Friday, December 6, 2019

Fear Itself






Two things on earth I'm afraid of- the devil, himself, and falling in love.

Buddy, if you don't have voices in your head, I feel sorry for you. It must get awfully lonesome. Grandma's voice reminds me to get a coat. Jamaica's reminds me to enjoy myself. Maxine makes sure that Hank Penny or Sam Cooke keep singing. 

Of course, Sam Cooke and Hank Penny are long gone. Then again, so are Lottie and Maxine and Jamaica. I hear them. Loud. Clear. Often.

Recently I read that grieving is just a form of love. The object is "gone." Makes sense to me. If all lessons are about loss and all you need is love, my story almost makes sense.

Love hard and love shamelessly.




Tuesday, November 26, 2019

Wire Me The Funds






Taking stock, I'm aware that all that I have accomplished in this lifetime is that I know right from wrong. Don't worry about my self-esteem. I'm bragging.

Goodness knows I've had some fine teachers.

Growing old is, I have to say, a whole lot easier than growing up. I didn't do that very well so I hope to make up for it. I suppose I was always in training for this part.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.




Sunday, November 24, 2019

Too Many Genies






Sometimes I fret that maybe we've let too many genies out of too many bottles. I don't understand why peace and empathy aren't fashionable.

It's a little after 4:00 am. I can't sleep. I'm worried about koala bears' existence and children without enough to eat.

Do you suppose that war would be so popular without profit?




Tuesday, November 19, 2019

Tenting Tonight






When they told us about Buddhist monks who never ventured outdoors after dark, for fear of stepping on ants or grasshoppers, I was captivated. It smacked of the kind of fantasy that I had always assigned to those stories that foster doubt. You know the ones- bottomless wells; the hook on the car door after leaving lover's lane; the late show on the last night of the fair at the hoochie-coochie show, where they showed everything.

Well, sir, I ended up one of those folks who will do anything to avoid hurting a living creature. I venture out after dark, but not often. It's not really because of bugs, so much, but that's a different story, for another blog. I'm not really a Buddhist. I suppose I'm more of a mutt, when it comes to denomination. 

The day has come to treat my house for termites and my heart breaks. I've managed to relocate the albino frog family from the front porch and I've arranged for some new digs for a few lizards who call the carport home.

Now, I'm not crazy and I don't want my house to fall down. I would be lying, however, if I denied that I have dreaded this event.

This is a long-winded explanation of why there won't be blogs for a few days.




Sunday, November 17, 2019

Washed Away






What if I told you that dislodging any single grain of sand on the beach might shift everything in the universe. Everything's important. Nothing's important. Karma is real if you think it's real.

Russian news claims that the civil war is here for the USA and that the American empire is history.

In the words of David Amram, "Next!"




Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Shoulda' Been






My friend, Ed, sings, "The world is algebra and sometimes the heart gets in the way," and I realize that, for me, "The world is heart and sometimes algebra gets in the way." 

Boy, if I could make it all rhyme, I'd have a story to tell you.

Too old. Nobody has to tell me. Doesn't really seem all that sad to me. I wasn't always too old. I juggle memories and call it meditation.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.




Sunday, November 10, 2019

Expert Witness, Ex-Pat Blues






"Would you be willing to consider that you're more sentimental than she is?"

"So, can we agree that she's an extrovert and you're an introvert?"

Let me express my heartfelt gratitude for the women who have dragged me off to therapy.

As a kid, I pored over movie magazines. I had my favorites, of course. I would be lying to you if I said that Alan Ladd or Jeff Chandler meant as much to me as Tuesday Weld or Jayne Mansfield. My life preparation was based, pretty much, on Photoplay and Modern Screen.

It became obvious to me that movie stars all had psychiatrists. In my youthful naivety, I concluded that movie stars were all crazy.

My first experience with a therapist had one purpose. Once I was pronounced "crazy" we could solve all our problems. Of course that pronouncement came quickly in the first session. No surprise. When the other person in the room was tagged a minute or two later, the tears began.

Suddenly I realized that movie stars are all wealthy. They have therapists because they can afford therapists. We all need them!

These days, I'm old and I'm not wealthy. I'm alone and still crazy. Life's pretty good.