Reviving the Heart of our Democracy!

 

Bunny and I listened to this Preachers Speech and the more he spoke, the more our eyes filled with tears. We were both chilled!

Please take a few minutes and listen to the inspiration for our Country!

 

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Call and Response. (Updated)

Call and Response.

(Updated with new spilled Blood…)

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I found it necessary to update Call and Response. More Blood has spilled on asphalt and dusty parking lots. More Hate rampages down big hi-rise canyons and echoes in forests from North to South. And for some reason we must keep sharing and talking and making an attempt  to keep it real and loud and never cower back into the shadows in fear.

What is Call and Response?

It is ancient to all of us. We don’t see it or taste it and even recognize it but it is there. Call and response is in our genes

Call and Response is musical. It is verbal AND non-verbal communication between a speaker and a listener. The Speaker can be an individual, a thought, a group, and emotion. A Listener can be one or it can be many. It could be the Earth. It could be the Dark and the Light responding.

In ancient cultures, in African cultures long after the Earth cooled and we roamed the forest looking for survival, it was a distinct pattern of democratic participation in public. It was a shared experience. Call and Response is a foundation for our religion. It is inherent in every aspect of our lives.

We have all taken part in the ritual. The Teacher calls, we respond. The child cries, we react. The Media fills us with images…enzymes flow.

Can I get an Amen?

Raise your hands and give Him praise!

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Social Media is a dynamic world. Like Einstein’s blackboard, waits in silence for a spirit to be stirred.

Here is an example:

Call:

Marquita Nicole (OP)

On Race Relations

Calling out police brutality and racially motivated killings is a bandwagon that most jumped on when Trayvon Martin, a boy, someone’s son, our son, was killed. When we heard a grown man say to another to leave the boy be only for the listener to disregard and discharge his weapon. A bandwagon. Because it has not stopped since Europeans first encountered Africans, or Arabs, or Indigenous Americans or…I digress.

What I mean to say is this: I read someone’s statement that Obama (thanks Obama) took race relations back 50 years. I implore them, and any others who hold this as a truth, to know that people have been killing minorities with impunity for centuries. There was no glory period. What happened was social media and a bandwagon. It became cool (be honest, you know it’s true) to call out police brutality and racist killings, and social media made it possible for everyone to have a voice. So even though it is a bandwagon, the hashtag was one of the best things to happen to whatever this movement will be called in the future. It brought people together… Whites and Blacks march when we lose someone so unfairly, and Latinos and Native Americans and Asians… We march together because most of us “have nots” have not had a chance to be so expressive, to be so connected.

So…no… I don’t believe race relations have ever been better. No more lies, and no more self-hate (hopefully and thanks to artists who are making a stand) no more omitted history where it can be helped, no more one sided tales. and that is what seems to be people’s problems… They want everyone back to a time where we were sheep, where we didn’t call out sexism or racism or classism because we didn’t feel connected. It’s the connectedness that’s making folks scared…

And you gotta ask yourself why.

Response:

M, this challenge, this problem is so deep in our souls. It is in our blood, it is present like a virus in nearly everything we touch, in our schools, in our speech and in our politics.

Racism, Classism, hate, sexism, fear and hopelessness permeates our existence on the Planet.

(Stick with me.)

We just found 3 kittens. Cat Mom came from one house up the street. Cat Dad came from a house behind us.
They used our bushes in our front for a sexual encounter. She left. In a few days we saw kittens popping their heads out of the bushes.
Our desert was hot, very hot.
Bunny caught them one at a time and the kittens took over one of our bathrooms. They act like kittens. They play with string, each other and they bat and chase the balls we have left for them.
I tore up paper towels and Bunny put it in a container. I will be damned but they hop in, do their business and hop out.

We eventually purchased cat litter and they use it faithfully.

Why? How do they know?
They are frightened of coyotes but hop up to us.
Why?
I think (and I have been told) it is because that is how Cat Mom and Cat Dad and previous cat ancestors lived. It is deep in their kitten psyche. It is deep in their genes. It is something kittens just know.

I wonder about our fears of those different than us. I live in a Mexican/White neighborhood but I know that enzymes are triggered when I see a black person on my streets. I was not raised in hate or bigotry, but I would be the first to admit, our problem goes much, much deeper than a check mark on a form. African American, Latino, Asian, American Indian, White. We have 10,000 years of fear, supremacy’s, and something almost genetic to overcome. Fear then Hate is almost in our genes.

Almost.

