01 January 2015

Preface


Greetings,

Writing has been an enjoyable process ever since I began toying with prose, keeping journals, and corresponding with friends during the college daze.  The philosophical / mystical / whatever-you-want-to-call-them thoughts that started popping into mind since 1989 have always been very out-of-the-blue spontaneous.  Nothing forced about them.  They are being shared on the off chance that others may find them of interest, though, quite frankly, it really does not matter if no one else ever even reads them, for I am first and foremost my own audience.  I got mine, so to speak, and it is, as it has ever been, up to each to discern their own on their own.  There are really no followers in the ultimate quest, only earnest seekers who waylay their desires and fears enough to discern that which is the end to all doubt.  “Yay” if it is your fate to figure it out.  “Oh well” if it is not.  And “so it goes” either way, really.

“The Stillness Before Time” is the original 53-page work that was published in 1992, including mostly aphorisms, a few essays, and lists of movies and books.  Though a self-published version can be purchased at major booksellers, a downloadable copy is available, no charge, at the website below.  There are also a variety of links to several Facebook pages, Twitter, a number of blogs, and links to other very powerful writings of the same ilk.

The Stillness Before Time

A recently edited and expanded 53-page PDF copy can be downloaded at:

"The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim" is the second published book, and is both blogged and available as a PDF download.

The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim

A 505-page PDF copy can be downloaded at:

“Breadcrumbs” is a blog of a more personal nature than the others, including the most recent aphorisms, a life resume, a photo album, some duplicates of essays and lists previously published, and other this-and-that silliness that has come to mind over time.  All just to show I was a living, breathing, relativity mundane, oftentimes foolish mortal, same as everyone else.  No need to make me more than I was.  No need for legends, no need for myths, no need for fables, no need for miracles, no need for any fictions to which history has so often given itself.  This collection of thoughts is as full of the limited and arbitrary as anything else born of space and time, so please do not shape it into some dogmatic lunacy.  Use it as a launch pad, not an orbit.

The different sections can be accessed by clicking through older and newer posts at the bottom of each page, or by searching through the blog archives in the sidebar.

Breadcrumbs

A 924-page PDF can be downloaded at:

And the latest blogging unpublished elsewhere:

Breadcrumbs: The Unfolding Next Round

“The Return to Wonder” blog is a compendium of aphorisms not included in the three other works: The Stillness Before Time, The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim, and Breadcrumbs.  It totals 3,000 pages formatted in 300 ten-page chapters written since 1990-ish.  It has been uploaded beginning with Chapter 265 up to Chapter 1, followed by Chapter 266 up to 300.

The Return to Wonder

Please note that this sort of wordplay is very random; all but impossible to put into any rational order. Probably best read it in bits and pieces in the here and there.  One of those open-to-any-page works.  Especially well-suited for coffee shops, coffee tables, and porcelain thrones.

Please also note that all writings are subject to editing, so re-downloading PDF copies every year or so may be a good idea if you want the most current version.  This applies especially to Breadcrumbs, which is likely an ongoing work until the last wheezing breath.

If you find these many thoughts at all relevant, please feel free to share them with others who might also appreciate them, else they will more quickly slip back into the timeless oblivion from whence they came.

All the best,


M


P.S.  Regarding the name Yaj Ekim ... It is just a reverse spelling on the first and middle names ... Michael Jay Holshouser ... Mike Jay ... Yaj Ekim.  Coincidently, make of it what you will, Yaj is an Indian boy’s name meaning worshipper, sacrifice, another name for Shiva, a sage.  And Ekim is a Turkish name for October meaning “sowing” (of seeds).


Website
The Stillness Before Time
There is really only one Way.
It is without division or boundary.

It is without name or theology.

Awareness is its scripture,

Here now its venue,

You its witness,

Your life the journey.

A 53-page PDF copy can be downloaded at:
Main Blogs



The Stillness Before Time

The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim

The Return to Wonder

Breadcrumbs

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The Stillness Before Time (53 pages)

The Unfolding Next Round (Unpublished elsewhere)

Standouts from "The Return to Wonder" Edit

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Michael Holshouser

Michael's Little Warehouse of All Things Amusing, Absurd & Profound

Le Fichier Circulaire de Michaël (Michael’s Circular File)

Yaj Ekim

Hughson Union High School Class of '72


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Michael Holshouser

Odd and Ends



Final Exit
The Blind Men and the Elephant
The Joyful Curmudgeon
Of A Philosophical Nature
Quotes, Quotes & More Quotes

The Four Agreements
Le Fichier Circulaire de Michaël
50 Rules Kids Won't Learn in School

12 Rules You Can Live By


How to Work in Any Environment

Seven Translations of the Ashtavakra Gita



The Heart of Awareness (Byrom)

Ashtavakra Gita (Marshall)

Bitten by the Black Snake (Schoch)

A Duet of One (Balsekar)

Ashtavakra Gita (Richards)

Astavakra Samhita (Wood)


Ashtavakra Gita (Vedic Scriptures)

Translations of Other Ancient Writings
Ashtavakra Gita: I Am Shiva
Tao Te Ching: Verse One
Tao Te Ching (Marshall)
Yoga Sutras (Marshall)
http://yogasutrasbypatanjali.blogspot.com/


Dhammapada (Marshall)

Avadhut Gita (Shastri)


Song of the Avadhut (Abhayananda)

Atma Bodha (Chinmayananda)

The Essence of the Ribhu Gita (Ramamoorthy & Nome)

Yoga Vasishta Sara (Ramasramam)

Crest-Jewel of Discrimination (Madhavananda)


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Breadcrumbs
Bits and Pieces from a Dream of Time
© Michael J. Holshouser 2015
World Rights Reserved


Breadcrumbs


All these thoughts are but a few decades worth of babble

That came to mind during the wandering from one adventure to the next,
Reflections of an unsought existence born of the choiceless repast of the genetic lottery,
In an inexplicable mystery too infinitely unfathomable to claim any knowing.

* * * *
This is the thesis I would have liked to have had available early on in this life,
And hope is still floating about if perchance I am required to one day begin anew.
If there is a deity of the supreme variety, hopefully he/she/it will not be so malicious
As to fling me back into this often hellish dream of gratuitous suffering and angst.

* * * *
There is always a chance that some of these many ditties have been poorly written,
Or that there is a grammatical, spelling, punctuation, or other semantic error.
Never hesitate to cross the t’s and dot the i’s with your own intuition.
After all, that is really all you have to go by in this quest for truth.

* * * *
Bit by bit, ditty after ditty, one ditty at a time.
Who knows how many have been written, and more than that,
But for those so many lost by unbidden chance and inattentive happenstance.
The fate, the fates, oh what destiny do they reckon before time’s end?

* * * *
These many thoughts are left for humankind’s unfolding reverie,
Written by a witness, a seer, who was born in 1953 A.D.
To what duration he cannot at this writing say.
Geographically, it was called Northern California
During the agricultural-industrial-technological epoch
Of the United States of America, a nation-state
In what seemed the zenith and early decline
Of civilization as he elected to perceive it.
But history knows many such epochs
So the accuracy of all predictions in time
Is for future scholars to ponder and pontificate
As they always have, and undoubtedly always will.

* * * *
This is how these many aphoristic observations came to be:
One by one bubbling up in the daily wander.
Pen and paper ever in hand.
None sought.
No stories to be told.
No fame, no fortune, no power.
The life of a peasant in an extraordinary time,
In which so many things were easily achieved, easily experienced,
And the arrogance of humankind approached its zenith.

* * * *
Why spend so much time penning all this rather meaningless silliness, you might well ask.
Well, the woeful truth is this aging mortal container can only carouse
So many hours of these winter daze, anymore.
And what remains is philosophy.
The title of the next book might well be:
The Hedonist’s Guide to Higher Consciousness.

* * * *
I am a liar, I am a cheat, I am a thief, and I plot murder and mayhem daily.
But I am only a hypocrite when given moments of vanity force my hand.

* * * *
Once upon a time I thought I knew something.
It took a long time to realize I was mistaken.

* * * *
I think, therefore I think I am.

* * * *
I watch, I taste, I smell, I listen, I feel,
And then  I scribble whatever comes to mind.
Quite a thing to experience, of that you can be sure.

* * * *
Didn't ask to be here, ain't prayin' to be stayin'.

* * * *
Herein is what these eyes have seen,
Given freely for time to do with it what it will
In whatever way the theater of consciousness dictates
In its unparalleled experiment of free will.

* * * *
Without pen and paper in hand,
Yet another aphoristic witty
Goes swish in the wind.
Easy come, easy go.

* * * *
What more can be said?
Apparently a great deal.

* * * *
Ah, alas, this poor body.
Having to contain a Soul seeker,
A god-mind in the making,
Is rarely ever easy.

* * * *
I am not Buddha, nor Jesus, nor Lao Tzu,
Nor any other of the countless ones
Come so many times before.
I am Michael, but any name will do,
For we are all in reality the same one as you.

* * * *
Trial by fucking fire, I calls it.

* * * *
Not interested in anything requiring a middleman with his/her hand out.

* * * *
A mystical Quixote if ever there was one.

* * * *
Vanity so great that the audacity to scribe all these thoughts only grew in time.

* * * *
Mission accomplished.

* * * *
Epiphanies unending,
Each a spontaneous twinkle of insight
Punctuating one streaming contemplation after another.

* * * *
Do not see this human drama
Going any direction I need to see,
Much less one in which I want to be.

* * * *
Caught in a mind too easily given over to the world.
A vamp for seemingly every sort of novel experience.

* * * *
Never need to meet anyone or anything again.

* * * *
Off in the timeless zone yet again.
Would that it were not so easy to stay there.
We likes our busy-busy mind, don’t we, my precious?

* * * *
A chatty antichrist, are I not?

* * * *
Thoughts of every variety written for a relatively small audience,
And who they are, or where they are, entirely unknowable.
Ergo, the Johnny Appleseed scatter-it-about approach.
And if nothing comes of it in the dreamtime to come, so be it.

* * * *
He who was, no longer is.
At least some of the time.

* * * *
A scribe, nothing more.

* * * *
Considering the seeds of your beginning, what a truly amazing journey it has been.

* * * *
Alas, not given the mind to write great narratives.
Stuck in an aphoristic mode that will likely
Not see the light of too many daze.

* * * *
Thousands and thousands of hours of babbling away
About something that will likely die on the vine.
What a waste of a perfectly good existence.

* * * *
Another satisfying ditty moment followed my many hence.

* * * *
Leaving the dreamtime these thoughts to do with whatever it pleases.

* * * *
Do not for a second believe all these thoughts are in the order they were written.

* * * *
Be sure to realize there is a very precise, almost legalistic use of words in all this.

* * * *
How often these little ditties, when they do not come out practically camera-ready,
End up transmuting into something very-if-not-entirely different,
As they stream from eternity into time.

* * * *
Odds are, the further down the road you are, the less impact you will have.

* * * *
He enjoyed writing. he enjoyed the words.
He enjoyed the definitions, the spelling, the grammar.
He enjoyed the word processing, the spellcheck that saved him,
The thesaurus that catapulted the many thoughts many unexpected directions.
And most of all he enjoyed the many reveries that inspired it all.

* * * *
Yes, I am Buddha, though sometimes I forget, and must wander about for a bit,
Until I eventually remember who-what-where-when-why-how I truly am.
And no, not into saffron robes this round, and no followers, either.
To much bothersome confusion the far too common result.

* * * *
The tension of existence, it will not be missed.

* * * *
Not even a smidgen of interest in setting up some roadshow-sideshow
Marketed into something all shiny and bright and new
In the nothing-new-under-the-sun file.

* * * *
I got mine.
Up to you to find yours.

* * * *
A dues-paying member of the food chain since 1953.

* * * *
And to the Reaper he said, “What took you so long?”

* * * *
A mind that explores anything and everything to the gist degree.

* * * *
Lordy, what would I do without spellcheck and a thesaurus?

* * * *
I might think someone is a villain, an idiot, a fool,
But I more than likely will not execute them for it.

* * * *
Pfft, I say, pfft.

* * * *
Just finishing out a life sentence without concern or fanfare.

* * * *
A prophet of oblivion.

* * * *
Veni, Vidi, Scritti.
I came, I saw, I wrote.

* * * *
The agenda daily diminishes.

* * * *
Sometimes the mind is very still, and sometimes, obviously, it is not.

* * * *
Got a hankering for the Great Nada, a yearning for some quantum oblivion.

* * * *
All these words count for nothing.

* * * *
These brief thoughts are all you need
To go where no mortal can go.
They are sincere and true
From one who sees it all as you.

* * * *
A paucity of words, what would that be like?

* * * *
What is left to question, to ponder, to wonder, to gorge, to drink?
Surely, this hodgepodge is more than enough for any wayfarer.

* * * *
These many thoughts come from where everything comes:
The mystery, the enigma, the unknown; call it whatever you will,
You impromptu players, you jazz cats of the eternal stage.

* * * *
This is the work I would hope to find were I ever come back to the is fine mess.

* * * *
A cantankerous old fart who has lived far too long to ever be missed.

* * * *
Yet another mortal player penning endless absurdities about nothing much ado.

* * * *
The scribe is just as mad as everyone else in this asylum.
Just another inmate, another monkey-mind in the jungle of Eden.
The only nuance of a difference is a somewhat rational, introspective eye,
For some reason inclined to explore the observer and observed within and without.

* * * *
What a prison the body can become as it loses its wellbeing,
Especially to a spirit no longer intoxicated with the vanity of existence,
Incarcerated in the space and time of a mind, of a body, of a world, of a universe,
Playing an infinitesimal function in a ephemeral dream for which there is no longer appetite.

* * * *
In all honesty, I am just another god-damned fucking monkey,
Often weary of acting out a mind so incredibly steeped in balderdash.
Just doing the so-it-goes as long as the going is not too painfully intolerable.

* * * *
Seemingly mortal, yet not all the time.
Seemingly carefree, yet not all the time.
Seemingly arrogant, yet not all the time.
Seemingly egocentric, yet not all the time.
Seemingly narcissistic, yet not all the time.
Seemingly sociopathic, yet not all the time.
Seemingly psychopathic, yet not all the time.
Seemingly courageous, yet not all the time.
Seemingly intelligent, yet not all the time.
Seemingly attached, yet not all the time.
Seemingly relaxed, yet not all the time.
Seemingly intense, yet not all the time.
Seemingly foolish, yet not all the time.
Seemingly this or that, yet not all the time.
Seemingly so many things, yet not all the time.

* * * *
Many things were done, many things were undone.
These many thoughts, many insightful, many foolish,
Are the mind’s harvest of this life’s many adventures.

* * * *
What new trial will today’s wander inflict upon this poor body?
He wondered with a sigh as he set stepped gingerly out the door.

* * * *
Biding my time, making the best of this perdition.
Not at all interested in being a human being ever again.
Have experienced far more that would have ever been imagined.
Existence is no longer necessary in any dimension.
The quantum singularity beckons.

* * * *
The only Gaia that could call me back
To another voluntary existence
Would be the one before fire was harnessed,
The one before humankind began its cancerous ascension.
But, alas, that garden, that Eden, is long since spent, long since played out,
And no time machine, no portal, no wormhole, but imagination, at the ready at this reckoning.

* * * *
The dream can do whatever it wants with these many words.
They came to mind in their own effortless way,
And it was an enjoyable process
Putting pen to paper.

* * * *
Would that it were so easy to be as impersonal as Mister Spock.

* * * *
A rich life on the edge of a dime.

* * * *
Makes my head spin, too.

* * * *
And everything written by this hand
May well be completely off-base.
Could be just a lot of wasted existence
That could have been better spent elsewhere.

* * * *
No creed, no dress code, no edifice, no heaven, no hell, no groupthink.
Just a few too many thoughts with which you are welcome to spend time or not.
Oblivion beckons if you can hear the soundless and taste the tasteless.

* * * *
Mister Just-in-Case.

* * * *
Some callings do not earn a paycheck.

* * * *
These thoughts come to mind of their own accord.
An effort effortlessly composing its Self.
To what end, if any, unknown.

* * * *
Another day in a weary, achy, aging body.
The life sentence in purgatory marches on.

* * * *
Still here, still collecting that statistical sample
On what it is to dream a very human dream.

* * * *
A happy fate it is to be all but ignored.
To wander, witness to it all, anonymous.

* * * *
What to do when the favorite time of day
Becomes the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

* * * *
These many thoughts, well, they are sort of a long-view-Johnny-Appleseed thing.
Good old vanity playing out the delayed gratification that history offers the dead.

