them, they’re the ones who’ve bypassed me like drunken cardiac surgeons. This girl is not without her complications—what woman isn’t. But she’s the real deal. Still only time will tell. What I mean by that is when we look into eachother's eyes, it’s not a war of wills or will nots. It’s good. We’re just getting to know each other so no predictions can be made. I won’t even say, “if I were a bettin’ person….” All I’ll say is that what I know of her is pretty real, and pretty great, and pretty hot, and pretty exciting, and pretty caring, and pretty tender, and pretty diamond in the rough, and pretty in black, and pretty special—and I don’t, for once, mean like special ed. Perhaps more on all that later, perhaps not.

Or there’s my 9 to 5, which is currently an 8 to 4:45 or something like that. When last I wrote I was still living in a glass cubicle office with a bunch of aristocrats er I mean executive recruiters. It had its moments. It had its ups and downs. I was terribly excited by the fact that despite being in a fish bowl, I had a door. But then one day I was just kind of done. Like the three wise men, I saw a star and followed it. Just like the wise men, I got duped a little bit. They got duped ‘cause look at what the most visible Christians have done to the legacy of Christ. I got duped because despite all the lessons I’ve learned in the past several many years, I crossed my intuition. The star turned out to be a corporate logo not a celestial symbol, let alone a spiritual beacon, and now I’m re-living corporate hell in conglomerate style, complete with brimstone and a badge that must be (s)worn (at) at all times. But it’s okay. I’m learning from it and am making plans to overcome that part of my karma by finally learning the lesson. Probably more on that later. Probably.

More important than wealth is health, and mine is not bad per se but there has been an outstanding issue that may come to a head sooner rather than later. But as with the previous two big sectors in my life, there are challenges that if handled well, will set some long term positive change in motion. And I binge on health fanaticism, which might come in handy. It's the pendulum binging on unhealthiness that's the thing to keep an eye on. I think definitely more on this. We’ll see.

Next up in wealth, is the number and kind of a woman’s friends. I lost a good friend recently. All of 35, and his business on this plane of existence has been concluded. I'm debating, but probably there will be something about him here soon. For the friends still among us, there've been some seismic shifts in alliances and probably there will be aftershocks. Might decide to go there here. Or maybe not.

I’m not trying to be a kok (possibly more on that spelling later) tease; as I toss out the kindling, I want to see what catches a spark and what doesn’t. I want also to remind myself that I am not as bereft of writing material as I have been feeling. There is my spiritual growth to talk about, and there are always current events or the fact that I’m so out of the what's-going-on-in-the-world loop that it’s pitiable. I’d like to tell you why I’m so uninformed, and why I do think it’s pitiable. I take full responsibility on that one.

I’d like to give you status reports on all the projects I’m working on. I’d like to share my travel plans to see my dad for the first time since my mom passed. I’d like to tell you in depth why I find The Dears so dear, and why I’ve been collecting rain water, and what it felt like to take my bike for a spin after a long-overdue tune up, and what it was like to wind up at the ocean after much much too long an absence from it. I’d like to tell you how I wound up with fuzzy orange socks and what happens when you _________, and where ___________ and when the next astrological omen is due.

I left the blanks in for a reason, just to show that I have been bereft of words, not things to say. It’s true. I’m not gonna hide it. For some reason, in the past couple months every time that I’ve sat down to tell you something, I’ve encountered gaps. It’s been frustrating, ‘cause it’s not like I’ve nothing to say. Even when I was in the magic circle I had something to say. But these days, I start writing and then bam there’s a hole. I suppose it’s natural and nothing about which to be much concerned, but I guess it’s made me feel like I’m not really up to the task of keeping you informed or of spilling my guts, the former of which, let’s face it, is really more about me than it is about you. Am I an egomaniac or a plain maniac? Maybe I’ll work that out for you here too.

Thanks for listening, again.

What's So Dear about The Office

"Life is just a series of peaks and troughs. And you don't know whether you're in a trough until you're climbing out or on a peak until you're coming down, and that's it, you know. You never know what's 'round the corner, but it's all good.... If you want the rainbow, you've got to get up with the rain. Do you know which "philosopher" said that? Dolly Parton. And people say she's just a big pair of tits."
—David Brent, Wernham Hogg Regional Manager

The Perverse Ganglia of Human Complication

Let me be my own fool
of my own making, the sum of it
is equivocal

—Robert Creeley
“A Counterpoint”

“Today, everything in the landscape seemed in an act of relation, reflected in and reflecting. Shadows of trees dappled the water; the river, refracting sun, played on the tree trunks. The children were part of the pattern too, their eyes were on each other. And what, then, of me? Would there ever be a way to balance [us]?”