I am lost. People old enough to read this are lost. We can change the Call, we can direct the Reponse until we manage to get back on the path.
The Change must start in the preschools and carry through to University. We must experience the world and reject those that would divide us. Responsibilities run deep, changes take generations.

I don’t want to project political outcomes of Presidential election…but suppose a candidate does not win. One candidate or maybe two candidates lose a chance to lead our Country. They are one person, maybe two.
But what we are left with is millions of fervent believers in the losing candidates. We are left with millions of people who are angry at the status-quo, who fear the new leader, who hate the new direction.

We (our Country) are left with an Army of the Disappointed and Angry. We are left with a Revolution. We might be left with a million Brown Shirt Reactionaries and an equal number of left wing Revolutionaries or both.

We are left with a conflict and two different Calls and two very different Responses.

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It is almost, ALMOST overwhelming.

I don’t believe in bringing together Community Leaders.

I don’t believe in bringing together religious leaders.

I don’t believe in locking arms and singing Kumbaya.

It has passed that point.

Acceptance of empty words delays the reality until the near time, the next the disease rears its head.

Maybe burning it down to the ground and each group heading to their burnt corners is the only answer. I told a group the other day to be careful if they wished for Revolution, because the opposition they despise may come out on top.

And then what?

Maybe the Elder Orange haired Business man’s Revolution, if carried out, is the answer. Face our fears, manifest our hate with action, build our walls, bring our Country back and acknowledge the future with our collective teeth clenched in both defense and offense. Win at all costs.

Maybe the old Elder White Haired Statesman’s Revolution, if carried out, is the answer?Loosening the deathgrip of the 1%, the Wealthy Class, the Corporations on our underclass necks and returning the power to the people is the answer? At least we might get a chance and if we could survive the opposition and the threats and fear and the constant harping of the media, we might move the dial and head in the right direction.

Or maybe we start with the children.

We educate them, we teach them critical thinking, civics, love, how to solve problems without hate and guns and knives and bombs, how to hug those around them. We teach them patience and eventually if we keep a firm grasp on love and tolerance and selflessness, we might be able to last, to survive until the last of the hate smolders in the ground, that the fortresses of separation and segregation crumble to dust and the evil fades into the bad memories of human history on this planet.

But this takes time. It won’t happen overnight. You and I may never see it. But we can continue to push, to light a path, string together words in prose and poetry and speak of the dream of a better place.

We must face that this is a big problem and bigger than we can even imagine. We can not expect change by standing around the Fallen locking arms and singing Kumbaya.

As long as there is money and power in our separation, there will be separation.

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A friend tells me that he recognizes there is a force, an ancient force that uses their powers of hate to induce fear, that uses their sword to divide the races, the sexes, the wealthy and poor. They control us through division. They fill our minds with screams and drown out the voice of love and togetherness and equality. We don’t even know why we hate them. They shoot us…we bleed. We shoot them…they bleed. The Blood is the same. We are the same and we learn too late.

This force might be the Media, the Political World, those that control from behind the curtain. The Force may be the People who have always run the world in their vision and stand behind those we think are in charge.

The Force in whatever shape it takes, issues a powerful Call. We Respond.

My friend calls the force of division Satan or the Devil or Evil that is diametrically opposed to the Good, to God, to what should be. We start on a path, the path divides and we must make a choice. Some go left. Some go right. Some sit at the crossroads. Maybe that is me. I am an Atheist. I am not sure that right is good for me, nor left. I believe through our Social Evolution, we have reached a point where we may no longer answer the questions we ask.
I question right. I question wrong.

I sit at the crossroads unable to choose a direction. The division of the path is the call. My response is uncertainty.

All I am sure of is that we must change the Call to the children and let them respond in their innocence, devoid of the staining we mar on their spirits. They are the future. They are the Hope.

They are our Tabula Rasa.

“Turn out the Light

(We have no fear)

Turn out the Light

(We see angels and fairies in the dark)

Stuart Welch

 

 

The Hunger of the Wolf

I have been saving the words of one of those I treasure from a group out of San Diego.
I really have had little knowledge or even energy of how I was supposed to respond to recent events. I have felt completely inadequate to assemble the words. I don’t think I could offer solace, if I should even offer solace or comfort.

Some have said no. No solace. Keep the wound raw. Allow the wound to be fresh and we will be able to move forward, if we keep the pain open and unavoidable.

I asked for these words from Sly because she was one of the few that dealt with this event on a human level, on an individual level, without incorporating the politics of international hate or even the separation of beliefs.