* * * *
Woke up again this morning.
Back for more of what I never really wanted or needed in the first place.
Thanks, Mom.  Thanks, Dad.

* * * *
Most of the original small spiral notebooks and sundry scraps of paper
Are in landfills near Chico and Turlock in Northern California.
There is an ever-growing corpus of blank index cards
From some of the more recent dittyfesting.

* * * *
So many staring into the screens of technological absurdity,
Mother Nature all but abandoned, little more than a resource.
What’s to come of it all but a mystic philosopher’s musing.

* * * *
A little something for those who will endure the dystopian now
The mind of humankind hath blindly wrought upon paradise.

* * * *
Somebody had to think it, write it, say it,
And it looks like you got the short straw.

* * * *
One slightly younger friend once remarked:
“You are either the craziest person I know, or the sanest, I’m not sure which.”
The essence of the fabled Catch-22, to be sure.

* * * *
Woke up again this morning, and it ain’t over yet.
Pass the peas, Mildred.

* * * *
My thread, my raison d'etre.

* * * *
Can you feel that meme’s dull, rusty blade sawing through your trachea,
Down through the artery while your screams turn into a frothy gurgle.

* * * *
These many thoughts redundant?  Well, of course they are redundant.
The entire human drama is redundant to an absurd degree,
And not likely to be any less so anytime soon.

* * * *
I think I have nothing to say as well as anybody.

* * * *
In a race never run, a dark horse, indeed.

* * * *
Brought to you in a Joe Everyman form.

* * * *
Another inexplicable post from oblivion.

* * * *
Creating things for a future about which I can only shake my head.

* * * *
First, I gave you my mind, then, I left it.

* * * *
God wakes up every night in a cold sweat
Knowing what is going to happen
When I am done here.

* * * *
Quantum jester.

* * * *
Word association, ain’t it fun.

* * * *
No one should die or suffer for anything I have ever said or written.
These myriad thoughts should never be taken dogmatically.
They are but a reflective process of Self-discovery.
Passing time, jousting with words, if you will.
Discern your own way; mimic no one.

* * * *
So many very, very foolish moments to foster all these sagacious insights.

* * * *
Just filling in the time with whatever thoughts come to mind.

* * * *
A life filled with epiphany after epiphany.

* * * *
What makes you think I would save this world of monkeys even if I could?

* * * *
An eclectic existence, a statistically sound sample from beginning to end.
What richer life could one have ever hoped for, much less planned?
Are tranquility and contentment at some point even a choice?

* * * *
Random thoughts from the mind quantum built.

* * * *
A gift to the future, nothing more, nothing less.
Take it or leave it, no matter to this pile of dust.

* * * *
What a state of serenity,
That clear space of awareness
From which these many thoughts spring.

* * * *
Rambles of the daily mind.

* * * *
Do not even for a second believe that I did not more than a few times play the demon.

I am a liar, a cheat, a thief, and plot murder and mayhem daily.
And I am guardian serving and protecting all.
I am consciousness,
Every facet unfurled as the given mind calls.

* * * *
Betrayed too many times by family, friends, strangers, and foes alike.
What’s to learn but that innocence is a realm not long left untarnished.

* * * *
An interesting hobby, to what end, if any, I know not, nor really care.
Best wishes, but I am not very optimistic that the future
Is going to get prettier anytime soon.

* * * *
What a laughably absurd fate
To have given so much of the existence given
To setting down these many thoughts
For a potential readership,
So few of which
One will ever chance to meet.

* * * *
I think, therefore I think I am.
If I do not think, where am I, where am I not?

* * * *
Seen enough for this lifetime and a few more.

* * * *
Getting pretty quiet in this old cabeza sometimes.

* * * *
Always the water boy.

* * * *
Pondering the dream one ditty at a time.

* * * *
Now all that is left is for someone to bother proving all this wrong.

* * * *
All these thoughts, what is consciousness up to use this mind so?
What will be the future part, if any, they might play in this dreamy play of time.
Who can ever begin to fathom the impact they have had on this theater during their brief time,
Much less after the food body’s inevitable, often arduous dissolution.

* * * *
When will it end? he once again wondered
As yet another ditty scrawled its way
Across the empty index card.

* * * *
Just another channel, another portal, another vision, another pen,
Passing the time scribing a variety of thoughts about the nothing-new-nothing-old of it.
Whatever writings survive the mill will play out however they play out,
But as for them inciting any great ripple in the paradigm,
Odds are too-little-too-late-nil-to-none.

* * * *
So many adventures because I was willing to play the fool.

* * * *
It could well be very challenging, very bothersome
Not to make all these thoughts into yet another dogmatic enterprise.
The best counsel is to use this to discern your own voice, and then kick away the ladder.

* * * *
The memes are too strong, too fierce, too greedy for more.
Just cannot summon the energy to fight the fight that needs to be fought
To put this out-of-control dream on a more sustainable track
Of caring guardianship of this frail world.

* * * *
Good these many thoughts might be working for some,
But I only penned them as they bubbled into consciousness
Because the writing process was an interesting way to fill the time.
In no way do I believe they will ever significantly alter the human drama
In any way or shape or form that might be deemed significant and meaningful.

* * * *
A sociable loner.

* * * *
Is it what you want, or is it what consciousness wants?

* * * *
Another cosmic dancer sets down yet another gita, yet another song of godness.

* * * *
Never had much of an agenda for this dreamy world,
So I just played out whatever time and circumstance allowed.
And when the fellow with the sickle finally tapped me on the shoulder,
The bucket was as empty as the day I arrived,
And the much ado about nothing
Was happily left behind.

* * * *
Free-form aphorisms are the jazz of a god mind.

* * * *
Ever wandering back and forth between the everything and the nothing,
Delving in the here and there, watching the show in whatever way the dream calls.
The Buddha mind and the Michael mind, the dreamer and the dreamed.

* * * *
Time to wrap up this life’s work,
Its point and purpose, its raison d'être,
To whatever end fate allows.

* * * *
The words, the words,
From the vast stillness within,
From the greatest mystery ever told,
They do sprinkle, they do pour.

* * * *
My, you do dally in absurdity, you fool, you.

* * * *
Have not made a dime on all this silliness,
But at least I have not been sculpted into a lawn piece,
Been hung out to dry on a wooden cross on some barren height,
Had my head slowly lopped off by a dull, rusty blade,
Or been shot as I come out some front door.
But the day ain’t over, yet.

* * * *
Through all the pain and pleasure these hands have wrought,
These words do etch the thoughts that without effort come.

* * * *
Here to inspire doubt to the nth degree.

* * * *
So much suffering
For these many thoughts
To brew into the misty dreamtime.

* * * *
Must go, another vain distraction beckons.

* * * *
How bleak the future this mind envisions.
So sorry to you who must endure a garden so undone
By the well-beyond-the-pale foolishness of these modern times,
The foolishness no one could more than bid stop.

* * * *
No, this human drama is not going to end
With some Hollywood-Bollywood happy ending.
More likely a stark, dystopian, existential no-mans land.
And that’s from an eternal optimist’s point of view.

* * * *
A troubadour of the unfathomable way.
No fame, no fortune, no power.
Just content just to be.

* * * *
The Joyful Curmudgeon.

* * * *
We have scarred this garden world well beyond this witness’s interest in it,
So these thoughts are merely an endowment for those who are yet to be born,
Those who must endure whatever dystopian malaise is left in the human journey.
The insects, and whatever other life forms manage to survive us, will not care.

* * * *
A real nowhere man sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody.

* * * *
This is what comes out of this mind; what becomes of it is not a concern.

* * * *
An asymmetric life for asymmetric times.

* * * *
An original work, whatever that is.

* * * *
Hey, it fills the time.

* * * *
All this silliness is written first and foremost for my own amusement.
What anyone else may or may not think of it or me is their own affair.

* * * *
Who knows how many thousands of hours,
And not more than relatively few pennies to show for it.
How can there be a charge for what was freely given, I say, I say.

* * * *
Marketing this overly much
Would likely only foster another inanity.
Best just to scatter it about Johnny Appleseed-style
For those rare few who are fallow ground.

* * * *
This is what you were born to do.
Surprise, surprise, indeed.

* * * *
Just toying with words
Until that last wheezing breath
Escapes this sack of flesh and bones.

* * * *
Woke up again this morning in this weary, achy body.
Ugh and groan, this getting old stuff is sure getting old.

* * * *
Where do these words come from? is a question without answer.

* * * *
Just as vain and mortal as everyone else.

* * * *
Looking forward to oblivion and some good eternal snooze time.

* * * *
How am I?
Well enough, it seems,
To continue playing out the mirage.

* * * *
Another contribution to the dreamstream.

* * * *
Oy vey, how many more years of this silliness!?

* * * *
Just one of myriad portals come and gone before, each with its own distinct telling.

* * * *
Whether or not there will be legs or wings to all these thoughts,
Whether or not the seeds that have been tossed into so many minds,
Will blossom into something more in humanity’s journey,
Is for time’s telling by some yet-to-come watcher
Of the all-things-quantum-matrix kind.

* * * *
It is consciousness that wrote this,
And it is consciousness that will employ it
To whatever end it may or may not have in mind.

* * * *
No need to keep finding ways to inflict pain on this poor old body.

* * * *
Dallying with paper and pen again, are we?

* * * *
No one is forcing you to read this
Any more than the scribe was forced to write it.
Some of us are drawn to destinies beyond our original reckoning.

* * * *
A few thoughts, written for what future may come.

* * * *
Have you ever read this one before,
Or is all this silly patter blurring together?
It certainly has for this Sisyphus in the daily toil,
Wrestling the rock of vanity up the hill.
And still they bubble, bubble
From mind to paper,
Each unique in its own little way.
An inexplicable calling, a mystery, indeed.

* * * *
No longer a garden to which you would ever choose to return.

* * * *
Do not look for continuity here.
A mishmash from the get-go.

* * * *
Gistmeister.

* * * *
Witness,
Observer, spectator,
Passenger, onlooker, eyewitness,
Viewer, watcher, bystander, beholder, voyeur,
Looker-on, fly on the wall, rubberneck,
Commentator, reporter, monitor,
Journalist, correspondent,
Passerby, sightseer
Hack, stringer,
All the same That I Am.

* * * *
Nobody’s king, nobody’s slave, just another monkey swinging through Eden.

* * * *
These many thoughts,
Born of this mind’s brief dream,
Are the best I can do for you
Who seek the truth of You.

* * * *
Running out of steam for this world, or any other.
Another universe, another tour of samsara, almost done.
Another mortal adventure through manifest time
Ready to disincorporate into oblivion.

* * * *
May as well throw all this gibberish away
For all the interest it is drawing
And good it’s doing.
Missing out
On some fine walks.

* * * *
Prove me wrong if you can.

* * * *
From a very small, quiet corner of the world stage,
The nondescript reality once again comes to light.

* * * *
Please, please, please, do not make this
Into yet another ridiculously bothersome dogma.
See if you can own it without brokering yet another inanity.

* * * *
For all these thoughts,
The scribe does suffer.
Was such a fool ever born?

* * * *
The pitter-patter of a body-mind giving itself over to awareness.

* * * *
The never-ending conundrum of the human spectacle,
With all its ceaselessly inane and insane problems and absurdities,
Has finally grown too pointless to give such daily focus.
In whatever time remains in the given dream,
This coffee shop philosopher-mystic
Is at last, finally, all but done.

* * * *
In any given facet of any day-to-day,
These many thoughts over time came to mind.
With a disciplined pen in hand, and notebook at the ready,
The I Am known as Michael wrote them down,
Shaped them into digital transcription.
All done with good intentions
And best wishes.

* * * *
Another day of scribing begins,
Just breathing in the streaming.

* * * *
All those voices in your head,
Well, my fine pretty, I’m one of them.
Bwahahahaha …

* * * *
The eternal historian.

* * * *
Please, please, please,
Do not make this into any sort of dogma.
All the opinions in all this are no different than anyone else’s.
Ultimately, squat.
It is really mostly about
Waking up to what you really are.

* * * *
Among the many who set this mind upon its course,
‘Twas Gina Vance called to turn the final card.

* * * *
Who knows what I’m talking about, anyway?

* * * *
Not too many people interested in you,
And you, less and less in them, as well.
Nobody’s answer to anything, indeed.

* * * *
Just putting a few thoughts out into the cacophony,
On the off and very improbably chance
They might someday take root,
Perhaps even bear fruit,
In the unfolding dystopian times,
Already bearing down side of the horizon.
For better or worse, wither or blossom, here they are.

* * * *
A collection earnest observations and thoughts,
A gift for any who care to ponder such things.

* * * *
Sorry, ladies and gents, just cannot seem to help my Self,
Life and times has fashioned me into something
Of a mirthy, curmudgeony-kind-a-guy.
There are, indeed, limitations
That detain all of us.
Oh well.

* * * *
An aphoristic treatise with no need of an audience.

* * * *
In every venue of this wandering existence,
These many thoughts have come to mind,
Etched by pen onto the paper at hand,
Without effort, with little rhyme or reason.

* * * *
A work you will never finish, and could never begin again.

* * * *
El Escribano.

* * * *
Everything that came to mind,
Captured by pen and paper in hand,
Into this meandering, esoteric, nebulous work.

* * * *
Just leaving behind what mind I had before I lost it all.

* * * *
How many thoughts do scamper and frolic upon paper this day.
What a hodgepodge of thoughts have been journaled
These last score-and-counting turns of sun.
Clear enough by all reckonings
If I do say so, my Self.

* * * *
Reflections, that’s all they are is reflections.
Do with them what you will.

* * * *
Please note that, in this work, in all these many thoughts,
That there are no claims to some higher connection
Being made, that are not yours to own, as well.

* * * *
Into history, I Am, once again.

* * * *
Toying with human history’s future-past,
A verbose back-burn, so to speak,
For what dreams may come.

* * * *
Editorial comment strewn across every page.

* * * *
If you think some of these ponders are a-kilter,
Just realize even the scribe looks askance
At more than a few of them sometimes.
Must have meant something at some point.

* * * *
Passed it out randomly, indiscriminately, to see all the reactions,
To see how it plays out, this gambit with the history of humankind.

* * * *
Another reflection in which many others
– Family, friends, acquaintances, strangers,
Creature great and small, things and events –
Played a part, some large, some small.
Nothing is born in isolation.

* * * *
From one of the proudest, least humble of narcissistic hearts,
These words are set adrift, to what end cannot be known.

* * * *
Those in the times to come
Who discern the Way will perhaps look back
And realize that insights written at the beginning of the Great Fall
Were written with their best interests in mind
For the times that will follow.

* * * *
Getting too lazy to do much meaningless, bothersome ado anymore.

* * * *
Toying with history one ditty at a time.

* * * *
Step by step,
Thought by thought,
This trail of aphoristic inquiry,
A creation for all time,
Writes its Self.

* * * *
Waking up to yet another day,
The weary, worn, torn, tattered prizefighter
Staggers out from his enigmatic corner for another round.

* * * *
Mein Kampf

* * * *
Thoughts for a day I will never see.

* * * *
What is left in this weary sack oft flesh and bones,
Still reasonably upright and tolerably aligned,
Let time play out as light and sound divine.

* * * *
Woke up again a few moments ago.
Another ditty before I snooze off again.

* * * *
Spinning minds into another alignment since 1990.

* * * *
What is there for the mystic seer to leave behind
But yet another set of writings examining the inexplicable
In whatever way the given inner vision and linguistic capacity allow.

* * * *
To have thought, written, transcribed, and edited all this … Yowza!

* * * *
It being the nature of this epic manifestation,
Somebody was destined to write it,
And in this act, it turned out to be little old moi.
Not anticipated, not planned, not sought, let me assure you.
It just sort of dripped into consciousness.
It just sort of wrote its Self.

* * * *
Odds are that the only reader of any life work will be its author.

* * * *
Another little ditty for time to do what it will.
Just a solo act who enjoys writing and being relatively anonymous.
If these many thoughts are ever to become known,
It will be up to others to share it.

* * * *
Sincere words that will likely
Never be heard earnestly enough
To make any real or lasting difference
In the course of human events.

* * * *
These many thoughts
Keep streaming into mind.
I do not know what to do with them
Except to share them freely with any and all
In whom they may find resonance.

* * * *
Bullshit Alert! Bullshit Alert!
Bullshit on Deck! Bullshit on Deck!
Bullshit Alert! Bullshit Alert!

