Refreshed Oil Lamp

Thankful for safe harbor.

Packing the bags with hope.

Anchor lines whisper on the gunnels.

Sail hems mended to almost blend in.

Slap of chop echoes in the belly of the keel.

Port masters will only glance as a fresh shave.

Storm clouds on the horizon are beckoning wind.

Coats of paint baked to a cure in the hot sun.

Tying the tiller to sleep on the deck.

Forecasts of bathing in a bucket.

He thought I was land sick.

Eyes wide with knowing it.

As truth in a blue sky.

Letting go in clouds.

A lamp-lit bow.







Wheels Don’t Build Themselves

On the drive side the spokes are too tight. The dish has pulled aside, and riding with no hands isn’t safe.

It was never perfectly round, and the tire went flat years ago, so each bump transfers to the seat.

There are dents in the rim, each blemish a reminder of a failure, a betrayal, or a wreck.

Sand paper, a file, and a rag to pick up the shards.

Oil applied to the nipples, so they won’t strip.

Patching the tube, airing it up, and noticing a blow out in the tire.

Cutting the lock nuts off the races to free the rusted axle, wiping out the hub to shine a light inside, and taking note of the cratered belly.

Each article is another batch of new grease, and fresh bearings.

I am not a wheel, nor a unicycle. I am the frame. The brake cables. The chain.

My drive-train is intact, and this is a search for the tools to maintain it, so the cogs will take longer to strip out.

Tiger saddle maintenance

Have you ever noticed how therapists and psychologists seem a little bit nuts? For example, I was building a fence for one, and he wanted me to make it with a pattern of pickets, that didn’t have a pattern. He sat in a lawn chair coaching me on what order to put them in…so they wouldn’t have an order. I enjoyed the process, even when he had me take the fence apart to put less order in it. I made good money and managed to convince him to let me put the posts in gravel instead of concrete, as it’s the devil.

I went to a therapist once to help me figure out what was wrong with my heart and head. I remember a couple of things he said to me, “Your a weird fucker, and I like you.” and “Learn to ride the tiger”. He gave me the best thing money can buy. Acceptance, and a plan for willingness to accept myself. I didn’t give him a cent, because I didn’t have one, and he said the first visit would be free.


Thanks to the Poodle at http://juicydogcouture.blogspot.com/ for this image, and my brother for telling me of it. The blog is filled with funny dog stuff if you need an adjustment later. This article is a tiger saddle that I built in May 2012, and it needed some maintenance on it today:

Generating shine for the darkness in others is challenging, rewarding, and devastating. It brings me to my knees in shame at not being able to do it for myself when I run out of fire…and my heart has already been broken too many times.

For the first time in my life I have avoided the dark hole of hell that is depression, and the best advice I can give to myself is to find a wife who loves my dog enough, as he gives me Oxytocin in my brain. O, and she needs to love to cook and put up with a full grown kid who periodically get’s too excited.

I’m sitting in the noonday shade, looking out over hillsides of orange trees heavy with fruit, soaking up the tinder making blaze that is the ball of life above our earth, and I am thankful for family that will feed me in this time of loose ends. A bowl of mixed nuts and dried fruits is helping me edit this, so that was literal.

So if you see me wild eyed with a knife in years to come, and running through your yard at night singing some lonely song, or find me sleeping in your bushes on the perimeter…. I’m guarding the lettuce.
If you think I sound like a loony, it’s because bugs bunny is tasty and irritatingly sneaky, so please leave the sharpening stone out by the hole under your fence with some honing oil.

This is me grounded because if I was manic or barely avoiding it, I’d be driving around town looking for more rabbit holes, or headed south in the search of sun. My mom always knew better than to put me in a room by myself to play, and I hope this helps you on your path to having a mentally healthy day.

What breaks your heart, and boils your blood?

20140303-182751.jpgIt’s likely that you need more compassion for yourself, I know I do. Doing my best to be graceful sometimes leads me to delete most of what I write.

One of my favorite things about humans is that we use our most sensitive parts to survive. Our lips and fingertips and ears leave us vulnerable to despair, and hope.

The epitome of compassion fatigue is our cultures use of the word sensitivity. It’s used as an insult. Something to be avoided. Better to be strong and silent? Fuck that. It’s ill. Makes me ill. That’s called bystander syndrome, or burn out. It develops from compassion fatigue. Wiki that shit if your losing your humanity, so you understand a potential reason why.

I see my friends ask the same question all the time. Why do so many of us stand aside and let the world go to shit? Because we’re pummeled with it. It’s like military training. A drill sarge yelling into our souls.