—Hettie Jones
How I Became Hettie Jones

Robert Creeley died this year. I didn’t know until just now, eight months later. He wasn’t a friend of mine or anything like that, but it strikes me nonetheless because I’m writing a play in which one of the characters is always mentioning well known people who’ve died earlier in the year, unbeknownst to her. She won’t be mentioning Creeley, but it would be just like her to do so.

Let me be my own fool, a counterpoint, if you will, to Sinatra’s “I did it my way.” Just what the hell any of us are doing is the question.

Earlier this year—August, I guess—I experienced the magic circle, certainly not the first time I’d ever done so, but it was the first time that I attempted to deconstruct the experience whilst in the midst of it, with the explicit purpose of creating a sort of standard operating procedure for future reference. Actually the singular procedure is as follows: leave it alone; or go with the flow; or ride, Sally, ride. They all equivicate.

There is no magic circle for me today, which is somewhat of a positive fortune, I think. No need to repeat that so soon. But there is another kind of geometry at work, and another kind of occult-ish phenomena. Refraction? Refarction? Go ahead, make words up.

Case in point: yesterday I went out on what would prove to be the last date of a short-lived liaison about which I myself was feeling ambivalent but not necessarily so ambivalent as to have closed the door on the situation that very day, particularly as just days earlier I had worked assiduously to extricate myself from a foot-in-mouth situation that threatened the very outcome that I had hoped to avoid—at least until I was certain of my own desired outcome. I was beaten to the punch, not in that I wasn’t the first to deliver the news (though I wasn’t), but in that I wasn’t the first to reach the foregone conclusion (which bums me out a little bit but only in an ego sense: if someone says to you “I’m not interested in you in that way” you wanna be able to say “well, I wasn’t interested in you in that way before you weren’t interested in me in that way” and not have it sound like the sour grapes that it is even if it isn’t. But I blew that and could only cover by offering a refreshment whilst hoping that she would decline because I didn’t really have anything in the house). Does it matter? Not really. That’s the nature of ambivalence after all. But in the awkward closing moments before she walked out the door, she asked, “so what are you gonna do tonight?” I hadn’t thought, let alone felt, that far in advance, having had it all backwards. (See Tsvetayeva: “It’s precisely for feeling that one needs time, and not for thought.”)

Rewind: Just as I was leaving the house for the date, I heard someone call out “Hey!,” and lo and behold, it was a woman I sort of know from around the way. She was getting into her car, and apparently was directing her shout out to another woman who took one vicious look at me and then drove off, kicking up a little dust. "Get in," she said as I sauntered over. She asked where I was headed, and I told her BART. She said she'd drive me, though she seemed peeved. "What's up?" I asked. Her reply: "I just got in a fight with my ex-girlfriend. She thinks I have a thing for you." Have you ever felt steel jaws clamping shut with the whole of you trapped between the metal plates? I had no choice but to chuckle. "Oh, great," I said. "What perfect timing." She turned and glowered at me. But really, how messed up was that to walk into the midst of someone else's angsty moment, completely unaware that you're the false heart of it, and then jump in the car for a ride to your own ill-fated moment?

These are my neighbors for fuck's sake. That minor exchange was the longest conversation we've ever had, and that's the whole of it. It didn't even occur to me to ask if she even does have a thing for me. Who cares? The truth becomes relative in those moments. Had I stuck by the notion that hay is for horses, I might not have even turned in her direction. I would have proceded along to BART on foot. Even if I am a suspected interloper, I could have remained in the dark about it. Filled with an unwittingly blissful ignorance, I might have gotten to the Ferry Building late instead of early. And if I'd have arrived a little late, I wouldn't have been waiting inside the building instead of outside as we'd agreed, and maybe we wouldn't have started off on ever so slightly a wrong foot, although there was nothing else in the course of the day spent together that foretold of the way the day would end. Except that I had my reservations.

Fast-forward: She leaves. I get a call from A., a lovely man who dangles music before me, which I accept, hook, line and sink her. We end up at a very happening, newish little spot in the Tenderloin called El 222 Club, which immediately becomes a placeholder for my unloved, wounded ego. I fall so in love w/ El 222 that I am jealous that it’s not in my neighborhood because it would easily become my home away from home… except that if it were in my neighborhood, it would immediately become overrun with urban hipsters, the lack of thereof being a large part of its appeal.

The hipster factor, at least last night, was like college hipster as opposed to urban hipster. College hipsters bear a subdued sort of intellect that has less to do with age and maturity—they’re actually quite mature, wearing it on their period piece, patch-covered elbows as they do—and more to do with the fact that they’re nerds who know how to live it up. Urban hipsters pander more to whatever movie scene they think they’re reading for. Anyway, I felt right at home in my past… could easily have been an undergrad evening spent at my grad school haven of choice, Ann Arbor’s sadly defunct Del Rio. And that was the beauty of it for me: I could have been in Michigan. For that matter, it could have been Portland. College hipsters transcend place like that. Urban hipsters, like the ones that overrun the Mission every weekend, are definitely a product of place. Poised side by side, New York hipsters have a look quite distinct from LA hipsters, and there’s likely no mistaking Chicago hipsters for San Franciscans.