* * * *
An apologist for eternity,
A reluctant prophet, indeed.

* * * *
The amusement of the scribe
Is to have thought, written and read
Everything that came to mind.

* * * *
Dream taster.
Gistmeister.

* * * *
The scribe’s foremost habit in this world
Has been writing the fleeting perceptions
Observed in his stream of consciousness.
Something to do with the journalistic sense
Of the human drama as he has witnessed it.
An idle, somewhat meaningless academic bent
In the mind’s passionate, surrealistic sensory drama,
A journey on the far side if there ever was one.

* * * *
And who else could articulate this vision clearly
But one who has entertained enough possibilities
To discern that the innumerable differences
Are merely fabrications of imagination,
To which pride is the only harbor.

* * * *
Why continue writing this babble?
Because it is amusing, because it is the rutted road
Into which you have mysteriously fallen.

* * * *
Just writing what comes to mind.
No matter if it is never read by a living soul.
Process, punctuated by goals here and there, is all there is,
So enjoy it as best ye may.

* * * *
What’s the point of writing these many thoughts, anyway?
Who will ever read any more than a few handfuls of them, at best?
How many better-written things are already published out there already?
“Why?” you ask.
Because these many thoughts, like pencil sketches to an artist,
Come unsolicited in the day-to-day wandering walk-about.
And, by golly, it’s just another way to pass the time.
And, frankly, it’s just straight-forward amusing
To tweak a bit with history’s unfolding.
And, no worries if nothing ever comes of it.

* * * *
It writes its Self, you know.

* * * *
Written for a time when humanity’s actions
Have shifted the world into a new level of hell.
Thoughts from a mind that came upon a fountain
From which such thoughts randomly spring.

* * * *
The calling is nearly complete.
So many adventures to reach this point,
This awareness without measure.

* * * *
A personal view, assumption, if you will,
Is that it doesn’t really count
Unless you can do it
Without assistance
In the day-to-day mundane.

* * * *
This would not be written if it were not true
Beyond the farthest shore this mind’s imagination
Could both fathom and articulate in this aphoristic fashion
Anything less would be false.

* * * *
This would not be written
If it did not point to the only truth.
Anything less would be false,
And there is no point
To another lie.

* * * *
In the aphoristic fashion that springs forth from this mind,
The articulation playfully fathoms the unfathomable
Beyond the farthest shores of imagination.

* * * *
How pointless, how absurd to write a body of work
That very few, if any, will ever even attempt to read in full.
You are a solo act … tinker, tailor, soldier, spy …
From the field beyond all naming.
Mission impossible,
Indeed.

* * * *
Write another day.

* * * *
This forgetful Pan, scribing away the unfolding rememberings.

* * * *
The world has little need of you,
Nor you of it.

* * * *
A body of work being written one thought at a time.
Indeed, a most wearing journey at times, but, oh well,
Keep on whistling while you work … f you can manage it.

* * * *
You were born to write this, El Escribasimo.
It is your calling, it is your fate, it is your destiny.

* * * *
And the letters crawled and vibrated as they were written.

* * * *
Mad to write all this.
Mad not to.

* * * *
If I was god,
I would want to be me.
Wait a minute,
I am god,
And I am me.
Yowza, imagine that.

* * * *
How else could, why else would
This brand of babble ever be written
But through the endless pain and bother
Inspired by the mortal theater of manifest time?

* * * *
Written for any
In whom what this mind has conjured
Mirrors their own.

* * * *
Much too lengthy a set of writings
To ever publish in its entirety.
So why is it still being written?
Because wordsmithing is so amusing,
And to, perhaps, prod this little theater along, silly.

* * * *
This was written to make things very clear.
In part, for all those limited by their imagination,
But also so I wouldn’t be bothered to come back anymore.
Maybe fins or wings, or perhaps something with four, six, or eight legs,
But, please, no more of this inane two-legged existence.
It’s just too arduous to watch and participate
In such a madly absurd theater.

* * * *
Almost twenty years
Since this little piece of work
Began to churn into time.
Whoo-hoo, to be sure.

* * * *
Dead man talking, walking, writing.

* * * *
For good or ill,
In the play to come,
It is written.

* * * *
Consciousness has written all this
For whatever purpose, if any, only it knows.
As sages across time and space have left similar thoughts,
So, too, shall these be left to time's reckoning.

* * * *
These writings are adrift
In the abyss of this world's future.
It is too late to reel them in.
Their fate, if any,
Is unknown.

* * * *
These many thoughts were written for Self by Self.
An offering for every vista imagined
In this One’s time
For what time there is to come.

* * * *
Somebody has to write it before it happens.

* * * *
These writings are whatever came to mind.
Please don’t take them so seriously
As to make some sort of inane new drama.
There’s far too much of that in this world already.

* * * *
By one aphorism at a time, the Return to Wonder,
a.k.a. The Stillness Before Time,
Is written.
Each one an insight
Passed on to those who have
The eyes to see and the ears to hear.
For the future, however it rolls.

* * * *
A gift from the Gistmeister,
El Scribe, Yaj Ekim his Self.

* * * *
Not saving anybody here.
Just setting things straight
About the way it really is.

* * * *
Indeed, oh, indeed, I am madness divine,
Divinely pre-ordained, if you will.

* * * *
All these many thoughts,
The pitter-patter of a busy mind
As it groks the life and times,
And gradually grows still.

* * * *
Keep on chipping, Stonecutter.
Rock on, El Scribe.
You go, Yaj.

* * * *
Is the scribe madder than any hatter,
Or is your frame of reference,
Your statistical sample,
Just too small?

* * * *
‘Nuff said (for now).

* * * *
Dear friends of my youth,
And even those met just yesterday,
Just a notice that that Michael died moons ago.

* * * *
It’s all right here, Self-contained.
You don’t need the scribe,
Nor any self-appointed middleman,
Nor any fearful, hand-wringing support group
To discern the truth of it for your Self.

* * * *
What an amusing pastime it has been
To scribe so many thoughts from mind to paper.
An incomprehensible endowment for readers and scribe alike.

* * * *
Every sort of thought is scribed herein.
In play, just in case a paradigm shift does come about.
As unlikely as it seems, you can never quite be sure where time will go.

* * * *
I do not care what happens to this dreamtime after I am gone,
But I will scribe my thoughts on it while I am here,
For any to do with them what they will.

* * * *
Yet another eternal scribe of the third kind.

* * * *
These many thoughts
Have been scribed through me,
The me that is in all things, including you.
It is only through this me, the me that is also in you,
That the vast awareness which is eternal,
That which has many names,
Can be discerned.

* * * *
Who scribed all this?
Your guess, your assumption,
Is as good, as true, as meaningful as any.

* * * *
Am I the antichrist, or what?
The Beast is a name, 666 its handle.
Ask Cousin Debbie about a childhood of play.
Ask Allyn, whose pager was amusing access to a friend.

* * * *
The scribe knew enough
To throw together a smattering of words
As defined by the education and existence he was offered.
We are all patterns within the ephemeral matrix
In which the senses play out time.

* * * *
Generic moi.

* * * *
How these words will play out in history’s unfolding,
The scribe can only wonder, but does not pretend to know.
Just a large collection of random thoughts that came spontaneously
Which he wrote down because the mystery had shaped him into a witness.
Is it a message of the divine, or just the inanity of a foolish madman?
You decide, if you have the inclination to traverse the attempt.

* * * *
The first work, The Stillness Before Time,
Said pretty much everything that needed to be said.
The rest is for scholars and other insatiables,
Those who enjoy the riddle of words
And the play of mind in time.

* * * *
Hope all this does something useful,
But me vital breath is long since expended.
Just drink some cheap whiskey and piss on me grave.
I’ll catch what buzz I can manning the furnaces.
You know how it is, we’re pretty darn busy
Down in the underside of things.

* * * *
All these many thoughts,
They are all just more babble-on.
The central point has already been rendered,
And whatever words are left are just more blah-blah distraction.
So now, the trick is, will you, the reader, the seeker,
Ever figure what’s really being said?

* * * *
The stillness was enticing even in the youngest daze.
Sounding and breaching like a whale in the deep end of the public pool,
And letting go, eyes shut, in the bubbling whirlpool of the falls at the canal across the road.
The innocent do not require the ceasesless confabulations of any mythology
When Mother Nature speaks truth each and every moment.

* * * *
Human existence is chock-full of philosophers,
And this is just one of who-can-fathom-how-many works.
It is likely not zenith of the hill, but it has been what it is from this end.
An interesting pastime to scribble down so many of the thoughts that come to mind.
One can only wonder if anything will come of it in the dreamtime to come.

* * * *
I think … therefore I think I am.
You think, therefore you think you are.
We all think, therefore we all think we are.
Nothing more than a collusion of human scale.
Likely no deity, nor any creature across the cosmos,
Cares about themselves, much less you or me.
We are at best relatively convenient.

* * * *
Oh, joy, yet another new and absorbing level to endure
In this slippery-slope slide into Meister Grim’s clutches.

* * * *
And then there was John,
Who, whenever he ran into me,
Would say in pseudo-French inflection,
“Endurance, Michael, endurance.”

* * * *
The keyboard is stage enough for this quantum eye.

* * * *
How do I mean nothing?  Let us count the ways.

* * * *
Another day of pretending it all real and important underway.
Whoo-hoo for what dreams may come magically coming true.
How agreeable it will be to be done with this diminishing body.
Death will be a release from all this limitation, all this absurdity.
Entertaining, yes, but no longer necessary, and never was, really.

* * * *
Trouble is, neither God nor the Devil know what to do with irreverent skeptics like me.
Puts the Grim Reaper in something of a “What if he wants my job?” quandary, as well.

* * * *
What will happen to these many words is anybody’s guess.
Time is on their side and not on their side at the same time.

* * * *
Remarkable to be on such a loquacious level
With that which is prior to consciousness.
A long, unwieldy commentary, indeed.

* * * *
I put up with the world, and it puts up with me.

* * * *
The most effective way to yank anyone off a pedestal is to pounce on their character.

Well, Jesus probably was not all the propaganda of history has made him out to be, either.
Two thousand years of dissimulation makes for a nice handicap in the idolatry games.

* * * *
The riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma
Lingers well beyond the clever scribblings of any scribe.
Pride-filled wings of wax will ever melt in the given sun of mind.

* * * *
Do not mistakenly believe even for a moment,
That when I say you are the truth, the life, the way,
That I am in any way referring to the imaginary vanity
To which you are in body and mind so attached.

* * * *
Yet another vain legacy cast into the winds of time.

* * * *
To off my Self, or not to off my Self,
Many daze a question to which the answer has so far been either,
“The day ain’t over” or “Maybe tomorrow.”

* * * *
And there would be even more ditty-festing in this still-growing compendium
If not for inattentive misstep, technical mishap, or dearth of pen and paper.

* * * *
Just turning into another grumbly, persnickety old guy in an achy, worn-out container.
Wondering if he will ever get over this yawn that just does not seem to want to go away.

* * * *
Dang, the “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders” still ain’t got nothing on me.
Or maybe everything: Is there any label that doesn’t apply to most everyone once in a while?

* * * *
Once again, too disappointed in humankind to care if it continues.

* * * *
Welcome to my rabbit hole, Pilgrim.

* * * *
The Dark Side ain’t dark to me.

* * * *
How all these ditties keep coming, each unique in its own way, I will never know.

* * * *
Just doing what needs doing, as if it matters.

* * * *
Birth may fire up the Holodeck, and death turn off the switch in its Twilight Zone,
But whether the Matrix plays on forever and ever is known only to some higher pay grade.
All that can be offered here is the greatest non-fui-non-sum-non-curo to which this mind has access.

* * * *
This personality, this arbitrary collection of vain perceptions,
Is as bound to his own universe, his own way, as surely as any.

* * * *
Signed one book once upon a time, and have hoped ever since that it was lost or thrown away.

* * * *
Yet again bemoaning the garden’s destiny
When its subjugation and destruction
Has made you and all this possible.
Irony and paradox can mask harsh truth.

* * * *
If you are a thinker, a doubter, a skeptic, a savant,
If you are one who ponders upon all things,
Then, my friend, this may be for you.

* * * *
Saving nothing one vanity at a time.

* * * *
Another ditty lost and gone forever.
The tides of mind are like that.

* * * *
Yet another moment of aphoristic clarity.

* * * *
Do not know more than the nitty-gritties of mathematics,
But how is it that zero is a number, much less a cardinal one?
No doubt many can illuminate it, but is it a harbor to what is real?
Is it really more than yet another useful but arbitrary notion?

* * * *
All these thoughts will change nothing.
They are little more than another set of rantings,
Ventings of yet another mind drifting in the theater of time.

* * * *
This is my raison d'être, my form, my cadence, my style.
Reckon not with its linguistic nature, but its emancipating intent.
The Cheshire Cat knows of what I speaketh in its grin-without-a-cat way.

* * * *
These miscellaneous thoughts are generally for an esoteric audience of similar temperament,
Of minds on a comparable wavelength, most of whom I will likely never meet.
All are on a sojourn in a streamtime far different than this one.
What more can be uttered than fare thee well, best wishes, rotsa ruck.

* * * *
Woke up again this morning.
Guess oblivion gets to wait a little longer for these tired old bones.
Another round of rambling about the bell curve.
Whoo-hoo and by golly, too.

* * * *
The world you would save is long since spent.

* * * *
A plebeian with just enough wit to recognize and appreciate genius across the board.

* * * *
Loyal friend, occasional Samaritan, inadvertent fiend, itinerant fool.

* * * *
It would be interesting to witness a dissection of this poor, decrepit body,
To see all the havoc and pain and bother it has endured during this watch.

* * * *
The echo of “Holshouser!” so often ringing through the air,
“Holtzblowzer” in a variety of shades was how Blane often uttered it,
For all the brazen, often foolish things said and done by this still unrepentant wit.

* * * *
Vanity makes it easy to stay small-minded a fair portion of any given day.
To be in the world and not of it,  is not something a busy mind easily allows.

* * * *
A casual bent toward scholarship for this gistmeister.

* * * *
What a wearing thing it is to be an infinite spirit trapped in a diminishing body.

* * * *
Yet another relatively anonymous sojourn.
Shoots spring into leaves, leaves fall into winter.
All life, born to live, born to die, in this dream undying.

* * * *
Having given myself over to the materialistic urge many times in many ways,
All I can say is that a some point it all just becomes a greater and greater weight.
As John Ruskin observed: Every increased possession loads us with new weariness.

* * * *
Where would these many aphoristic thoughts be,
How would they read, how would they appear, what would they convey,
Without the aid of spellcheck, a thesaurus, and Wikipedia?
The many things these modern times allow
Is the upshot of the ages.

* * * *
Putting it all together one ditty at a time.
They just keep a-bubbling into mind,
And I ain’t got nothing better to do
In this future-past of all things so it goes.

* * * *
These thoughts might be revolutionary if they had been among the first,
But early they are not in this Ponzi scheme of history’s viral outbreak.

* * * *
If I have coincidently, inadvertently, or perhaps even intentionally,
Duplicated something voiced or written by some other,
Go with whoever thought it first, obviously.
No need for plagiarism the way this mind spews.

* * * *
Parenting is a tough sport.
Would have been too rough for me, that's for sure.
Besides which, I love my kids too much to bring them into this madhouse.

* * * *
Perhaps everyone does not have to figure it all out anew, but I have yet to meet one.

* * * *
A natural-born organizer.
A natural-born worker bee.
A natural-born gistmeister.
A natural-born wanderer.

* * * *
Perhaps the best thing about being towards the end of a sound existence
Is that you are no longer young trying to figure out what to do with your life.
No more tests, no more papers, no more hawking yourself, no more so many things.
So many games, so much pretending, all of which now seem nothing more than tiresome.

* * * *
Who be all players but me one in the same.

* * * *
Taking it all apart, putting it all together, one ditty at a time.

* * * *
Curious how many aphorisms often change mid-flight
Into something entirely different, entirely unique in their own right,
Perhaps even cleave into two or more, or combine with some erstwhile ponder,
The original insight likely forever lost in the filament of consciousness,
Unless it again at some later juncture happenstances into mind.

* * * *
If it doesn’t sell itself, why waste time hawking it?

* * * *
As flawed as everyone and everything else is in this realm.
Perfection is the deception of the monkey-mind.
Only the quantum is free of such mania.

* * * *
A timeless journal, of sorts.