In my view, she kept it real.

Please read and comment. I post her words following and my response separated by asterisks.
Thank you Sly and Thank you Reader.

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wolfSly

Like so many others, the tragedy that took place in Orlando this weekend has left me completely heartbroken. This heartache was compounded by watching political discourse turning into personal attacks and reading heinous Facebook posts placing blame on Muslims or the LGBTQ community. Depression veiled the beginning of this week as I struggled with feeling impotent, helpless, and hopeless. It was from that place of powerlessness that I began to question myself, my believes, my passions, and the places in my life were I put the most effort. Then I was reminded of the Cherokee story of Two Wolves.

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy. “It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

In remembering this I knew, like each of you, I always have power in the choice of which wolf I feed. Will I give in to my anger, resentment and pity, or will I choose to continue on from a place of love, kindness, and compassion. I ask that you consider your power as well in choosing how you carry on. The way we choose to be in our own lives ripples out and effects everyone.

We cannot know the struggle of another. We cannot know the pain of the person being berated in a comments section. We cannot know the anguish of the person who is the object of our road rage. We cannot know the torment of someone who cancels plans at the last minute, takes too long at the ATM, steals from us, injures us, or robs us of our peace. The only way to end the cycle of violence is to greet everyone we encounter from a place of love and hope.

The change we so desperately need cannot occur overnight through passing a law or dropping a bomb. The problems of the present were created over centuries of suffering and as such will take time to change. THEY CAN CHANGE but only through an intentional shift in our collective consciousness toward goodness. Each of us has an equal part and, I dare say, responsibly in this.

So, if you are feeling that sense of helplessness that I did, please understand you are infinitely and inalienably powerful. What you do is essential to the future of humanity. If you think I’m full of shit, I hope one day you come around and I still love you.

Which wolf will you feed?
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Stuart Welch

Sly, Thank you.

You know I try to write. I try to write new perspectives and free verse, some fiction and just words about the world I see out my windows.
But during the last few days I have returned to looking inside into a blankness, to looking at an undrenchable fire.

I am lost and, (I Know… hard to believe) I just don’t know what to write.

We don’t need more pain. We don’t need more anger. We don’t need sorrow. It is so confusing.

After 9/11, many of the late night talk show comedians went off the air. When David Letterman came back on, he had a newsman, Dan Rather, who had been covering the events around 9/11 since it began.
He started to recite a stanza from America the Beautiful and broke down into tears and the only thing you could hear was a broken man saying

“I will never be able to hear those words again.”

He continued sobbing and they broke for a commercial. When they came back, he apologized for his grief and said

“We have lost the war without firing a shot” and continued on by saying that he was a professional newsman and should not be overcome by the events he had the responsibility to report. He felt he should not have cried.

When Rachel Maddow said the other night that ISIS had informed their supporters to not come to the battlefield, but to stay where they were and cause mass death and confusion and fear and terror to a point where neighbor is in fear of neighbor. That would be the best action the supporter could take. And I knew then that there was little way to stop those who are guided by hate, who thirst for blood and like so many other religions, believe that the reward lies beyond this reality and non- believers were less than animals.

I think at that point…my heart sank. There is no way that I can imagine to stop those around us that want to destroy as they did in Orlando, or Newtown or New York or San Bernandino or Paris or even in Washington D.C. or the voting booths of America.

The monster was out.

There was no way to put it back and my heart sank. I could run. Bunny and I could run but we would still be in this dimension on this earth.

I don’t know which wolf I am. I am maybe the lost wolf. The frightened wolf. The wolf that just doesn’t know.

Thank you for your words.

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Sly 

It pains me to hear of your struggle, Stuart, but I believe that it is one you are not alone in. I have always known you to be an insightful being of light and as the freshness of this wound heals you will have greater perspective to share with those that most need it. The tides may have shifted in the direction of evil this time but if people like you and me continue to chose being hopeful, to chose loving each other and to keep making that choice despite the actions of others we will find that place of peace (or at least inner peace).

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Stuart Welch

I was hitch-hiking late at night on the highway north of London. It was cold and raining. A giant rain yellow slicker came down the on-ramp and we both stuck out our thumbs for a ride.
One thing I remember is that the fellow from Scotland told me “These things were sent to try us.”
We got a ride to Trafalgar Square in the center of London. The rain changed to the most intense Thunder and lightning I have ever experienced. I wandered the rest of the night until I got to my hotel and have lived my life to this point so far.
Thank you.