Anyway, it was a good night. My friend’s roommate is part of a brother-sister act. Calling themselves The Culprits, they have been described as “accomplices in the dark art of black market beats and old timey torch songs.” Madeline, the sister, is a red-haired chanteuse who was clad that evening in a long black dress that upheld her classy jazz singer demeanor. Counter to that, brother Nick spends most of his time bobbing and bouncing like a sprung spring whilst manning the iBook that spits out their self-de-re-constructed beats—say for example, a lo-fi Duke Ellington breakdown that melded with this listener's own beating heart in a manner that whispered Lamb—which is a good thing in my book. When he sings, Nick’s voice reminds me of Arto Lindsay; when he moves, he reminds me of Danny Elfman's words "oingo boingo."

The preceding act Beatheart vs. Warmen Fussi was also ear-catching, with their “live hardware-based ambient tek-house cubase abuse.” I was particularly plussed by the moments that bespoke the influence of old school Detroit Techno. Yes, sonically and spatially it was a night that made me feel right at home in my metaphysical homelessness… except I couldn’t shake the feeling that my friend wanted to be more than friends….

Rewind: Aside from the fact that I’d been scratched off of one dance card only hours earlier, the immediate irony was that such attention would have been welcome oh about a year and a half ago, when I’d had a little crush of my own that seemed totally unconcerned that this friend is a guy. ‘Cause you know I don’t do that anymore. Eh, you snooze, you lose. Maybe that explains things: I slept ‘til 2:30pm on Thanksgiving Day.

Now: I can’t wait to go to Osento in a few hours and sweat away the sins of my foolish ganglia. Waiting to be released in the salt of my pores is a week’s worth of misnomers, misfires, misanthropies, and personal missile crises. I can give you an example of each. I spent my birthday and Thanksgiving with my ex-girlfriend (having turned down other gracious offers to have me) who has so thoroughly excised that part of our relationship that I am convinced that for her, it never even happened. Thus, even labeling her as an “ex-girlfriend” is a misnomer. Revisionism speaks, and when it does, it sayeth we’ve always just been pals. And good pals. I mean, were she to be reading this, I wouldn’t want to offend. It’s just that one of us lugs around the unexpurgated, people’s history version while the other one’s King James is a lot lighter in the binding, if you know what I mean. That said, she’s always been good company, for real, and that’s all that matters in a world that prefers reality television to reality.

For instance she insisted I do something for my birthday and the next day twisted my arm into doing a Thanksgiving, too. I’m not saying that either of these things were important or necessary to me within the isolated context of preordained dates on a calender, but I will say that they were enjoyable interludes for which I am grateful. I know it's a commercial but it's true: you can't put a price tag on memories. Certainly if I had stayed home alone as had been my plan, I would have been fine because I wouldn’t have known what I was missing, but the fact that I actually had a good time, nay a truly very lovely time, was a much grander vision than I had anticipated. Kudos to her.

Anticipation is what drives a misfire, i.e. the “failure of a model to make an official flight when its launch is attempted.” So there was this totally hot chick at Thanksgiving. She sat right next to me, exuding hotness. Then she shanghaied the entire table’s attention, holding court as it were, with what turned out to be a completely nonsensical spewing of nonsense. I think she went on for about 10 minutes, during which time I don’t think anybody knew what she was really going on about, though we all bore polite smiles on our faces in between forkfuls of grub. Occasionally, some one among the 10 or so of us women, would venture to ask a clarifying question that regardless of the words spoken actually translated to “what the hell are you talking about?” but her exasperated answers (“Rebel Without a Cause! I wrote it!) served to confuse us all more. I didn’t get it. And that’s when my friend J whispered to me “go for it.” Go for crazy? Thanks, already been there, with each and every one of you. Psst, there’s your misanthropy.

Which leaves the missile crisis. Enter the one whom, for the sake of this discussion, I shall refer to as The Scud. The Scud and J and I all met on the same night about a year ago. Apparently our tri-mutual friend had meant to set one of us up with her, and apparently J and I didn’t follow instructions, having gone home with each other. (I believe that account holds true in both the People's and in the King James). The Scud, by the way, is … you know … great ... owns her own business, owns her own look—no mistaking her in a crowd…. She cornered me in the kitchen and asked me what I was waiting for. I thought she meant which of the four mouth-watering desserts that lay unmolested on the table. No, silly. I thought it might be easier if I asked what she was waiting for, and she said, "the right woman." Even if she didn’t know it, I knew it wasn’t me. That’s when my stomach started cramping, and I got diarrhea. I think I ate some bad eggs earlier in the day. My many trips to the bathroom made her think I was avoiding her and my destiny as la numera una. It got to a point whereupon I did want to avoid her, but honestly, I was simply having gastro-intestinal issues. During a holiday party. At some else’s house. Oh the humanity.