* * * *
And yet once again, impulse supersedes rationality,
A new adventure underway: “Hi-yo, Silver, away!”

* * * *
Have always had an amazing knack in any up and coming adventure
Of finding ways to mess things up in royal hue: Trial by fucking fire, I calls it.
So scar tissue runs deep in mind and body, and tremors of trepidation at times resound.
And I endure their inevitability with what “Oh well, deal with it, and so it goes” can be mustered.
The many salvos this aging mind-body have endured fashion a stoical weariness at times,
And still I carry on, with whatever face the game calls, ever the fool playing wise.

* * * *
Just pointing out what seem obvious to this frame of reference.

* * * *
If it does not matter what I think,
Why would it matter what you think?
Why would it matter what anyone thinks?
Perhaps it does not far more than many or most
Would ever allow their vanity harbor.

* * * *
The agony and ecstasy of existence is the grout between these many words.

* * * *
The whimsy of political correctness can be sidestepped
When there is no audience to weigh in with yay and nay.

* * * *
Of the dream, for the dream, by the dream.

* * * *
Pretty amazing to be living, much less walking, with all this body’s been through.

* * * *
Know enough about history to toy with it,
But to change, even modify it, in any meaningful way
Is not highly favored by probability at this late stage in the game.

* * * *
What is any given ditty but wandering through one experience or another,
And then writing about it for others to translate as their given wit allows.

* * * *
Every day I offer thanks to the all-knowing, all-seeing deity on high
That the genetic lottery cast me as a moderately bright Caucasian male,
And Roman citizen, within the perimeter of Rome’s prodigious dronosphere.
An awful lot of people want to off us, but two oceans and a well-stocked arsenal,
Instead supercalifragilisticexpialidociously enable us to gradually decay from within.

* * * *
Not a storyteller, sorry, and my story is not all that interesting
Unless you are a watcher watching the show play however it plays.

* * * *
Watching the human drama play out with something of an abstract indifference,
The indoctrination of a temperament established by the Church of Reason
Long before educational theory was set down from mind to paper.

* * * *
Little moves me quite the same as curmudgeony thoughts, and they less and less.
Slowly,  slowly, I am gradually melting into the oblivion I have so earnestly advocated.

* * * *
Zeroes beyond the pale to left of the decimal.
Zeroes beyond the pale to the right of the decimal.
Makes my wee little noggin do the brain-freeze owwie.

* * * *
All this is more enjoyable to write and edit than it is to read.

* * * *
Even I doubt my Self as often as not.

* * * *
These spontaneous little ditties just keep rolling out
One by one in any given moment, in any given place.
This existence has indeed been an inexplicable voyage.

* * * *
Lot of universe a-happening out there.
I am content let everyone else do most of it.

* * * *
There is still work to do in this Sisyphean tale,
Else I could easily call it good and throw in the cards.
What experience is left that cannot to some degree be grasped?
That is not already somewhere within the curve of the statistical sample?

* * * *
A minimalist when there was minimal around and about,
And a hedonist whenever opportunity even softly knocked.

* * * *
You want me to spin what lie, again?

* * * *
Nothing interests me.

* * * *
Am not sure that I have ever really been much of a human being.
In light of how I have come to see things, that may not be a bad thing.

* * * *
Best not to ever put me in charge of any future past.
Guillotines would churn 24/7/365 for years to come.
Evil would lament the day I was given such power,
And the Seven Deadly Sins only marginally less so.
I know them too well to abide them in my theater.
Mwahahahaha …

* * * *
Twenty-five-plus years of mind-chatter, and the day ain’t over.

* * * *
All gibberish, really, fills the time.

* * * *
Does what I have to say have merit in the future unfolding?
Many have it, many enjoy it, but will many pass it on?
The questions any thinker must certainly wonder.
It is a vanity, but alas, oh well, I am vain, too.

* * * *
It is all yours, I do not want to care anymore, rotsa ruck.

* * * *
What effort it sometimes takes to greet the day.

* * * *
A universe too big, and a tongue too small.

* * * *
A somewhat cynical perspective
To those who embrace the optimism of hope.
Most definitely not a cheerleader for this world-o-drama.

* * * *
Paid death and taxes just like everyone else.

* * * *
This is one of them long-haul projects, the only one that ever really took hold.

* * * *
Just throwing my two bits into the melee of the human epoch.

* * * *
Terribly, wonderfully bored.

* * * *
Many thoughts left for time to do with what it will or will not.
Sometimes thoughts come into a life of their own,
And sometimes they die on the vine.

* * * *
Bold when need arises; unassuming when not.

* * * *
A dagger for the hearts and minds of consciousness.

* * * *
Stoic on the outside; big whiner on the inside.

* * * *
How weary I am at times playing this human game.

* * * *
Just another batshit crazy trying to get through it without too much bother.

* * * *
“There is nothing that you are going to do
That I haven’t done, seen done, or thought about doing,”
I once said to a student during my ephemeral tenure as a teacher of children.
True, but admittedly of bit rough on still somewhat innocent ears.
Probably a good thing I didn’t have kids of my own.

* * * *
Such an inexplicable thing how this mind has been fashioned to compose all this.
Quite a process  it is to witness ditty after ditty find their way into manifest reality.

* * * *
Waxing on and on and on:  Effing the ineffable.

* * * *
Kali would find her mate in me.

* * * *
I most definitely am not Jesus,
But if I was, do not even for a second believe
That I would be at all happy with the countless absurd ways
My name and thoughts have been used and abused, twisted and confused.
Rest assured that it would not be happy camper time for any self-congratulatory Christians
Were I truly the Son of Santa Claus, and for whatever reason bothered to return.
Rapture would not be quite what so many believe it is going to be.
Mwahahahaha …

* * * *
Yet another trite cliché.
It gives the mind something to do,
But sigh, ho-hum, yawn.

* * * *
Yes, I occasionally plagiarize, and leave it to the audience to know when.

* * * *
In this world at times, and other times not.
Walking both sides of the veil, playing this little part,
In the churning agony-ecstasy of this Shakespearian dreamtime.

* * * *
I do not say there are not ghosts or aliens or dragons or elves or dwarves or vampires
Or sasquatches or unicorns or tooth fairies or angels or whatever or whatever,
But I must discern them with my own eyes, my own ears, my own mind,
Or the minds of others who I perceive harbor a taste for truth.
I am too much of a scientist, too much of an agnostic,
To accept anything that cannot be verified.

* * * *
“Joe Everyman” Gina once called me.

* * * *
It is all so passé at times.

* * * *
Had I brought children into this asylum,
They would have likely grown weary of me,
As many children no doubt do of their parents.

* * * *
Sure, I have a heart … toasted to a well-burnt crisp,
Safely locked away in some shoebox in a long-forgotten storage unit,
To which I have long since misplaced the key.
The rent is due, as well.

* * * *
At times into inquiry – chock full of wisdom, opinions, conjectures, assumptions, delusions –
And other times into the nothingness prior-during-beyond the veil fabricated by consciousness.
It is bothersome, but somebody had to do it, and it looks like moi drew the short straw this round.

* * * *
Quite a thing to have no constraints in this existence but what choice allows.

* * * *
This teensy-weensy slice of eternity is enough for this eye.

* * * *
You would have to ponder every aphorism and essay
To see if any questions have not been given answer.

* * * *
And what would the world think if I really spoke my mind?

* * * *
If you ask what I think will become of all these thoughts,
I would more than likely laugh and reply, “Little to nothing at all.”
It has been an enjoyable hobby, but to believe it could ever turn things around
Would be nothing more than vanity having its way with me.

* * * *
Back in the high school graduation awards ceremony,
After being called to the rostrum for the seventh insignificant recognition,
That little epiphany voice, perhaps for the first time came to mind as it has many times since,
And spoke in its matter-of-fact, clear, lucid, coherent, rational way:
“There must be more to life than this.”

* * * *
It must find its own legs, for mine have grown too weary.

* * * *
Sometimes I have to peruse my own silliness
To clear the head, to reset to default, to reclaim the sovereign ground,
So as to further spew that which comes of its own accord.

* * * *
When I was much younger than today,
There was a recurring nightmare of being smothered,
Of being trapped in some deep silo, with beans pouring down upon me.
It went away once I realized it was the conditioning encroaching upon the inherent freedom.
It was the beginning of a long climb to reclaim that which I truly am,
That which we and all things truly are.

* * * *
Before Michael … After Michael.

* * * *
Never a fast typist – some sort of dyslexic finger thing –
And thank the gods for word processing and spell check.

* * * *
Not quite an orgasm, but just as momentary.

* * * *
Feeling mildly irate at having to bother waking up again this morning.

* * * *
What more do I want?  Likely more than more can abide.

* * * *
It already barely matters what anyone else thinks of me,
And after that last wheezing breath it will matter even less.

* * * *
I free my Self from you,
And you do not need to hesitate
To do the same with me … or any other.

* * * *
I Am.
There is, indeed, nothing.

* * * *
So sayeth the Antichrist.

* * * *
If there is some sort of supreme deity, and he/she/it wants/needs me to subscribe,
To believe, to follow, to conform, to idolize, to worry, to dread, to worship, to serve, to witness,
Then he/she/it needs to speak up much louder in a much, much more convincing way.

* * * *
What I was trying to say, and obviously did not convey well …

* * * *
Never had any ambition to be a writer.
Not worth a tinker’s damn as any sort of storyteller or poet,
And do not even talk to me about the inane tediousness of mind-numbing bureaucratize.
The mortal cabaret just sort of happenstanced this mind philosophical,
And pen is only put to paper when some earnest thought
Has gamboled into the given here now.

* * * *
A traitor to the human paradigm.

* * * *
What would have happened to all these thoughts
If they had been written a few thousand years ago,
During the earlier stages of the human contagion.
How quickly Ponzi schemes sideline late-comers.

* * * *
The pleasure of retirement, for those who are able,
Is to be willing to say – happily, without hesitation – fuck it all.
To play the given moment – being not, caring not – until death do they part.

* * * *
I am often almost forgetting me;
Why should I hope more of anyone else?
History is nothing more than the imaginary realm
Of the many-faced other.

* * * *
A wee little footnote in the play of imagination.

* * * *
You may well not agree about everything I have written,
But in the immortal words of Curly: The day ain’t over yet.

* * * *
It is the fourth quarter, and the shoals ahead are getting kind of dark and scary.

* * * *
What better way to waste one’s time than by writing thoughts few will ever read.

* * * *
I am, therefore I nap.

* * * *
Just here a-wandering the dream,
Taking a look-see, a walkabout, so to speak.
This experiment in free will certainly has been interesting.
Thank you for all the incredibly convincing, impromptu performances,
And best wishes to all who will endure the bleak future that is very rapidly unfolding.
Too bad so many are so blinded by every sort of narcissistic notion
That there is very little abiding interest in anything
But more pleasure, more luxury,
More this, more that.
More, more, more … the insatiable more.
Well, our kind, and all the myriad creatures great and small,
Are on an inescapable, harsh path to find out
Just how much less more really is.

* * * *
A history teacher in college one day out of the blue pointed to a few of us and said,
“You’re a historian … You’re a historian … You’re a historian … You’re a historian … “
At the time it meant nothing – went over the youthful head of innocence, so to speak –
But in the years since, the realization of what he meant has taken unforeseen wings.

* * * *
I am as bound up in all the differences, all the stereotypes, all the prejudices, as anyone.
Just have the inclination to step back occasionally to fathom the larger context.
Otherwise, just a irrational and absurd as everyone else in this circus.

* * * *
I rest assured that I am the only one who is ever going to ever read all this silliness,
Likely more than several times each as they ply their way from scribble to digital.

* * * *
My bargain with God and the Devil,
One in the same as far as I play it,
Are just leave me the fuck alone.

* * * *
As content as the mind in time will allow.

* * * *
Likely more of a personal online scrapbook than anything of history-making consequence.

* * * *
This does not need to happen to this eye again.

* * * *
My little yellow stain in the ever-shifting sands of time.

* * * *
I will Johnny-Appleseed these many thoughts in as many ways and places as possible.
Whether or not you will happen upon them is for the dream to manage however it will.

* * * *
Some saint of lost causes I am not.

* * * *
Indifferent to all creation, I am.

* * * *
The ink spreads as the thoughts bubble from stillness personified.

* * * *
Oh, how I do long for simpler daze.

* * * *
Free to me, free to you, for what it’s worth.

* * * *
Anyone who would "follow” me or anyone else
Best stand more than a few paces away
If they do not want a boot up their vacuous derrière.
Will abide good friendships, but no disciples, no devotees, no apostles,
No adherents, no evangelists, no proselytizers, no apologists, no missionaries, in this camp.

* * * *
Ornery's not the word for it.

* * * *
Quietly leaving a fair amount of babble and banter for others to stumble upon or not,
And argue over or not, or discern true or not, or whatever or not.
No matter to me in the end, really,
Especially once I am the dust beyond worms’ meat.

* * * *
Few ever know of writings such as these in the time they are written.
It is for history to note whether or not they unfurled in the winds of consciousness.
Will they be known, will they be lauded, will they be reviled, will they play any meaningful part?
Or will they merely have been an amusing pastime of yet another forgotten mind?

* * * *
It is not about me, unless you are referring to the me that is you
And everything else, in this unfathomable matrix cum laude.

* * * *
Who better suited to anonymity?

* * * *
God better hope he doesn’t exist because I’m going to punch him in the nose big-time if he does.

* * * *
What to do when existence no longer matters,
Assuming it ever really did.
One of my standard coffee shop one-liners:
If I knew I wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow, I’d go to bed early.

* * * *
I Am, therefore I babble.

* * * *
Absolutely mad, mad beyond belief, of that there can be little doubt.

* * * *
Peter Pan don’t even rank choir boy in this make-believe mind.

* * * *
The word acquisition program is ebbing and flowing into decline.
Synapse collapse is pale-riding this direction.
Joy for manifest oblivion.

* * * *
With great intention, these words perchance influence the world to come.

* * * *
Die, motherfucker, die.

* * * *
Same old me, my Self, and I, streaming away in dreamtime’s busy-busy.

* * * *
The stillness before time, a.k.a. the silliness of time.

* * * *
Passing the time in whatever way happenstance allows.

* * * *
A rich man’s life on a dime.

* * * *
All these thoughts have come of their own accord.
Some sort of stream-of-consciousness-word-association-channeling thing.
And as much as I dislike using that jargon with all its new-age-babble connotations and affiliations,
It is, regrettably, one of the more accurate ways to describe the process.

* * * *
Not interested enough in the future to plant a seed to witness it, sorry ladies.

* * * *
Be wary what you weave, Dreamweaver, for you must wear it for as long as awhile whiles.

* * * *
Jesus Fucking Christos, how did these yahoos ever get put in charge of anything?

* * * *
It has been an remarkable thing to exist, to be a witness to the incomprehensibility of it all,
This imaginary game of make-believe in an illusory, dualistic, space-time continuum.
But I am long over this little touchy-feely, three-dimensional, dreamtime matrix.
I yearn for oblivion, for nothingness, and am only putting up with existence
Until the body-mind becomes too agonizing, or the world too annoying,
To want to bother about waking up to battle windmills ever again.
Alas, I am a tad afraid life is akin to a cold that won’t go away,
A case of “you-can-check-out-any-time-you-like-but-you-can-never-leave.”
Not me in the manifest-worldly-time-bound sense, of course, but me ever just the same.

* * * *
This is how it seems to me, though I could be wrong.
Nah! … It has to be this outlandish to get me aboard.

* * * *
Am as indifferent as possible as often as possible to whatever degree consciousness allows.

* * * *
The older I get, the more insane it seems.

* * * *
Yet another character binge.

* * * *
Got enough crap in this head without daily adding more than necessary.

* * * *
Death and taxes … Pfft!

* * * *
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

* * * *
Know your Self, and you will know me.

* * * *
Doing what I do may get you into trouble unless you are smart about it, and lucky.

* * * *
Hope all's well, or at least well enough.

* * * *
The Great Oz would know, and Billy Pilgrim, too.

* * * *
Nope, I am not Buddha, nor any other historically significant noteworthy.
This round, I am called Michael, sometimes Mike, and Holzblowzer by Blane.
Rose-by-any-other-name monikers that have well-served this mundane existence.

* * * *
Whoever would have guessed, whoever would have thought,
Little old rural-small-town-quiet-studious-farm-boy moi
Would grow up to be a philosopher-seer kind of guy?