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Postscript

I have since had to remind myself to unwrap myself from what I thought I knew: that the Orlando shooter had been guided by the mis-guided ravings of ISIS. I had to remind myself that the shooter was a sick individual who spent his life in pain and fear and terror. That since his early days in school, he had a history of striking out, of being isolated from those around him, of suspensions from school and expulsions.
He certainly was not drawn to ISIS at that point. He was in need of help and our system only seemed to make his situations worse. And then gave him a gun.
He had chosen his wolf and it was only a matter of time until someone…or several someones faced his hate, his fear and his gun.

Trust me. I know that ISIS is far from a rational just cause. Isis is a perversion. But this person fell to them because they offered the only escape from his anger and fear.
I thank Sly for Sharing.

The Words of an Artist

I have always felt some magic about the spirits I met at the Burn afew years back.
Most of them at the time were in a Camp called EgoTrip. It had been many years since I had met a group like these spirits from San Diego. They made The Bunny and I feel so close to them.

Over the years, I find each one in the group special. Everytime I look, I see deeper and regain a good warm feeling about humanity. I have written about them and shared some of their words and images.

This morning I read some words that had been shared by an artist in this group. His name is Alex Cory Dikowski. He has been traveling in Europe and found himself in a quiet moment to write down a few words.

While asking for his permission to reprint his piece on my blog, I was reminded of myself as a young romantic poet, carrying my Smith-Corona and wearing a black beret, wandering European ancient streets in the 70’s and wrote a little on my own.

I wanted to share a thought with Alex that his words had reminded me about a scene from my past.

“During the night I had a short thought I wanted to share with you. I was in a hotel in Frankfurt in 77. I was a poet. I shared a room with 2 others. We came in drunk one night and one of the lads threw up out of a 4th floor window, right on the roof of the Hotel Owner below. He came up, kicked out the drunk Irishman. On his way out, he grabbed the poetry I had written that night.

The next day the now sober drunk showed up at breakfast and after a few minutes, he recited my poem back to the table of people gathered at our table word for word. I think it was the first time I was memorized and recited (at least in Europe!)

The words that follow are Alex’s and I thank his for the memory

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One of my favorite things to do in Europe is have a drink at a bar that’s hundreds of years old and imagine all the people who’ve been there before me. Wrote a drunk poem…

This tavern breathes
with a deep and creaking breath.
She’s tired from the footsteps
of four hundred years.
Though don’t mistake her silence for shyness –
she’s waiting for you to listen.
Wash down a dram,
for only then will she whisper.
In a voice sweet and slow like honey.
Of a night long ago,
under a crying sky,
when two strangers sought shelter
but found love instead.
In each others arms they’ve turned to dust,
but their spark,
in this tavern, still remains.
A second dram summons an unsavory voice,
who’s tart breath reeks of deceit.
A gambler – no, a swindler,
wagering coins he’ll never lose.
Between his fingers he bounces a blade on the bar.
Separating fools from their drinking money.
He cheated men,
but couldn’t cheat death –
and in his lonesome turned to dust.
His tap, tap, tap still raps in the air,
the tempo of this tavern.
A third dram gently coaxes
a deep voice from behind the bar.
A friend to all, foe to none –
who’s light heart and heavy pour
helped lift the weight of a thousand heartbreaks.
Though he spoke,
he mostly listened.
And now he rests, returned to dust,
but in this tavern he still listens.
Here I drink, a dram of four.
A thirsty rambler passing through.
I’ve yet to fall to death and dust,
but when I do, I also trust,
of all my stories, final and scattered,
a part will remain inside this tavern.

I’ll cherish the time

jeanne

Many years ago, like most of my readers, I met the sisters of a dear friend. As it would be, I fell in love with each of them for different reasons. Their warmth, their joy, their spirit of creativity. I have had the pleasure of seeing them or hearing from them over the last 45 years.
Jeanne DeMott was my Joni Mitchell. She is the embodiment of warm spirit, a smile, a down-turned smile that could take you in deeper than the Grand Canyon.

She suffered a loss some time back. It is the greatest pain a parent can endure. Losing a son is losing a bit of heart. a cloud on the spirit.

Recently, Jeanne came in contact with the one of the most dangerous and unpredictable forces of nature. Her response is chilling, her fear is palpable.  Her response that follows is real. I know these thoughts crossed her mind.

What attracted me to her post was the way she approached the event with a spiritual dichotomy (defined as “a division or contrast between two things that are or are represented as being opposed or entirely different). She seemed to be at peace with either path. On one path, a reuniting, on the other, having a bit longer to share the way with those who love her alongside.