Had I really answered the question of what I was waiting for I would have gotten into big trouble. I won't say it now either because I don’t know what eyes shall rest here. See there’s enough trouble in my love life or lovelorn(a)ness, defined as a persistant and pervasive lack of not love but something that's missing, for me to be cautious. I’m not trying to make myself seem like a loser. I haven’t run out of self-esteem, though I do, after these little bush forays (ha ha see I haven’t lost my sense of humor yah, these little bush skirmishes, bush runs, bush whackin’ yah all that…) I do run out of steam sometimes, and for one who is steam-driven (fire sign + water sign) that can be a matter of some concern. It’s like when a steam iron runs out of steam and things get fouled up. Turn the heat up and the iron starts melting and burning the cloth; turn it down, and the wrinkles get stubborn and refuse to lie flat.

So I called Shan, the mother of John's three kids and my dearheart, and she spoke a truth to me, the only one who would. "Come home," she said. I sighed, expelling what little store of hot air was left in me at that moment. Oh Christ. It comes to that, doesn’t it. I go back to Detroit and let them fawn all over me and get me all pumped up, and then return to Cali, get back in the ring, and I go down after a few blows to my emptiness.

But wait! All is not lost. For one thing, I have my increasing faith in the occult. Though as a rootin’ tootin’ American, in God I trust, I can’t put any faith in him nor in myself. But hoodoo, now that’s the ticket baby. They don’t call me Black Magic for nothin’. (See now this is when I knew that girl wasn’t right for me. I can’t even casually hang out w/ someone who doesn’t understand that the concept of blackness itself is vastly comedic when its source is someone like me. Even J. gave me a high five for that one. I mean c'mon!) Anyway, there’s a botanica at the end of my block (that’s why I love this neighborhood—Osento, the voodoo store, and overpriced produce all within one block), which is convenient for me since putting my faith in dripless wax figurines seems like less of a stretch than anything else these days. Besides, candle-burning is the most practiced and most simple of the magical arts.

Art, baby. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. Like the another art that I believe in, astrology. You know what the skies portend this week? First off, New Moon in Sagittarius this Thursday, which means the opportunity for a fresh start every which way one can look. It’s not unlimited though. The waxing phase of the moon is only two weeks later, so there needs be an urgency to get a jump on any of these little projects I spin my wheels on day in and day out. Meanwhile, Mercury will turn direct on Saturday, ending the last retrograde of the year—another harbinger for cosmic relief. So maybe being written off by a singular audience of one girl yesterday was a blessing that I have failed thus far to acknowledge as such, lost as I am, in ungroundedness. Yes. I feel pretty good, actually. Cut the ballast. Move on. These are my true confessions for the moment, though they are subject to change.

Still Life

“The womb bears all sorts of people, thieves and priests.”
—Chenjerai Hove: Marita
Bones

Today’s my birthday. A day I typically dread because what one can presume to be the good intentions of others often ends up making me feel trapped and hunted. But I can’t lay the blame elsewhere. My day of birth is also always a time of self-assessment, kind of like how New Year’s Day is for a lot of people, sans the resolutions. Even if I choose to grade myself on a lenient pass/fail scale, it’s a look backward that tends to worry me. Other people are giddy to have a day they can call all their own. For me, it’s just pressure.

I am always surprised, therefore, to remember that I arrived three weeks early even though I was also two years late, but this story is about what my day of birth means to me. It means that I have a purpose, a reason to exist. For 38 years now, I have been struggling to remember what it is, which means that the quest to remember is my current purpose. Nice that it works out that way.

I guess I don’t have anything else to say about it except that I’m neither a thief nor a priest. Yet.

Fall Back

soft grass
drowning in pale light
remnants of a fierce glowing
beyond the kissable gloom

I miss the color change of a Midwestern autumn, though you can still tell it’s fall by the light, which takes on a nostalgic quality, puts on wistful hues. The clouds herringbone, like cotton candy dirgibles flocking for the winter journey south. Then comes the rain. I don’t miss being in the snow, though I miss the muffled sound and downy softness of a fresh snowfall. While I don’t care for the rain, I take it gladly over snow. If the rain were accompanied by a large thunderclap and a dance of jagged white light rising from the earth to the clouds, I might appreciate it or at least respect it. But the rain here, once it starts, never stops. It is cold and clammy, making one's clothes codependent as they cling for dear life. I tread water as it flows into my boots. But all that is yet to come. Now’s the time for lazy infielding, taking in whatever last days of regal rays existing. Fall finds me fondling trees and grass in the park and looking skyward always….