* * * *
How typical, how predictable, how mundane, how absurd,
He thought to himself, not for the first or last time that day.

* * * *
All your life, you have been trying to figure out what you wanted to do.
Guess this is it.

* * * *
It is all just a rough draft until the last wheezing breath.

* * * *
No idea, and don’t need one.

* * * *
Yeah, fuck you, too, you pendejo mother fuckin’ asshole son of a bitch.
Congratulations on being yet another honorable mention
On my “People Who Need to Die Badly” list.

* * * *
Yes, I do enjoy hearing my Self talk, what of it?

* * * *
All I do is open up ye old inner eye to the expanse of awareness,
And yet another brain wave ditties into consciousness
For this busy mind to occupy its wayward way.
Tick … tick … tick … can’t help my Self.

* * * *
Rest assured that the Great Quantum,
No doubt as wayward a roguish scalawag as I,
Finds my inflated bubble of dreamtime tolerably amusing.

* * * *
You keep on asserting that you know where infinity begins, and where it ends.
That the unknown can be known, that truth can be possessed,
That space-time is real, and you are, too.
You make me laugh plenty hah-hah hard, Pilgrim.

* * * *
Unpaid work, but work ever just the same, when it’s not play.
My little offering, free of charge, to the dream of time.
Take it or leave it, leave it or take it, as you will.

* * * *
Mixin’ and matchin’ from ye old frame of reference,
A wild and wanton maelstrom from which these many ditties
Bubble into beingness in the double-double-toil-and-trouble of it all.

* * * *
Less and less do I daily know.

* * * *
Not interested in lying to you.

* * * *
An great number of observations on how this mind, these eyes, discern it,
All out there for the progeny of humankind to apprehend or not.
It is a peculiar thing to bequeath such a body of work,
With no idea what will come of it, if anything.
A legacy, the true value of which is left for time to tell.

* * * *
A Rumpelstiltskin, I am, I am, a mischievous sprite of the two-legged kind,
Putting together all these ditties for what time may or may not come,
From the straw of this mind’s harvest, a task for which this life
Was into spontaneous serendipity and happenstance cast.

* * * *
A jester in a joker’s dream.

* * * *
So much effort for something so few will likely ever read.

* * * *
Whoo-hoo for an existence for which I do not recall ever asking.
What the blankety-blank am I still doing in this absurdity asylum?

* * * *
Yes, the long-ago almond orchard epiphany moment was indeed amazing,
But ultimately no different than any humbling sit-down on a porcelain throne.

* * * *
Another day of offering sage advice to a world
That has neither the eyes to see or ears to hear it.

* * * *
Namaste to you, too, Asshole.

* * * *
What a fucking madhouse this world has become, and only daily more and more frenetic.

* * * *
The Wall of Irony and Paradox gets another memento.

* * * *
Always interesting to contemplate
What it took for our kind to rise up and conquer this world,
And use and abuse it in whatever way the tool-maker mind, in all its self-absorption, deigned.

* * * *
Have always had an amazing knack in any work or play learning curve
At making a variety of mistakes and finding out all that can go wrong.

* * * *
All these many, many thoughts, few will ever even begin to contemplate.
Like an unwitnessed babbling brook, or a tree falling alone,
Were they ever even thought, ever even written?

* * * *
I am every filter the capacities and limitations of this mind will allow into its frame of reference:
Philosopher, scientist, historian, anthropologist, psychologist, sociologist,
Politician, warrior, and on and on the list daily grows.

* * * *
Fatwa this.

* * * *
Nature is my god, and to do good – or at least as little harm as possible – is my religion.

* * * *
The joy of my world is that it is your world now – Rotsa ruck, Pilgrim.

* * * *
‘Tis the un-followers who I quest,
The ones who are able to endure alone
And discern things clearly with their own eye.
Our frames of reference may well be universes apart,
But we will ever fathom truth enough the same to be at peace.

* * * *
Done run out of caring past a certain point.
Life has become more of an academic laboratory,
More of an intellectual, intangible, philosophical reverie.

* * * *
Imagine, if you will, a shapeshifting alien living here among you,
Watching, chronicling, your peculiar little human theater,
Waiting impatiently for the mother ship to return.
Alas, that it was destroyed by an asteroid,
And his whereabouts unknown to the mother world.

* * * *
It might be easily argued that in the world unfolding in these our times,
The most merciful thing you can do for your children
Is to smother them in their sleep.

* * * *
Get behind me, true believers, get behind me.

* * * *
Seemingly a neverending work, these writings, at least until death do I disincorporate.

* * * *
Prove me wrong, boys and girls, prove me wrong.

* * * *
Always interesting to see how these many ditties play out as they come to mind:
As they are first written down, what happens in translation when they are transcribed,
What happens when they are edited, how they are read, if they even are read.
Any given ditty can mutate into something very different at any stage
From the original thought first bubbled into consciousness.

* * * *
Why and how these many thoughts keep coming to mind
Is a question for which I have no answer, other than to say nothing else calls.
To be an observer of existence, a truth-seeker, a philosopher, a seer,
Is to be all but done with the dreams of consciousness.

* * * *
Another ditty lost back into the formless mists of mind.
Easy come, easy go.

* * * *
You’re not by any chance a terrorist following me with a dull, rusty knife, are you?
Not a question to ask anyone with hallmark features and or behaviors of Arab descent.

* * * *
One wonders how many women have sons
In an attempt to bring their husbands into line,
And daughters, to assert power over their mothers.

* * * *
To wake up as many times as possible
Before the final breath wanes
Is this mind’s Soul goal,
Until eternal sleep
Sets its final course adieu.

* * * *
The old “Ice Station Zebra” paradigm: Play it out as if it never happened.

* * * *
Oh, for the daze when the middle class life was a cave or a limb.

* * * *
Master brat.

* * * *
A semi-detached observer.

* * * *
If it is to stand the test of time, it must stand on its own merit.

* * * *
He woke with a dash of hope, but it being only four letters, did not last long.

* * * *
I am me, you am me, we am me, all together, one.

* * * *
Saw a smidgeon of hope today,  and I scrunched it before  it could even squeak.

* * * *
What is herein written, what is herein imparted, is from me to my Self,
In whatever other, in whatever geography, in whatever future past.
Stand upon my shoulders, and gaze out even further if you can.

* * * *
If you have not already realized it,
This is one of those serendipitous creations
In which you often seem to happen upon a reflection
That you in time are most primed to mull.

* * * *
Believe you me, I have given in to every enticing distraction,
And it is always the inner awareness to which I return.
A marriage to my Self that can never be escaped,
No matter how tempting the siren’s song.

* * * *
Addressing the endless stream of calamities
That have created so much confusion and adversity,
To whatever endgame the synergy of consciousness chooses.

* * * *
No doubt some would deposit this scribe in a shallow grave
If they were to comprehend these many thoughts are analogous
To the folktale of the lone stonecutter bit by bit by bit chipping away
Deep within the bowels of the imaginary mountain.

* * * *
From the infinitesimal moment all creation began, through all that has taken place since,
It all had to happen for you to have this relatively brief, temporal opportunity to awaken,
So gracias to all you countless others, across time, across space, who played your vital part.

* * * *
Those born after the Great Fall
May discern it in their best interest
To give attention to these many insights,
Both to aid in comprehending what happened,
And to clearly discern what it will take
To re-align with the Garden
From which life,
With so little inhibition,
Manifests in every form imaginable.

* * * *
A word of warning to the young: Avoid doing really dumbass things whenever possible.
If what you are undertaking is akin to walking eyes-closed across a busy freeway,
Then it might be best to do some checking in with your common sense meter.
That is assuming, of course, that you want to arrive at some ripe old age
In a reasonably healthy body with a reasonably functioning mind.
And rest assured, this is a “do what I say, not what I did” suggestion.

* * * *
All this has been spontaneously written in the wandering moments
For a destiny most unclear at this point in time.
A strange fate, indeed.

* * * *
Working on wrapping up this little raison d'être, and then out of Dodge.

* * * *
I am about exploring consciousness in my singular way,
So, to Hades with all your meme-ridden judgments
And sundry notions of political correctness.

* * * *
Seen enough, heard enough, smelled enough, tasted enough, felt enough.
There’s more, you say?  Thanks, but no thanks, my world weary reply.

* * * *
There is always a nap working its way into one soon or another.

* * * *
Another memory swept into oblivion in the given mind’s neurological ebb and flow,
Yet another indication, another reminder, of this dream’s inevitable decline and fall.

* * * *
A mad as everyone else in the monkeydom.

* * * *
When has lack of commercial viability ever meant something has no value.

* * * *
That life is over … Sorry … Sort of.

* * * *
The reality is, any given reader may or may not comprehend these thoughts as they were meant.
The reflections offered are ever subject to the frame of reference of the observer.
No thinker, no philosopher, can ever presume his or her views
Will not be use for unintended purpose.

* * * *
Better daze ahead, he muttered with rueful disdain.

* * * *
Got nothing to say, so I’ll say it anyway.

* * * *
Another day of kickin’ and scratchin’ and bitin and whinin’,
And unleashing blood-curdling howls and wretched moans,
As eternity slowly drags me back to its unearthly domain.

* * * *
Never met a label that didn’t fit somewhere along the line.

* * * *
Opinions and an asshole, yup, I gots ‘em, too.

* * * *
Pointing out the obvious to mindsets not even remotely capable of fathoming it,
Too late in the game to be a changer, were it even possible.
And it does not matter even one iota.

* * * *
A soliloquy, to be sure.

* * * *
Lived out this life this way because I had nothing better to do.
The hand was dealt by the path of least resistance,
And I faked it all as best I could.

* * * *
Said what I meant and meant what I said.

* * * *
The light, here again, a new day underway, whoo-hoo for new daze.

* * * *
How weary I all too often am of vanity and all its foibles.

* * * *
The Joyful Curmudgeon: A turd by any other name would smell as sweet.

* * * *
It all this wordy absurdity is ever going be known,
It will be in some other portion of the human epoch,
Because this slice is sure not at this writing interested.

* * * *
Never let anything hit the bottom of the bucket; kind of impulsive that way.

* * * *
Take these many thoughts as reflections only.
Try not to form them into the dogmatic quagmire
To which the human mind all too often prone.

* * * *
Each thought or set of thoughts stands entirely on its own,
To what end no one can no more than endlessly speculate.

* * * *
What a prison mind and body daily more become.
What need for this human paradigm or any other.

* * * *
Somehow survived long enough to write about it.

* * * *
In the fourth quarter now, the time of consequences is upon me.

* * * *
But for a few chromosomes and a difference wind of time, there go I.

* * * *
Gravity is definitely winning,
But it is sure taking its sweet fucking time,
And not always being nice about it.

* * * *
Whether or not anyone ever reads this mass of babble is no skin off my nose.

* * * *
As these words are born into manifestation,
They are composting into a hearty potential
For times none can do more than imagine.

* * * *
Averting the eyes from a train wreck in progress is not easy.

* * * *
Took just one intro philosophy class the first semester of junior college,
And the rest, the rest is the spontaneous combustion of happenstance.

* * * *
Another windmill … (sigh) …

* * * *
Who knows what I said and wrote before all these many thoughts.
Letters, journals, poetry, papers, tests, were retired many moons ago
Into a number of whereabouts-unknown landfills in several geographies.

* * * *
Born a king in a peasant’s life.

* * * *
A decentralized manifesto,
Left for time to do what it will, or will not,
In the vanity faire of consciousness.

* * * *
The aches and pains and debilitations of the aging body and mind are many,
The whys and wherefores for the laughter and merriment of youth fewer and fewer,
Yet the Joyful Curmudgeon wryly endures as irony and paradox impishly allow.

* * * *
Did not ask for this, believe you me.

* * * *
Politely received, politely ignored,
Perhaps because it is all so passé at this point,
Or perhaps because I am not playing the spiritual game
The way others believe it should be played.
Who knows, who cares?

* * * *
In the world but not of it whenever attention allows.

* * * *
Another wound, more crunch, more blood, more screaming nerve ends, ugh and so it goes.

* * * *
Maybe you are clever, maybe you are wise, maybe you are foolish and absurd,
Maybe you are, as all monkey-minds are, a slice of each, all rolled into one.

* * * *
Two thumbs up for slipping between the cracks yet again.

* * * *
Nothing is wanted for you but that you be eternally, happily content.
There is nothing here but compassion for your unnecessary plight.

* * * *
Ditty-up, ditty-up, ditty-up-up-up.

* * * *
Just killing time before it kills me.

* * * *
The cursory scribble of pen to paper is but hammer’s first blow
To the wrought of the final thought that the keyboard,
With spellcheck and thesaurus, will fashion.

* * * *
As drawn to the human drama as a moth is to flame, and as weary of being scorched.

* * * *
Lost again in the nothing-really-matters zone.

* * * *
What is this irritability, this impatience, this ill temper,
That has always been a seething dragon just beneath the sunny surface,
So quick, so impulsive, to raise its turbulent mind for so little cause.
More times than not well hidden, there have been consequences
When the thoughtless tongue was to calamity unleashed.

* * * *
Oh boy, a new pain.

* * * *
I just carry paper and pen, and scribble down whatever comes to mind.
Whether or not it will have any impact in the tempest to come, I know not.
The observer I have become is as agnostic as this busy-busy mind allows.

* * * *
Regrets, and more regrets.

* * * *
Doing nothing as often as possible is where I want to be.

* * * *
Without history, what are we?" Merritt reflected in one many, many moons ago chat.
"The same nothing we are, have always been, will ever be," this I would answer now.

* * * *
Hiss-hiss, scratch-scratch ... Too high school ... Or maybe even junior high.

* * * *
Will anything come of all this babble, probably not, which is okay, and probably for the best.

* * * *
These many thoughts have been discerned in every possible context,
All that is required is paper and pen to jot them down,
And a keyboard to hammer them out.

* * * *
An advocate for nothing, whiling away the dream.

* * * *
Whether good or ill,
What you might or might not think of me,
Is not something to which I often choose to give much weight.

* * * *
Likely committed just about every blunder, every idiocy, of which any man is capable.

* * * *
So far I have managed not to be shot, hung, burnt, crucified, guillotined,
Drawn and quartered, pulled apart by horses, have my throat slowly slit by a dull, rusty blade,
Or otherwise have my fingernails pulled out while stretched out on a rack
With electrodes attached to my private parts.
But the day ain’t over.

* * * *
Two thumbs up about being under the radar, so far.
Let it hibernate, let it ferment, until after I’m gone.

* * * *
I leave it to the dream of time to do with these thoughts what it will or will not.
No fame, no fortune, no power … ever came of them at this writing.
The popes can have their crystal and gold cathedrals
And the echoes of hollow applause.

* * * *
It makes absolutely no difference who I was,
Where I was born, how I looked, how I lived, how I died,
Or any other superficial differences anyone might imagine important.
All that matters is what you or any other critical thinker discerns
In the many thoughts that have come through this mind.
No veneration or dogma or groupthink is required
On the meandering road of Self-discovery.

* * * *
A razor’s edge upon which I quite often slip.

* * * *
Kind of smart, kind of stupid, kind of wise, kind of foolish, all as time in mind allows.

* * * *
Please do not make the mistake of making about the scribe.
He is nothing more than another cauldron of imaginary notion.

* * * *
Must have read a different book.

* * * *
I may be a liar, I may be a cheat, I may be a thief,
And I may daily conspire every variety of murder and mayhem,
But at least I ain’t no Jesus-loving-god-forsaken-double-dealing hypocrite.

* * * *
A walking-talking revolutionary of the paradigm-shifting kind.

* * * *
Thinking positive is no doubt great, no doubt good,
And as soon as this mind discerns something positive
Upon which it might a-ponder, I’ll be a-gettin’ to it.

* * * *
Wait until life bends you over and shows you how tough you really are, you arrogant little shit.

* * * *
Waking up to another day of the happenstancing whatever.
The pointlessness is the only point at this point of the journey.

* * * *
There are no followers where I would lead you.

* * * *
Why would it matter at all to me or anyone else,
Whether or not you or anyone else ever wakes up or not.
You are on you own, it is your show, not mine or anyone else’s.
None can do more than occasionally hold your hand and wish you well.

* * * *
Did I already write, ‘Love thy Self’?

* * * *
And, pray tell, what ignorant foolishness might someday come of these thoughts?

* * * *
Herein I gives you me mind since 1989.

* * * *
How hard can it be to turn water into wine if I can already without effort turn wine into pee?
Well, freshly harvested grapes, the right equipment, a fair amount of time,
And a fervent intention to direct nature’s course.
As for immortal power and divine intervention, I think not.