We face choice every moment in our lives. Some decisions we make. Some are made for us. But in either case, there must be acceptance. Acceptance that we have free will and we will face the dichotomy again and make a choice or maybe a choice is made for us.

I don’t know if there is a guiding hand. I don’t know if there is a right or wrong . But I know there is a choice, there will always be a choice and I will either be the one answering the door or the one knocking.

Her post, her words.

I set the words in this category called “Others Words” because they capture a moment, a vision. It is a string of words that bring us out to look over the edge.

Please enjoy Jeanne’s words, read the others in this category and please share a comment.

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Jeanne DeMott
May 15, 2016

On a quick walk from the path that stretches across the farm, I see dark clouds in the foothills. Just another Rocky Mountain thunderstorm in spring. No rain here yet.
Then from the clear blue sky above, a lightning bolt stabbed the earth, what seemed like only feet away. The white light crackled and the deafening clap of thunder was instantaneous and surrounded me.
A scream formed from the pit of my soul and I didn’t recognize it as mine. What was wrong with my vision? I felt blind but could somehow still see. I cupped my hand over my right eye as I ran toward the house and I was blind. But when I cupped my left eye I could see. The strike had been just to my left. Like looking into a flashlight, a black spot remained but 100 times more intense. When sight returned, the imprint of a lightning bolt remained for awhile when I closed my eyes.
Carly, who was inside, said it felt like a bomb. Sparks shot out the outlets and the lights shuddered.
I’m pretty sure I dodged death. A once-in-a-lifetime event that could have taken me in an instant. What haunts me though, is the sadness I am left with. I’ll have to wait a little longer to see Shane’s beloved face again. In the meantime, I’ll cherish the time I still have with the ones I love.

The Question of Spectrum

Journey

We write about the Journey. We see everything as a Journey. We are told in popular culture that it is not the arrival to our destination, but the Journey to that destination itself.

Certainly it makes sense that the Journey is the analogy of life then death, esp. for us confirmed Atheists.

E.B. said some time ago in the past :

If you don’t know where you are going, it doesn’t matter what road you are on…’

EB…’92

The journey is forefront in our themes of what we write. It is hidden in our dreams and sometimes may not even be visible until long after we have passed the signposts.

The journey, the metaphorical journey, is used in literature old and new and in new of describing the old. Recently while describing the possible start and end of the Journey, the main character Trent muses about two Journeys: His own and the young Buddha.

“     When Trent was old enough, maybe old enough to think he could think, he was plagued and troubled by imagined thoughts that when he was born, when he began his life, the World and all Reality began; and when he died, all Reality would cease to exist. Later, his belief system evolved, and Reality evolved into an enlarged bubble that followed Trent wherever he went.

        He kept this “Bubble of Trent” going until he heard the young Buddha had cleaners that would clear a path of all ugliness that the young Buddha might encounter on his path. Beggars, decomposing animals, limp plants, and even browning leaves were hastily removed to keep Buddha’s world just right! And happy was kept and all things unpleasant were removed from his sight along his way.

        No wonder, Trent mused, that Buddha perceived the world to be so perfect, so cool. As long as Trent only could envision a world of Perfection, then only a World of Perfection would exist. It would be like if he and Buddha lived out their entire existence at Disneyland.

Only Disneyland would exist!”
(from the 1% Solution: a Mystics Tale)

Our journey is as small as completing a meal or as grandiose as completing a million generations of a species. A journey knows no boundaries, but like life, it has a beginning and it has an end. Like the walls defining our home, imaginery lines defining our city and county and state and country.

We rarely perceive when it began, and it is even rarer (Is that even a word?) that we are aware when it has ended.

Some maybe reminded by others to

“Stop and smell the roses”,

“Find your way to the little out of the way places”,

“The roughest path leads us to the greatest reward”

and from Lao Tzu utterances of

Do the difficult things while they are easy and do the great things while they are small. A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.”

And even President-to-be Donald Trump immortal words

Do you mind if I sit back a little? Because your breath is very bad. “

We all have our AAA journey maps, and we all try to stay the course even if we don’t know what the course is or if we are even on one.

Recently a friend successfully completed a stroll from the border of Mexico and California, along the mountains and valleys, up to where the trail ends when Washington meets Canada. I am not even sure she knew she was on a journey. Through-Hikers tend to live in the moment as a means of survival and don’t perceive the journey until they collapse exhausted at the terminus of the trail’s end.