We don’t have the capacity to hold that much sorrow. Our collective consciousness is ragged. The butterfly effect has the potential to turn into a moth. It’s more like a dark angel wearing a jet pack burning up in an epiphany of blinding media light.

So what do I do with this belief? That’s the question I’m asking myself. It certainly helps me to understand why I’m disgusted and lost sometimes. I’m struggling to have compassion for myself, and I know it’s the cause of my discontentment.

It’s so easy to externalize the pain finding ways to blame it on the economy, culture, politics, government, domestication, technology or pollution. Any one of them would do nicely as a culprit.

What it really comes down to for me is human nature, and my sensitivity to it. I love humans, and sometimes it hurts. I’m sensitive to light. Vibrations. Music. Your emotions. Mine, and how they make you feel. Food. Water. Shelter. The smell of the river. Fresh air, or lack of it. Memories. Life. Welcome to my cave. It’s the only sanctuary I’ve got sometimes.

For my birthday I want a tickle. For you, a caress. A nice long one that stills your mind from all the worries. Takes away your thoughts turning you into an animal in pleasure. Ask them to do it till you drool. Till your breath comes deep. Till you’re not sure if it’s fair for them to give you so much. I just want to learn to do that for myself and heal.

I found the start of this article today buried in a file….from when heartbreak and disgust at a betrayal I found on Facebook, gave me the motivation to eliminate my wall. I’m happy to have found it as there were years of writing there, so I’ll be pulling pieces out of the file and plugging them here in glee, even when they aren’t filled with it.:)

Over the last few months I’ve been developing a theory about heartbreak in medicine. Maybe it’s not a theory as much as a bunch of questions I continue to ask myself:

How much of the diagnostics in the western healthcare system from psychology to physical illness, is really just prolonged heartbreak without remedies? When somebody is ill in the head, depressed, and broken inside….is it really just heartbreak, and we want to call it something else? I know for myself, that it keeps coming up. The symptoms are abundant.

On a softer note, I haven’t been depressed this year regardless of the heart breaks, for the first time in as long as I can remember. Not to say that I didn’t develop the symptoms periodically for three or four minutes, just that it wasn’t a pit I fell all the way into. I’d leap away from the ledge, get angry, get grounded, get excited, get grounded, jump in my car spitting gravel, and avoid the whole hell hole of sadness that wants to suck the life out of me. I’m still heartbroken, but I’m finding ways to remedy it, and this process of documenting it on social media is helping me.

I hope that by sharing my thoughts and feelings, by baring my soul to the script of this canvas, that I can inspire more people to be okay with uncontrollable tears. If I laugh and they seep out it’s hard, but I’m getting used to it. If a sob begins to brew, and I start breathing deep to make it go away, you’ll know why I missed the holiday, and it’s fitting, because I wrote the beginning of this before my birthday years ago.

Some sadness doesn’t go away. It lingers under the surface of my face, and hearing your story might bring it to a head like a volcano of grief. Unfortunately it means the heartbroken are attracted to the color in my eyes, or maybe it’s an aura like a hobo mark on my car that says I’ll buy you a meal if you’re starving. I don’t know, but I’m weary of falling in love with people who are miserable. Is that most people?

Do most people have a kid in their heart that grew up in a loss of innocence? An idealistic dreamer that failed or forgot to grow down, at the same time they were growing up? I haven’t done that. I still dream big wishing I could fly, and sometimes I do…when I sleep.

Go away Gypsy

A trash train goes by while "creativity get's down to business" Manhattan style, and fun for me.

There is a name for people like me…..many names in fact. We lurk in the shadows of discontentment dulled by domestication, till our senses set us free in blasts of abandoned feeling. People who don’t understand the feeling, call it running away to the circus. What they missed was that the circus is in our sweat, in the blisters of our hammer swinging hands, and the calluses on the well worn soul of our feet. When an outsider of this way of life looks at it they see us running away, and miss that we have arrived home again in who we are.

Our laptop batteries are dying and we desperately seek an outlet to plug into. A way for our voice to be heard in a dance of fingertips on keys like this right now. I like to call the people I’m referring to in a tone of voice saturated with admiration, ″Alaska!!″. Why? Because some of my best friends are this. Alaska to me, is the willingness to try anything, and in fact the pattern of doing just that. The Alaskans I know can fix anything with minimal tools, and less materials. They can lift your house up with a car jack, build you a home, drink you under the table, and get up earlier the next day to do it again. They are alive with willingness to pursue survival on the fine line… of maybe they might not…so they drink and smoke another one….and help their neighbor if they can.