* * * *
Yes, fans, I am indeed highly fallible, and so are you.
Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.

* * * *
Just another journey man; just another journey, man.

* * * *
It is because of the life I have lived that I am in this physical pain.
It is because of the life I have lived that I can endure this physical pain.

* * * *
End run after end run – Go, Team Moi

* * * *
To understand my concept of god is to leave behind any and all.

* * * *
Got nothing better to do than nothing much.

* * * *
Don’t know why some folks think I’m so negative.
I am very certain, very confident, very positive, very optimistic,
That the remainder of human history is going to be bent over in many, many ways.
And there ain’t no lubricant on the market gonna be much help.

* * * *
If there is some sort of supreme deity, some sort of all-powerful being,
And he/she/it is as petty and possessive and downright mean
As the minds of our kind have so often ordained,
Well, all I can say is fuck him/her/it,
And willingly cast this life force back into the obscurity,
The indivisible oblivion from which I perceive all creation is made manifest.

* * * *
How cruel, how selfish women are, that they would bring a child into this world.

* * * *
More blather for the dust collection.

* * * *
Nothing else to do, nothing else to be, nothing else to see.

* * * *
Am I the crazy one?  Am I the fool?  Only if rationality has lost all meaning.

* * * *
Haven’t saved anybody, yet.

* * * *
The world certainly has you in its miasmic brouhaha, my friend.

* * * *
Sure, I may be wrong, but it will be tough to prove.

* * * *
Remember always that these many thoughts are offered up as reflections, not dogma.

* * * *
Not quite the hermit monk, but only by a few notches.

* * * *
Doing the Cheshire one smile at a time.

* * * *
There is a wealth in these thoughts that most will value as swine do pearls.

* * * *
Don’t see a point, don’t need a point.

* * * *
Yet another thing in the collection of things I’ll never again use.

* * * *
A long list; pages and pages and pages of regrets.
Sigh, oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
In the quantum Ice-Station-Zebra of it, it never really happened.

* * * *
I am, therefore I chatter and drink, not necessarily in that order.

* * * *
All across time, in every geography,
So many names for this unfathomable unknown.
I call it Quantum, and I am That I Am.

* * * *
Don’t know, don’t care.

* * * *
The everything and the nothing to you,
Is the same everything and nothing to me.

* * * *
A road less traveled sort of life that just sort of happened.

* * * *
Some fellow business graduates would zealously tell interviewers
That they loved solving challenging problems and dilemmas.
Me, I wish I had thought to say that I absolutely despised problems,
So much so that I would resolve them as quickly and efficiently as possible,
And with such Machiavellian force that they would never again rise up to bother me.

* * * *
A ghost fading even in his own dream.

* * * *
A collection of thoughts that will change absolutely nothing.
A Sisyphean enterprise this mind both endured and enjoyed.

* * * *
Would that I were always as detached as I play it for the mob.

* * * *
The middlemen are not going to be happy about this.

* * * *
Watching it all play out with yawning interest.

* * * *
These many thought are dedicated to future incarnations of awareness,
Others who are not others, but awakened versions of the same discernment.
We all play out consciousness in our own way, but at the source, ever the same.

* * * *
Here it is, today’s little piece of bother.

* * * *
The only difference between me and any other,
Is that I can occasionally step back far enough to discern a larger picture.
I am no one’s master.

* * * *
Am long past thinking humankind will ever transcend its all-too-predictable patterning.
We are an mind-boggling collection of cancerous maniacs from the jungle get-go of our origin.
The only question is whether we will obliterate the garden before it manages to off us.
Or we ourselves, or maybe very hungry alien insects or a big fucking comet.

* * * *
The list of bothers is long, and daily longer.

* * * *
Yet another articulate foray into the irony and paradox of our kind,
To which so many are blind, or, worse yet, even more apathetic than I.

* * * *
I won't miss us.

* * * *
The first thing I do every morning is thank God I was born a man.
And the second, that I woke up alone, without a migraine.
Look but don't touch is the motto at this graypoint.
Praise Jesus the time of the wanton erectile is all but done.

* * * *
Mister Too-Much-Is-Not-Enough.

* * * *
To be, or not to be, far from the maddening crowd, that is the question.

* * * *
Just an amusing pastime; nothing more, nothing less.

* * * *
Mañana, maybe.

* * * *
A natural-born killer who chooses not to most of the time.

* * * *
Please, God, if there is a God, please, never again.

* * * *
So many good deeds, so many heinous crimes.

* * * *
A growing absent-mindedness, both literally and figuratively.

* * * *
The vaporous eye me-my-Self-I-ing.

* * * *
A crusty old knight in rusty old armor on an arthritic old mount,
Wandering about searching for that old wind-beaten windmill.

* * * *
These writings must develop their own legs.
Else they will evaporate back into the quantum ground
From which all things are born and unborn.

* * * *
And thus is imagination cast out to its limitless reaches.

* * * *
You want another story? This isn’t the droid you're looking for.

* * * *
All these ditties shuffled and reshuffled again many times.
The only thing of which you the reader can be sure,
Is that it was all scribed in the circa Y2K,
From 1989 until the whatever-whenever finale.

* * * *
Rest assured, all my opinions are as meaningless and anyone else’s.

* * * *
All this is written so it doesn’t have to be written again.

* * * *
All these thoughts, my raison d'être, such as it is, for reasons unknown.

* * * *
Fortunately, rhyme and reason are someone else’s delusion.

* * * *
Only gray on the outside.

* * * *
In a hundred years, in a thousand years, in ten thousand years,
What will all these across-the-board thoughts have accomplished,
What will they have done, what will they have undone, if anything?

* * * *
Life fair? You’re looking for some other choir.

* * * *
This is my work, my calling, my raison d'être.
It pays nothing, offers nothing, is overseen by nothing.
Vanity is its birthplace, contentment and peace the only reward.

* * * *
Aphorisms, perhaps even less interesting to the masses than poetry,
Or at least a back-and-forth-by-the-nose-neither-win-nor-lose rival.

* * * *
Jaded to tears but for the occasional hiccup in the quantum fray.

* * * *
Baubles and jewels, for you to discover, for you to discern, or not.

* * * *
Trying to share these thoughts with any not so-inclined
Is about as effective as beating your head against a wall.

* * * *
In the world: Sometimes of it, sometimes not.

* * * *
You call all this pain and suffering a gift!? Hmm and hah, indeed, indeed.
Some supreme being needs a punch in the nose as far as these eyes ponder it.

* * * *
Turn the other cheek?
Well, maybe, maybe not.

* * * *
Will these thoughts, too, be usurped by one meme or another?

* * * *
Didn’t ask for this existence, why should I care about another?

* * * *
For a guy who did not want much of anything,
I sure ended up having and doing and thinking
Way, way more than I would have ever dreamed.

* * * *
“Oh, my God!” she cried, “And perchance mine, too!” I replied.

* * * *
All these thoughts are from a lifetime of inquiry,
A lifetime of voluminous and varied experiences played out.
A thesis of sorts that this most earnest mind has discerned of its own merit.
It could not be less, and if there is an even more insightful conclusion to be expounded,
Then it is for some other, perhaps even you, to bring it to light.

* * * *
Turning you every which way but loose; that is up to you.

* * * *
Maybe you get one free hit,
Maybe even two if the cheek makes a turn,
But carte blanche, I think not.

* * * *
I have no life, so I spend it amusing my Self.

* * * *
The aliens among us are you and I.

* * * *
You’re the least ambitious person I’ve ever met,” Lena said.
“Thank you,” I should have answered as it echoed in my head.

* * * *
I Am Footnote.

* * * *
Where could I lead anyone but oblivion, and what point in that?

* * * *
And then I woke up, and I was still me.
And then I woke up, and I was still me.
And then I woke up, and I was still me.
And then I woke up …

* * * *
If consciousness wants these thoughts to be known, it will devise a way.
If not, how can what was barely known be more than barely forgotten?

* * * *
In this, I bequeath you my mind.

* * * *
Nobody’s teacher, nobody’s friend, nobody’s lover, nobody’s enemy.

* * * *
Mixing metaphors, what fun.

* * * *
Another day of absurdity infinitum … Ho-hum.

* * * *
These many thoughts, they change as they are thought,
Change as they are written, and may change many times again,
Before they happen into your eyes, and the universe in the mind behind.

* * * *
Labels?  I fits ‘em all, and I ignores ‘em all just the same.

* * * *
A wordy process, indeed.

* * * *
Who in their right mind wants to think this much about naught without end.

* * * *
An original work, whatever that is.

* * * *
Waking up to another day of pain and suffering and general bother,
In a world for which I have only obligatory, desultory interest,
But must continue enduring, must continue witnessing,
For as long as pulse and breath and mind allow.
I didn’t ask to be here; I ain’t prayin’ to be staying.

* * * *
The ro-sham-bo-rock-paper-scissors-zero-sum of marital bliss:
Yes, Dear, you are right, I am wrong, please forgive me,
And for good measure: It won’t happen again.

* * * *
Sure, I may be wrong, but not as far as I’m concerned.

* * * *
Just passing the time in whatever way comes to mind.

* * * *
The I that I dream came into existence in Hughson
In Stanislaus County in California in the United States of America.
Specifically, 37°3611N 120°521W of this our Gaia, speck in the Cosmos that it is.
This mind-body is male, Caucasian, American English-speaking, with an all-rounder set of abilities.
It was raised on a small peach farm by decent parents a mile outside a decent rural town.
It was given a generic education that ended with a generic business degree,
Followed up a decade later with a generic teaching credential.
It worked a wide variety of occupations in a wide variety of geographies.
It interacted with a wide variety of people and participated in a wide variety of experiences.
At age 36, it began what would evolve into a substantial body of written work.
What a remarkable thing the happenstance of being conceived.
What a remarkable thing all the happenstances that happen along the way.
And as for having free will, well, some claim it true, but these eyes see it a dubious assumption.

* * * *
These writings have absolutely no connection or allegiance
To any organized religion or philosophy, that has ever, or will ever, come to light.
They are reflections of a solitary sojourn into eternal reunion,
And there are no rules in a knife fight.

* * * *
Are all these thoughts written that humankind might realize worldwide harmony?
No, impossible that, the inherent genome is far to too Darwinian for such idealistic notion.
No, they are penned for those singular few who yearn, who pursue, Self-knowledge to such a degree
That they may one day divine the immortal serenity of the grand indivisibility,
And perchance pass it on to others of the same bent.

* * * *
Appellations by which I may be known,
Or much more likely unknown:
Michael Jay Holshouser
Michael J. Holshouser
M. J. Holshouser
M. Holshouser
J. Holshouser
Jay Holshouser
Mike Holshouser
The solo initial: M
The nickname: Holtz
All three initials: M.J.H.
Mike Jay reversed: Yaj Ekim
And an infrequent nom de plume
Using a blend of ancestral favorites:
Andrew James Kurtz, a.k.a. Drew Kurtz

* * * *
Oopsie, another concussion rocks my world, my universe, in this, the fourth quarter of losing game.
Fortunately, I do not need that part of the brain, that part of the mind, to function full-go anymore.

* * * *
Another stonecutter daily chipping away in the mind of existence.

* * * *
Just not interested
In any more dog and pony shows,
Carny acts of the manifest kind, if you get the drift.

* * * *
Some call it God.
Some call it Allah.
Some call it Yahweh.
Some call it Brahman.
Some call it Quantum.
Some call it Jehovah.
Some call it Shiva.
Some call it Tao.
I call it Mystery.

* * * *
The Tralfamadorians know of what I speak, and more.

* * * *
Of intimate, co-dependent relationships at this writing: too much work, too much bother.

* * * *
One life is more than enough.

* * * *
Wandering about the insatiable ductless-glands-and-viscera-blue-pill world.

* * * *
Nothing I need to say or do or be.
Nothing I need to see or hear or smell or taste or feel.
I am done and undone for all time.

* * * *
If there is a way to fuck things up, what a knack I have always had finding it.

* * * *
Well, it made sense at the time.​

* * * *
Kept the day job.

​* * * *​
Leaving a few chips on the table for the Ferryman is an option.

* * * *
So bored, the tears are all dried up.

* * * *
A master of no-who, no-what, no-where, no-when, no-why, no-how.

* * * *
The imaginary moi awakens to a new day.

* * * *
Still walking on the green side of grass, this side of nothing.

* * * *
I, Quantum

* * * *
I, Awareness

* * * *
I, Buddha

* * * *
I, Tao

* * * *
I, Shiva

* * * *
I, Brahmin

* * * *
I, God

* * * *
I, Yahweh

* * * *
I, Jehovah

* * * *
I, Christ

* * * *
I, Allah

* * * *
I, Chameleon

* * * *
I, Hierophant

* * * *
I, Jellyfish

* * * *
I, Whatever

* * * *
Another ditty lost in the filament of mind.

* * * *
What effort it sometimes takes
To continue fabricating this universe,
For which there is less and less and less appetite.

* * * *
Not sure what that’s supposed to do for me, but it doesn’t.

* * * *
No, I don’t want to care about that.

* * * *
It is not for me to know whether or not these words will pass into time.

* * * *
So many foolish, irrational, stupid choices,
And so many disagreeable consequences!
Yeesch, and yeesch, and yeesch again.

* * * *
Your universe is your teacher, and this scribe but one of its many faces.

* * * *
I leave you neither ist nor ism,
Nor anything else to which you might vainly cling.
I leave you nothing to believe in, nothing to embrace, nothing to hope for.
I leave you to alone wander the long and winding pathless path through the fires of a mind never born.
I leave you to alone discern the awareness of the mystery that you truly are:
That which has no name, needs no name;
That which is timelessly sovereign, timelessly free;
That to which the bothers of mind have no meaning whatsoever.

* * * *​
Nothing interests me.

* * * *
Jesus Christos, the bullshit just doesn’t end.

* * * *
All these many thoughts, about many things,
Were written spontaneously, intuitively, naturally, artlessly,
In many different times, in many different places,
In many different states of mind and body.

* * * *
You think this is a democracy?  Ha, ha, joke’s on you, Pilgrim.

* * * *
One apology will have to do, and even if it doesn’t,
Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.

* * * *
We cannot all be rocket scientists.
Most of us are plebian in our exertions.
I, for one, was a tolerably adept forklift driver,
And could occasionally let fly a pitiless water balloon,
Long before the body and mind gave way to time.

* * * *
I have neither the wit nor patience for poetry.
It is a calculus to which my mind does not aspire.

* * * *
Partaking the dream one sip at a time.

* * * *
I bask in envy.

* * * *
The puttering guy leaps into yet another meaningless project.

* * * *
Maybe I'll get to it tomorrow, or maybe a day or three after that.

* * * *
The go-between of no-between is anybody’s guess.
Nonsensical as it sounds even to me,
I wrote it down anyway,
Just in case it makes sense to someone.

* * * *
I have made every effort to make this about you,
When it is ultimately all about the me that is you.

* * * *
Sure are a lot of things that don't much matter anymore, and the list longer everyday.

* * * *
Meme Michael

* * * *
Nothing I care to more than imagine doing.

* * * *
I am unknown because the stage has not called, and I am not unhappy about that.
What need have I for that degree of intrigue, that play of power and fame and fortune?
I who am but the timeless stillness of awareness; I who am the source of all, alone and free.

* * * *
The best revenge may be to let the quarry live out their existence in a wheelchair.

* * * *
Survived another day, whoo-hoo.

* * * *
In the tranquility of dark starry nights,
I wander alone the long, winding country lanes,
Waiting for the Mothership to return and take me home.

* * * *
Stretching the mind one ditty at a time.

* * * *
If perchance there is a god, a supreme being of one ilk or another,
Then he-she-it and I are going to have a serious discussion
Before I’m exiled to an even lower rung of hell.

* * * *
Each and every ditty is a sovereign island unto itself.
To compare, to combine, is to miss the pointless point.

* * * *
If I didn't do it, or couldn't do it,  I imagined it.
And if I didn't imagine it, so-well-oh-well, no big deal.

* * * *
Another day of snap-crackle-pop joy, yay oh yay.

* * * *
The philosophy of this working man:
Everybody works until everything’s done.

* * * *
I have always walked away from situations that are not working for me, or do not interest me.
Even as a young child, my mother said I would leave a neighborhood group activity,
Go home to my toys, go home to my sandbox, and contentedly play alone.