She now has taken the personal challenge of hiking again, this time the Appalachian trail, over Smokey Mountains, through ancient passages and drowning in torrential rains while being chased by bears.

She stopped long enough to chat along the trail and recounted this in her blog:

So today I was already to pack up and hit the trail. But my new English friend Allister told me I needed chill and enjoy the experience more. He really does and convinced me I should. (Besides i was not to excited about hiking in the rain, again.) So I stayed another day in Hot Springs much to my enjoyment. I spent the afternoon and the evening getting to know my fellow hikers. Sometimes i get so focused on the miles I forget to socialize, sad but true.

The thing about thru-hiking is you get to meet people that you typically wouldn’t. People from other states, all around the world, from different walks of life. We are all on the same trail but all on different journeys, just as in life. (Basically, we’re all crazy enough to think we should walk to Maine) Once connections are made it’s hard to part ways when you know you may never see each other again.

What I’ve come to learn is that each person that enters our lives brings something special, embrace it, no matter how big or how small. From this point on many people will be leaving the trail for many reasons, speeding up, slowin down.

 My wish is for everyone in our hodgepodge group is for everyone to get as far as they need to or want to.”

…from finding my path through the vines |Trail connections | wandering chardonnay

Although I know it not to be true, she writes of the journey, of pausing along the path, of embracing the moment as if she has just discovered the journey. She is perceptive enough of her world and all that surrounds her SELF to realize, she is in the midst of a journey, at the beginning of a journey, the completion of a journey as well as in a infinite amount of signposts along the journeys route.

Ironically, I will add when I met her, she was at a dusty intersection, directing traffic, turning around those that were lost and sending those on that seemed to be on the right path.

Another close friend sent a message to me and although it doesn’t spell out or address the metaphorical journey…it is obvious that like all of us, he is on one. It is his unique journey. He may reject it. He may not accept the existence of the journey, but this perception of his world came from somewhere. It originated from some collaboration of experiences.

He may be moving forward. He may have paused for just a moment. I treasure his love of music, his passion to surround himself with those who are moved to dance, his humour and his friendship. But we are different in many ways.

I think he sat up, looked around like a thousand prairie dogs and screamed aloud what was happening to his world.

But he lives in a different place.

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DANGER!!!!

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This post has angry adult language. Read it at your peril of offense. He is responding to recent American political events and how we have been overrun  by our media and technology.

All I can say ’bout the JFK thing is that if the Miami Herald had put out such a story about Trump’s father, the sad truth is that Cruz would have undoubtedly wasted no time whatsoever using it against Trump.  Nothing at all surprises me anymore.  

 From my eye it’s all such an unfortunate repercussion of this ‘information’ age we live in, all the total crap that people conveniently believe to be ‘news’ cloggin’ up the blogosphere, along with all the stupid fuckin’ tweets and twats and instagrams and selfies and twats . . . technology’s backfired on us and made us a stupid society full of hardened assholes who really don’t know shit and no longer know how what it means to play by what we used to call the ‘rules’ . . .

I’d have to wholeheartedly agree, the ‘new normal’ sucks donkey dick, and with all that, I’m happy to just be a stupid little luddite, hangin’ out in the dark corner, tryin’ my best to just hold back my puke.

 I’m just sayin’ . . . .”

 I love both of these travellers. They are both important and have been alongside me for much of my personal journey. I respect each one for different reasons.

And yet they may end in very different places. They may have travelled different paths and seen much different worlds. Who is to say which will reach their journey’s end with a broad smile or which will slide over their final finish line, worn, beaten, bloodied and weak before they collapse, every cell of their life-stuff exhausted and spent.

In their own way, they both SEEM relevant.

But then who am I to judge? Who are you, the reader to judge? Does our judgment even matter in the scheme of things?

I doubt it

I could write volumes about the journey, but then the journey is each moment, each passage of time, the stringing together of events, everything that occurs from the moment we see the light from between our mother’s legs to the last flash of light and color at the moment of our life’s conclusion.

And greater yet, the journey, the first Lao Tzu step began when time shook itself into action, acknowledged its own existence and may end when the final light is extinguished.

Maybe.

And maybe we learn not to judge, but acknowledge the path.

 

 

Quotations from Eduardo Barbudo

Do you know who or what but still asking yourself why?

EB

Do you ask for guidance but still have access to Google?

EB

Is there a perfect meme?

EB

In the expanse of the galaxy, you are small, microscopic..an atom.
But without you…there is a void. There is nothing…

EB