Artist is another harmonic title of reverence I put in this box. They are the odd birds. The ones who don’t fit in, or in other words stand out. Not like a sore thumb, but as a soaring thumb. You can see them from afar. Their way of dressing doesn’t fit. They are the aliens at home. The weird. The strangers. The crazies. Without them, our cultures would be defined by a bunch of apes running around with rocks, hitting each other on the heads. With them at large we are not surprised to have the Taj Mahal.

We all go into churches. We see them as sanctuaries. We pray in them. We look for heaven in the most heavenly place we could create. The artists did this. They created the closest representation of human-made heaven we have to experience. They designed something so beautiful, toiled to make it happen, and went home happy to create again. If they could just get a haircut, take a shower, act normal, and follow the code of conduct to be accepted by society……?

What other title have I used to describe my friends? O yes…..Radical! These are the extremists. But do please keep in mind I don’t mean the fanatical kind. I prefer to hang out with people that know how to change the subject. Getting stuck on one thing is not my forte. I tend to bend and break under the rules of polarity. One way is not for me. I like two way streets and fast traffic. Going down a one way street the wrong way, right down the middle of the yellow broken line. Taking both lanes going contrary.

Fanatics are boring. Radicals are wild. They just might say exactly what you feel with so much passion that they cry with fury. When they tremble and quake shaking their fists in the air, pronouncing words like revolution, in way you’ve never heard before, you know you may have met one…..and you just did.

Here is an excerpt from my travels, a batch of words I pulled from my little black notebook, that I wrote right before the authorities locked me in a cold ass cell….as they waited to decide if they should say…..″Go away gypsy″:

Interesting to me how the system of immigration is designed to evaluate whether you intend to move in and stay, or just spend money. If it’s just the money, how much? Waiting for customs now….this type of waiting is enthralling. All of the temporary boundaries in this large room are set up to funnel people around like cows, so they can find one like me, to put in this seat. My bench is bolted to the floor. One opening as an exit is provided in this arrangement of furniture. It’s an exit that doesn’t look like one to me, as it goes straight into their control. The others are standing and walking, waiting to move forward, as I sit in limbo. Guess you could call this a success sort of….

About ten or twelve hours later (I lost count, as they took away all my clocks), a decision was made and on a one way ticket I was bound, straight out of their country. I never left the airport to see my waiting in desperation woman on the other side of the walls. She later told me that the flowers she brought to me were wilting and covered in tears, as she resigned herself to loneliness again.

A fascinating balancing act. How to define what is too strange, or boring enough to be normal and acceptable. How do you break out of the rules of thought, finding a new way to see the world and share it with others, without being ostracized by governments, communities, individuals, and institutions?

The best advice I can give you would be this: never put a question mark on a customs form. Have your answers figured out before they ask you to write it down, or you may be questioned. I still don’t have solid answers to most of the questions the official asked me. I still do to the first one. It’s still the biggest question in my life. It’s the thing that defines why I’m traveling. It proves to me why I’m changing, and sets me up to cry.

One would think that the British government would have an immigration clause for “I’m in love with a woman in your country, and I will have to break in illegally if you don’t let me come in, or she may just leave your cold ass shores like our ancestors did because you hamburgers suck so bad, and come to join me instead….We’re exchanging our pounds at the bank. Your currency is not something we wish to use. Should’ve let me come back in to get my stuff at least, I might’ve stayed and inspired you to work. Fuckers. Now I wanna go Robin Hood all up and down your systems ways…. just to pass the time.”

I bought one of your ten pound notes from a British art student after you sent me to NYC. Just wanted to have one in my hand again to feel in touch with my woman. I gave it away to a bum the next day though. Wish you had been there to hear what life is about for him. He could’ve taken your homeless population and turned it into a workforce with his message, so I gave him ten pounds. He said he might get himself a prostitute for his birthday with it. I told him how to exchange it for something with value in this country. Fuck you Britain.

We told your silliness’s to take a flying leap when you tried to get us to be like you a long time ago. This is me as a wild and free American…burning your white picket fence. A yard that doesn’t grow food and isn’t well tended, is called a yard. Gardens are for food or caring. Glad I’m eating fresh mangoes off the trees, and fish straight from the seas, instead of bending on my knees to do as you wish. I will continue to identify more with my Irish heritage than my English, because you keep proving to me how much you suck. Happy Saint Patty’s Day From Costa Rica. Where the people are warm, the food is outstanding, the weather is awesome, and you are not here!!!!

″Go awey gypsy….I am not drunk.″ -KO-