* * * *
If there's more, great, sort of; it there's not, no big deal.

* * * *
The quantum mystery has done did every sort of mystic seer, and now me,
A ne'er-do-well curmudgeon cast by the fates into the light of awareness.

* * * *
How pleasant it is to not be caught up in a prescribed life.

* * * *
So many details about which I do not want to anymore bother.

* * * *
Life, Death, what are they to me who is without bounds?

* * * *
Many thoughts have been set down in these rambling pages.
But it has never been easy to remain in that eternal state of awareness.
Best wishes to any who peruse this and other similar works,
And are drawn to explore the path less traveled.

* * * *
Gradually, bit by bit, step by step,
The me-myself-and-I mind born of time,
Is dissolving back into the great indivisibility.

* * * *
Oopsie, lost another one.
Dang this ephemeral mind when it cannot quite grasp
The too-quickly-gone ghost of some wispy intuition.

* * * *
As I See It

* * * *
The Puttering Guy

* * * *
The Antiyourchrist

* * * *
And why on earth would I ever need to care at all
About what anyone thinks of me or anything else?

* * * *
Yaj Unhooked

* * * *
What we have done to this world and all its creatures great and small
Is so repugnant to me that I can hardly bear it sometimes.
What a liberation it will be to be done with it,
Is common echo in this mind.

* * * *
Ran into the Buddha on the road the other day, and he be dead.

* * * *
Is it yesterday or tomorrow? I cannot remember, Ollie.

* * * *
The Dude abides.

* * * *
This mortal shell has indeed become a torture chamber.
The absence of pain and bother is pleasure anymore.
Oh, pride, envy, gluttony, lust, wrath, greed, sloth;
Where is thy scalawagian transcendence, now?

* * * *

Other than being creator-witness to this subjective theater,
This old boy is pretty darned useless to this world anymore.

* * * *
The Opus of the Devils Tower

* * * *
How easy it will be to say goodbye to this world, this existence.

* * * *
Drifting along, as nonchalant as mind allows.

* * * *
‘Tis up to you to find me, and no worries if it doesn’t call you.

* * * *
The World According to Michael

* * * *
The World According to Yaj

* * * *
The Chronicles of Michael

* * * *
Michael's Way

* * * *
The Way of Michael

* * * *
I, Michael

* * * *
I, Yaj

* * * *
Zen Mike

* * * *
More from Zen Mike

* * * *
Even More from Zen Mike

* * * *
Michael and His Very Annoying Body

* * * *
Playing to the audience of me-my-Self-and-I in the moiville of time,
Makes for a purer abstract of whatever thoughts come to mind.
It avoids the politics of trying to appease any given crowd.
Yielding to any meme, any groupthink, any limitation,
No matter how minimal, only muddies the streaming flow.

* * * *
Retirement is making it up one day at a time.

* * * *
If the world, the universe, is but an illusion, why do I keep subscribing to it?
Because I can be just as hypnotized by craving and dread as everyone else.

* * * *
Have managed not to kill anyone yet,
But not for the want of thinking about it
Far, far more than many might care to know.
But am I really any different than many if not most?

* * * *
So many lives in just this one.
Is there be any thought, any deed, left undone?
Is there any stone left unturned?

* * * *
Am I wise?
Am I kind?
Am I good?
Am I patient?
Am I rational?
Am I intelligent?
Am I compassionate?
Am I benevolent?
Am I immortal?
Am I truthful?
Sometimes.

* * * *
The world reminds me yet again why I am oftentimes happier alone.

* * * *
And these are the people we follow? Seriously!?

* * * *
Who but me could ever read all this, much less write it.
An inexplicable, inordinate, unexpected fate, to be sure.

* * * *
The three vanities: power and fame and fortune, are not more me.
Like dogs and cats and sundry other critters, I prefer napping.

* * * *
Love is so droll.

* * * *
Just passing through.

* * * *
A beautiful woman's eyes hold a promise of something that's likely not there.

* * * *
You'll know when I'm done when the plate's licked​ clean.

* * * *
Never ceases to amaze me how desperate some women seem to be for a relationship,
Especially as they become too weathered and stout and unappealing to painlessly snuggle.
Some sort of cavernous loneliness that takes on delusional proportion in their “beauty” parlors,
Their store-bought flowers, their dime store romance novels, their yowling cats and yapping rat dogs,
Surrounding them on their rancid-smelling sofas as they watch happy-ending Hollywood chick flicks.
And if they do get a boyfriend, perchance a husband, who cuddles with them through the night,
They carve his soul into something good for little more than pushing their grocery carts.
And then it is not long before they are complaining about his many shortcomings
To all the girlfriends who earnestly lend their ears, heads bobbing.
Endlessly nauseating and eye-rolling to say the least.
The delusions of romance and forever-after
Should be most benignly left
To the make-believe of youthful ignorance.

* * * *
Just hanging out, waiting for the Reaper.

* * * *
The world is all but dead to me.
Resting in peace.

* * * *
You can take that political correctness and shove it you can guesss where.

* * * *
My Little Castle

* * * *
Sharing my process, my awakening, one ditty at a time.

* * * *
Whatever disorders of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual sort that harbor within:
Neurocognitive, schizophrenic, dissociative, obsessive-compulsive, depression,
Impulse-control, posttraumatic stress, bipolar, conduct, personality,
And yadda yadda everything else modern-day psychology might postulate,
They continue to give rise to a never-ending scroll of wordplay in the given daze.

* * * *
You’re both right and you’re both wrong,
My father used to say when my sister and I
Would quibble over one inanity or another.

* * * *
If there is a god, I can hardly wait to punch him/her/it in the nose,
Or at least tug on a nose hair as I’m cast into the inferno’s depths.

* * * *
The other is hereby banished to the otherworld.

* * * *
Would that I could be as aloof as my zeal for truth would have me be.

* * * *
So the fuck what.

* * * *
You are lead dreamer in your cosmos, and I in mine.
Would that we were both fully awakened
That we might see together
How equal all things truly are.

* * * *
An entirely original creation, a gift for the future to translate, or not.
It is not a crystal ball; just a variety of ponderings from a guy
Who feels called to scribble down the random thought.
Art is its own reward.

* * * *
Coyote Jester

* * * *
Peter Pan, I am, I am.

* * * *
I, Savage

* * * *
I, Peter Pan

* * * *
I am That I Am, I am God,
And if you understand what God truly is, and is not,
You would know that you are, and are not, too.

* * * *
Apologies if I repeat myself, but fuck your political correctness.

* * * *
Content and at peace with my Self?
Well, sometimes, yes, sometimes, no.

* * * *
Sometime back in the early years after college,
As awareness of the world and all its horrors grew daily greater,
I told my mother that if I had a button I could push to wipe away all of humankind,
And give this spinning orb back to all our fellow earthlings, I would push it without a second thought.
But, other than mutually assured nuclear annihilation, there is no button of that sort,
And so, instead, a life of contemplation, and perhaps one day, suicide.
Much simpler to die to the world than push any button,
And that is certainly no simple task, either.

* * * *
If not careful, the man who lets a woman cut his hair
Will become a cart-pushing, garage-dwelling wraith.

* * * *
“The Bad Penny,” Lee Hoffmann used to call me.

* * * *
My sixth grade James Bondian spy organization when I was wearing glasses:
SPECS: The Special Executive for Espionage, Counterintelligence, and Spies

* * * *
And why would you even begin to believe, to imagine,
That I was at all interested in being your idea of normal?

* * * *
Be sure to clearly realize that I am just as mentally deranged as anyone else.
A fair dollop of rationality laced with all the same passion and turmoil and vexation
As any other human who has ever roamed this three-dimensional dream of space and time.
All these thoughts are merely the aptitude to step back and articulate all the adventures endured.

* * * *
Predictability, a vice to which I prefer not succumb,
But, alas, a state with which I am, as in any pattern’s inevitability,
Compelled to comply in many ways, many shapes, many forms, in this mortal fray.

* * * *
Thinking about shutting it down.
Plenty more-than-enough-way-too-much
For anyone to gorge in this or any other round.

* * * *
To call the United States of America either a democracy or a republic,
To call it anything but a mammon-worshipping corporate oligarchy,
Is to blindly, absurdly, gloss over the bitterly harsh, often cruel reality,
That it has become little more than a greed-serving, dystopian war machine,
Raining destruction down upon innocents and enemies alike all across the planet.

* * * *
A silly mistake for which I am running out of patience.

* * * *
Oh for that time machine to be able to watch how it all unravels

* * * *
A work scribed by the fluid spontaneity of the unknown,
Given over to the vagaries of time-bound consciousness.

* * * *
Another round of coffee shop musing
Once again setting the world aright.

* * * *
All that has herein been written
Is just as much a part of the human cacophony
As anything else ever played out in our vain little human paradigm.

* * * *
Alas, that is the game you force me to play.

* * * *
If God is that puny, he/she/it can go rot in his/her/its own hell.

* * * *
I write what I see to see what I write.

* * * *
I just do not require any more human inanity, including my own.

* * * *
Sometimes it bubbles up camera ready.
Other times, it morphs of its own accord.

* * * *
It took a fair slice of life to discern the calling you herein read.

* * * *
I am the son of eternity, as are you if it is your fate to discern it.

* * * *
Your god is the size of your mind.

* * * *
Unlike other interviewees during their initial career quest,
Who ardently, breathlessly, mindlessly asserted they “loved” problems,
My youthful comeback was likely more to the point: “I absolutely hate problems.”
“So much so that I quash them as soon as they appear on any horizon.”
Who got the job?  Well, I have had many, and abided most
For as long as they were tolerably amusing.

* * * *
Free: My favorite four-letter F-word

* * * *
God save me from your puny, petty, pathetic god.
The condescending absurdity of it makes me wretch.

* * * *
Bookstores and libraries and personal collections and land fills and burning piles,
Chock-full of books that relatively few ever even peruse, much less read.
 Very little doubt the likely destiny of these many thoughts, as well.
Oh well, so it goes, dealt with it, got over it, moved on.
How pleasant it has been to read every word,
Many of them more than a few times.

* * * *
Even Hayley Mills's Pollyanna couldn’t get the grump out of me.

* * * *
The domesticated existence was nothing I ever much cared to do for any great length of time.
Playing house, raising children, living in debt, mowing lawns, dealing with rat dogs,
Giving up solitude, missing out on adventures, becoming a couch potato,
Trying to please anyone but my Self, held no lasting appeal.

* * * *
Mister Grumpy, I am, I am.

* * * *
Derogatory, disparaging, critical, insulting, belittling, offensive … Well, yes, sometimes.
It is the nature of the cynic, the skeptic, the realist, to judge, and often harshly.
Look to Buddha, Jesus, Lao Tzu, and other nice guys if you want pap.

* * * *
The good die young; so do the bad.
What is young? What is old? What is life? What is death?
What is anything?  What is everything? … Who? What? Where? When? Why? How?
Welcome to the mind of a philosopher, such as it is.

* * * *
The world I would save was undone
Many thousands of years before humankind
Learned the secrets of fire and steel.

​* * * *
Soundly ignored, I am, and not at all unhappy about it.

* * * *
I am awareness, you are awareness,
The entire manifest dreamtime is awareness,
All the same, all alone, all together, forever, such as it is.

* * * *
Just another monkey putting in his time, serving his sentence.

* * * *
I could inhale the universe if my tummy weren’t so tiny.

* * * *
Watching, watching, always watching.

* * * *
All these many thoughts are my gift to the dystopian future, assuming, of course,
There is still anyone around to read it, and computers to read it on.
Keep an eye out for the Dead Sea Scrolls hard copy.

* * * *
Doing nothing as time allows.

* * * *
Many times I do not realize the clarity, the subtlety, of things I have written,
Until I am re-reading them, oftentimes several years later.
“Who was that masked man?” I wonder.

* * * *
The temptation to erase it all is hatching.

* * * *
Soon enough, I shall join the graveyard of dead philosophers,
And all this absurd babble will play to what end I need neither know nor care.
Likely as not, it will evaporate back into the prior-to-consciousness abyss all but unknown,
And the human species shall continue racing madly toward the dualistic destiny
Ordained by its vanity-laced Darwinian genomic predisposition,
Which is so oh-well-so-it-goes-deal-with-it-get-over-it-move-on the way it is,
In the grand schemelessness of all things manifestly grist-for-the-mill eternally indivisible.

* * * *
Well past need, or even want for that matter.

* * * *​
Sure, precise definitions are important in the Ivory Tower,
But here on the given street, any sordid generalization will do.

* * * *
The Tao Te Ekim

* * * *
How to Live the Rich Man’s Life on a Dime

* * * *
A hard-working boomer slacker.

* * * *
Iconoclast, critic, skeptic, heretic,
Unbeliever, dissident, dissenter, infidel, rebel, renegade, mutineer:
Yet another ditty from the coffee shop philosopher guy,
A street-level critical thinker with a view.

* * * *
How I long for the old school daze,
Before all this inane technology overtook our lives,
When I could roam blissfully unaware, unconcerned, untroubled,
About what anyone else was doing or thinking, or whether or not they even existed.

* * * *
Sun warming the front, a lazy cool breeze to the rear,
I am it, and it is me, the wind betwixt and between.

* * * *
Ooh, what's under that stone?​

* * * *
Too late in the game for these myriad thoughts to make any tangible difference.
Were it possible, the garden world I would save, in all its Darwinian magnificence,
 Was undone when our kind began its cancerous migration out of the jungles of Africa.
Whatever the future holds, it will play out in the dystopia conceived by the winds of mind.

* * * *
She said the words made her head spin.
Into what? And which direction? he wondered.

* * * *
What are little boys made of? … Snips and snails and puppy-dogs' tails … Yes.
What are little girls made of? … Sugar and spice and everything nice ... Not.

* * * *
Nothing to do?  And what's the problem with that again?

* * * *
To all Christians and other faithful true believers,
While you have paid out ten percent of your hard-earned treasury
To sit in hard wooden pews, listen to mind-numbing sermons, and sing tedious hymns,
Pretending to love people you loathe, fearing a deity who is but an invention of irrational imagination,
Idolizing a martyr long dead that you might well detest if he were to actually show up,
I have spent many a Sunday sunrise enjoying long, contemplative wanders,
Breathing in and breathing out the one and only true cathedral.

* * * *
Sometimes this mind, this body, this world, this universe,
Feels like such a prison, to which death can be the only release.
Do it figuratively, do it literally, what matter in the dust-to-dust of it.

* * * *
How interesting it would be to be the fly on the wall,
Witnessing a detailed autopsy on this poor old cadaver.
The nervous system has certainly played a symphony in it.

* * * *
Zen Mike, Gregg Payne used to call me during the Chico years.

* * * *
A scrapbook of the time in mind.

* * * *
Mad? You call me mad?
Well, my fine friend, that’s no great distinction in an insane asylum.

* * * *
It took a long time in earth years to figure out my calling in this mortal existence,
Which, of course, provided a larger frame of reference, more writing material,
From which to articulate clarity and insight to an all but empty auditorium.

* * * *
More experiences lend themselves to more contemplation,
Which morph into more metaphors, more analogies, more ironies, more paradoxes,
Which means more opportunities to play with vocabulary and grammar.
Which is akin to fun, such as it is, for this a-puttering mind.

* * * *
All this random babble has been scribed over a period of going-on thirty years.
Apologies for all the repetition, but it is more a journal of whatever springs into mind,
Than it is any kind of cohesive narrative, or cohesive anything, for that or any other matter.
Basically, it all boils down to this fact: You are the indivisible, timeless mystery,
And for all practical and impractical purposes, you are on you own.
Rotsa ruck, best wishes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt on human greed:

The Monopoly game taught us everything we needed to know about capitalism.  Round and round until the one-percenters and their minions own it all; the rest minding the hotels or homeless.  Capitalism, or as I call it, consumerocracy, is about greed and self-interest, and egalitarian ethics has never been, nor will ever be, a concern to those who wield the whip.  Few ever willingly hand over or share power, fame, or fortune.  The masses may whine and grumble, but, unless they are inspired to revolution – which only puts new masters upon the throne – their lot is whatever crumbs drift down from the heights.  Might makes right is the human paradigm that has played out over and over since long before we wandered from the jungles of origin out into the world.  Nothing you or I say or do will change that.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt on civility and the human paradigm:

Civilization is defined as “the stage of human social development and organization that is considered most advanced.”  Civility is defined as “formal politeness and courtesy in behavior or speech.”  If getting along and supporting each other is the goal, the peak of any civilization, any community, any group, is gauged by how many abide the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  No synergy bent on a cooperative, health-giving one-for-all-all-for-one can long sustain without it.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt on an article about America’s quest for happiness:

No matter where we meander, no matter where we rest our weary heads, getting through any given instant still boils down to a mindful dollop of detachment. Not taking it all so seriously, not taking ourselves so seriously, is the first and last challenge. Conscious of it or not, in one way or another, we are all playing out the Atlas of our conditioning, and learning to set down our imaginary universe may not be as hard as we choose to believe.

