Sometimes overwhelmed by the torrent of the faces and people, sounds and feelings subtle and sublime come on like a flash flood or tornado and sometimes like a hurricane . . . Sitting at the Buckhorn Bar on a Sunday night. Started this way with intentions of catching a bit of live music and maybe touting the merits of my book via the internet whilst sipping a beer. Ran into a hippie tryin' to hop a train, saw me pass while sitting under the Clark Street bridge and caught up and invited me to taste of some Pennsylvania-grown green. Just grabbed a pint of rum at the Ranger and a pouch of American Spirit Organic at the Smoker Friendly so I had something to offer, and sat under the bridge with said brother smokin' and drinkin', chatting about trainhopping and travelling generally, the beauty of the road whether rail or highway, then wandered here to the Buck to soak in some singers and songwriters singing and such. Bliss and Price and Rob and Fran and Thadeus are here, Jessica and Seth and Nick are singin', Price on bass and a graying bearded cowboy with a white hat playin' rhythm guitar.
Some family through town, a couple of random Rainbow Tribe hippies stayed at my little bitty efficiency apartment for the past couple of nights--fed them some of my famous dumpster-dive gourmet. Some more travelling family at Andy & Crystal's (where I first met the brother I sipped and smoked and conversed with under the bridge). Summertime and the livin' is easy and the wandering is good, and Laramie is more readily seen as Laradise . . .
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Monday, August 17, 2015
What is Sanity?
"Now,
in a lot of people, when the energy got so intense from their spiritual
practices, they really lost their ground. They lost it on this plane.
That’s what the Spiritual Emergence Network has done to help these
people because in India, or other cultures, when that happens, those who
are called to serve, like Meera Baba. They were called mosks or
God-intoxicants. Annadamai, one of the greatest saints of all time, a
Bengali woman, a very dignified woman, spent about two years doing
cartwheels in her front yard and throwing off her sari and stuff. Now,
in our culture, that is Bellevue material. In that culture, it’s, “Ah,
there is a God-intoxicant. We must take care of them at a temple”. We
have not had a support system for that type of trans-formative loss of
ground, which you need to go through at times." Ram Dass
Friday, August 7, 2015
Memories and Musings of a Post-Postmodern Nomadic Mystic Madman
Excerpt from Memories and Musings of a Post-Postmodern Nomadic Mystic Madman:
I am a dead man walking—er, actually I
am currently sitting and sipping a highly honey-sweetened cup of
Wyoming-roasted coffee with cream on the back patio of a coffeehouse in
downtown Laramie. The pale-brown liquid
within my cup has grown quite cold over several hours sitting and exposed to
the elements of a high-country afternoon, though ice has yet to form around the
rim. I sometimes gaze into the swirls of
milk fat floating on the surface and the patterns of variously mixed solutions
of bean juice and water and honey and half-and-half to scry with what shapes
might emerge to tell of things present, past or possible.
I don’t mean that someone has me as
their mark, necessarily, or that I am keeping a wide-eye open for fear of
potential assassins, necessarily. My
point with these words is in fact rather more stark. What I actually mean by this opening
statement, these first words in print after flyleaf and front matter, is that I
have already been murdered, and perhaps on as many as five
occasions. The most poignant and certain
instance of experiencing my own homicide occurred one ordinary summer’s day at
dusk in Golden Gate Park, when two bullets were rather randomly and
undeservedly introduced to the inside of my skull after an otherwise pleasant
and uneventful day on Hippie Hill.
In addition to such homicidal intrigues,
I have encountered sasquatch, a skinwalker, holes in space-time, and a
shape-shifter who did her turn whilst astride my lap. In pursuit of romance and the hidden secrets
to life and history, guided by instinct, intuition, chance, and sometimes
helpful deities, I have been granted many such glimpses behind the veils of
normalcy—at moments to my delight, and at others to my terror.
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