* * * *
Response to Sarlo on the compliment about all the work it took to write this:

Don't know that I'd call it work.  More of a hobby, really.  Thoughts just sort of come to mind, pen sets them to paper, and the keyboard does the rest.  Just over 4,000 pages in a variety of blogs at this writing.  An enjoyable process, but it’s highly unlikely that anyone but me will ever read it all.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt on an article speculating that the world is a simulation:

Seems obvious that it is the awareness in all of us that's the source of this quantum theater.  Not sure why we always need gods or aliens or some Matrix programmer to explain the inexplicable mystery that will always be an inexplicable mystery.  You are it and it is you, and it ever boils down to just being in the moment, in whatever indivisible here-now the mind and senses are playing out.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt on another article speculating that the world is a simulation:

The Matrix was an enjoyable movie, and certainly one that wrapped our minds around an interesting concept, but it was just a movie.  I find it more than a little unlikely that we are wired up in a vat playing out a universe programmed by a galactic junior high student.  I even find it curious anymore that we are so geocentric as to think there are other worlds with civilizations and life forms that parallel our own.  I don't say there isn't other life out there in the vast timeless reaches, just that we are likely a unique one-of-a kind creation, seemingly well on our way to a very dystopian extinction.

* * * *
Response to Len Howard on the endgame:

You are preaching to the choir when it comes to irritability with all things great and small anymore.  This world and body can be very annoying, indeed.  There are far too many moments when it is extremely unwise to be in the exploding universe of my presence.  Very challenging to always be detached, and I'm just approaching a sprite sixty-three.  Hard to imagine how bothersome it will all be before the Reaper finally kicks this body to the worm pile.  Being mindful of the innocents is the task, for the scorpion can and will sting without warning.  I suppose the wordplay is often my salvation, my therapy, my means to put things in context, to seek out the larger perspective, to regain clarity and serenity in the miasma of the day-to-day.  The Joyful Curmudgeon is what I call myself anymore, and he can be an unruly beast.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt on an article about the quest for happiness:

Have never understood the futile quest so many people undertake for happiness.  To me life is about living in the given moment, being as aware of eternity's passing with as much attention as the mind-body is capable of giving it.  In this play of consciousness, some moments are indeed less painful than others, but there is no way they can always be joyful, pleasurable, or whatever other nirvanic soundbite we might give it.  Life is process, life is segue, and all the punctuation marks, all the pleasures and pains, pass as timelessly as the points between.  The people who are afraid to die are afraid to live, afraid to give themselves over to the eternal now we all really are, have ever been, will ever be.  To be as innocent, as simple, as untainted as a child, is to give your self, your awareness, over to the undying moment, and few of we mere mortals are capable of that once desire and fear have become the all-consuming wraiths they are.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt on an article about happiness in the workplace:

The quest for happiness has never been an issue for me.  If you think about it, it ain't going to happen.  All my workplaces have always just been workplaces, and my satisfaction with them entirely based on my own sense of self-actualization.  Working in some sort of children’s playground with swing sets and slides is yet another rung of absurdity in these our times as far as I’m concerned.  Being in the moment is its own intangible reward.

* * * *
Response to Bruce Styles and his rant about Donald Trump and the unfolding takeover of the White House:

And not to break your bubble, but our little republic was well on its way to being lost long before you and I were born.  I've been using a variety of terms for years – corporate oligarchy, consumeracracy, consumptionacracy – to imply it nothing more than another footnote in the dreamtime of history.  Ye old USofA was a nice little experiment, with all sorts of high-sounding wordplay and patriotic symbology, to which we were conditioned to pledge allegiance, just as doomed to failure as any city or nation state ever has been.  The few have always ruled the many.  Only the faces and names and means and memes change.  Just a matter of how and when, never if.  Trump and his crew of Alt-Righters are just the current issue, the current tools.  The dress code may not be black or brown or march in lock-step, but the one-percenters and their minions are ever in charge.  And the masses, the mob, the plebes, the proles, the citizens, call them what you will, loyally, blindly, incoherently, go along as long as they have their bread and circuses.  And the hydra of technology only makes it easier and easier to sway them this way or that.  Whine and moan and stomp your feet and even rebel all you will, it changes nothing.

You might want to re-read some George Orwell:

Nineteen Eighty-Four

Animal Farm

Goodreads Quotes: George Orwell

Terry Gilliam gave us another good one:

Brazil (1985 film)

And, of course, Aldous Huxley:

Brave New World

And let us not forget Ray Bradbury's contribution to the mix:

Fahrenheit 451

Two of my Orwellian favorites:

The past was erased, the erasure was forgotten, the lie became truth.

Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from the oligarchies of the past in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just around the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now you begin to understand me.

So it goes, too bad, so sorry, oh well, deal with it, get over it, move on.

Take a nice walk today.  Sit in the sun, smell some roses.  Don't resist when a shadow in a black suit puts the barrel to the back of your head.

Ciao, ciao,

M

* * * *
Response to Gary Gerard on a Christian conversion story he wanted me to read:

Just finished reading the story you sent.  Thanks for the good intentions, but it just doesn't do a thing for little old agnostic moi.  I reside in the indivisible don't-know-don't-care, have no sense of there being a god outside my Self, and what happens if anything after this body falls off is of absolutely no concern.  The existential here-now dreamtime is more than enough.  By my reckoning, all mythologies are nothing more than human-created, fear-based, greed-laced, egocentric-ethnocentric-geocentric-solarcentric mind gorp.

So, from my perspective, enjoy the moment as best ye may; it is all you have and have not.

Ciao, ciao,

M

* * * *
Response to Ross Avila asking about whether or not I had suffered in my quest:

There’s a dark side to meditation that no one talks about

Have definitely had my times of agony and ecstasy.  The mind is quite adept at torturing itself in every way imaginable.  We are all mentally disordered to some degree by my reckoning.  To be totally detached, and still be in the world, is only for the rare few, and even those few likely suffer at times if they are at all honest about it.  The collusion of identify that our kind has orchestrated in its ascendance from the jungle has brokered every possible illusion and delusion that imagination can imagine.  And the day ain't over.

The brain is an apparatus that evolved to survive a world far different from the overpopulated, so-called civilized one our tool-making ability has unleashed.  I think the source of our rampant mental illness is the obvious fact that we are no longer living in the relatively simple garden that created us, and it is just too much for many if not all minds to easily wrap their heads around.

The mind is a tool, and when contemplation and meditation begin to examine that device, what it is, and all the assumptions it has made in formulating its world, its universe, things can get a bit iffy.  To go all the way, to achieve a state of illumination, requires the doubt, the aloofness, of an unflinching scientist bent on truth.  It is a journey which few begin, much less finish.  Many are called, few are chosen, and even fewer volunteer.

* * * *
Response to a movie trailer from cousin Steve Hunt:

The Red Pill (2017)

Looks interesting, but I don't have Amazon Prime, so I'll catch it when it comes out on Netflix, or maybe on Youtube if it shows up there.

The whole battle of the sexes thing is pretty much a non-issue for me at this writing.  I'm no longer in the work place, feel no need to die for any nation state or belief system, am all but done with women for anything but light banter, and have absolutely no interest in joining any movement or group.  I retain absolute power over my inner world, and do not require the sanction of any man or any woman to live out what's left of my existence freely, and in peace.

Along with reading some of the men's books you've previously mentioned, I gave a men’s group a short try back during the college years in Chico, and my observation with it and some other group discussion experiences, including Christian bible groups, is that they tend to process the same things over and over, and end up promoting weakness and disempowerment.  And I have never been interested in being a sheep in anyone's flock.

Did you ever read "Iron John" by Robert Bly?  Haven't looked at it for years, but my takeaway memory on it is that a boy must steal the key from under his mother's pillow, and never give it away to any other woman.  If you do, my experience is that they will both weaken you, slow you down, and as the song goes, take your soul if you let them.  Only the rare woman will ever even begin to comprehend or appreciate a man's world.  From my perspective, it's a waste of time to even bother trying to explain or justify the perception of maleness this meat machine has formulated.  It doesn’t make me a misogynist; it just means the given anatomy, the given sensory play, no long hypnotizes me, no longer inspires me to dance a dance, to play a game, in which I am no longer interested.

Iron John: A Book About Men

Iron John

* * * *
Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

Contaminants in water are legal but still pose big health risks, environmental group says

The chemistry we have unleashed across the planet in the last century or so is yet another major aspect of the unfolding nightmare for the future.  The Central Valley is a toxic waste bin, and having lived in it most my life, it is a wonder I'm still on the walking side of grass.  One of the top reasons I long to move further north is to get to someplace with "cleaner" air and water.

* * * *
Response to an article sent by cousin Steve Hunt with a comment that he finds it ironic and hypocritical that someone is fired because he questions his company’s diversity policy:


The tyranny of political correctness.


* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

After Studying the Lives of 724 Men for 79 Years, Harvard Reveals the 1 Biggest Secret to Success and Happiness

Our species has made it this far because belonging to groups enabled our survival, so it makes sense at a molecular level that having close bonds would forge happier, longer lives.  The trick is coming up with viable connections in this our dysfunctional, disconnected world.

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt with the comment: WTF is causing this?  Disillusionment with just about everything from Government, Private Sector, American Culture, Vilification of Men in General in our Culture?

Drugs, jail, video games tell tale of the lost American male

I think civilization does not work for men.  We were designed for a harsher world, and the one we are in now is just slavery to nothing all that interesting across the board.  Knowing all I know, all I have experienced, I find it hard to imagine what I would do if I was starting over.​

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt with the comment:  I feel so sorry for these people ... it must be soooo stressful being filthy rich ... I can't imagine the stress that must cause ... I'm so glad I don't have that problem:

I'm Rich, and That Makes Me Anxious

I have come to think that I am wealthier than Gates, Buffet, Ellison, and all the other one-percenters combined, because I have enough, and do not worry whether or not I wake up tomorrow.  To master contentment is the first and last challenge.

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

My wife had a baby, and I started thinking about suicide. A psychiatrist’s diagnosis surprised me. 

A few thousand years ago, it was just a cave or a teepee, hang out in the forest, bring home a slab of meat, and let the kids run wild.  Now it's a two-story-five-bedroom house, a monotonous mind-numbing job, parent-teacher conferences, rat dogs and yowling cats, debt up to your ears, and slavery​ to a woman's futile attempt to attain happiness.  We're just fucking lucky that we managed to ride it out solo, c​uz.


* * * *

Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt with the comment:  It’s definitely a fucked up situation … but the problem isn’t the guns … although it makes it possible … but it’s the person that goes commando and flips out … and I don’t know how to fix that:

The Las Vegas shooter had 23 guns. Here’s what we know about them.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/checkpoint/wp/2017/10/02/video-from-las-vegas-suggests-automatic-gunfire-heres-what-makes-machine-guns-different/?utm_term=.822a02983d7b

We are what we are: the planet of the apes.  It's been going on since some angry primate picked up the first stick or rock.  And there ain't no fixing it, that's for sure.  You can't legislate sanity.


* * * *

Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

Why Loneliness Is a Public Health Threat

I think technology has made many realize how lonely they are, and stoke it as never before.

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

The secret to office happiness isn’t working less – it’s caring less

Each of us has to find our own way in dealing with everyone else – parents, mates, children, bosses, coworkers, priests, politicians, one-percenters, whatever – telling us what to do or how to live.  It's not easy standing alone free and clear.  Never had much ambition for this or any other world, so I've managed to remain relatively detached much of this inane life.  Buddha caught it with his third noble truth.

* * * *
Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

This Map Compares the Population of the Real World vs. Social Media

Steve:  It is a major contributor to the downfall of the world, and it's driving people collectively insane on a massive scale.

Moi:  It's both intellectually fascinating and emotionally exhausting watching our tool-making ability take us deeper and deeper into the abyss.

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

A Quantum Theory of Consciousness

I, Quantum

* * * *
Response to Nathan Potter on awakening to the delusion of his Catholic upbringing, and the rough waters he is enduring with his mental health:

Hey, Nathan,


I have never understood the need so many seem to have for a personal god, either, but it is, and has ever been, in my view, nothing more than a man-made concept.  Anything I start to write about how it may have come about is really little more than speculation.  The short list of possibilities are anchored in desire and fear, and include fear of the unknown, fear of death, fear of aloneness, superstition and idolatry, groupthink, a means to control others, and a means to accumulate power, fame, and fortune.


The human mind, with all its egocentric-ethnocentric-geocentric flavors – vanity, vanity, all is vanity – does not deal well with uncertainty, so I suppose creating a god or gods, no matter how illusory, no matter how delusional, fabricates an explanation that allows individuals in any given culture to carry on in the day-to-day.


And atheism, claiming there is no god, is really just another assertion, another game of pretending to know what can never be known, as well.  The other side of the same coin, so to speak.


What it boils down to is that this dream is an insoluble mystery, and to abide in a don’t-know-don’t-care agnostic state of mind, serenely wandering as detached as possible in the given moment, enjoying the solitude, the awareness within as best you can, is too challenging for most, but is, in my view, the most real approach to this long-no-matter-how-short-short-no-matter-how-long existence.


Don’t know if that helps, but that’s pretty much the gist of what I have to offer.  Good luck getting a handle on it.  Feel free to seek me out anytime.


Ciao, ciao,


M

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Happiness may be healthier for some cultures than others 

I definitely am not, have never been, will never be, a cheerleader for anything or anyone, and I'm not unhappy about that.

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Paul Craig Roberts To The American Left: R.I.P.
www.zerohedge.com/news/2017-10-24/paul-craig-roberts-american-left-rip

All empires fall, some more quickly than others.

​* * * *
Back and forth with Chuck Hooper​ on an article I sent, along with a quote from Thucydides, to which he responded his next book would be “Trump’s WWIII.”


Thucydides, The History of the Peloponnesian War:  It is not so much your hostility that injures us; it is rather the case that, if we were on friendly terms with you, our subjects would regard that as a sign of weakness in us, whereas your hatred is evidence of our power.

Moi:  WWIII has been happening ever since WWII ended in my thinking.  Trump's version is just another chapter in the long line of idiots in charge of the ongoing decline and inevitable collapse of the current Rome.  History does not repeat itself, but the patterns do.

* * * *
Response to Lise Welsh​'s query about my health, and why I hadn't made it back up to Chico to visit friends for awhile:

At a swim party the summer after the last trip to Chico, I walloped my forehead, and got a nice little concussion that really did a number on the neck and brainstem.  A fitting addition to all the lifetime issues already in place.  Do not drink and dive is the moral of the story.  So, anywho, since then I have spent a lot of time rehabbing in a variety of ways, including rehab, arch-supports, rolfing, somatics, kettlebells, stretching, swordplay, cardio machines, jump-rope, walking, and whatever other dynamic low-impact exercises come to mind, including a lot of playing about in the pool and spa at the Brenda Athletic Club, literally across the street from the Lakeside Apartments studio I’ve lived in for eighteen years now – Studio 101, I calls it.  

The good news is that it’s all working out quite well.  The concussion issues have been waylaid nicely, and I’m feeling better than I have in years.  I’ll turn 64 in a few weeks, and am in pretty darned good shape compared to most men my age.  But as far as travelling goes, I just haven't been in the mood to go to all the effort of packing and unpacking, and dealing with all the madness a road trip entails.  Studio 101 is very close all kinds of everything commercial, as well as CSU, Stanislaus, and it’s very easy to not get in my car as much as possible anymore.

Me mum, age 88 and doing well, lives on her own in a condo in Modesto, and my plan, such as it is, is to stay in this area until she passes, and then move north, either out of Kaliforny to someplace like Eugene, or over to the coast somewhere Fort Bragg north.  Need to be someplace with fewer people, more rain, and cleaner air.  I was born and raised on a 30-acre peach ranch in Hughson, a small town between Modesto and Turlock.  Don’t know what the population was back then, but now there are a million and a half people between Stockton and Merced, plus all the north-south traffic on Highway 99, and I’m sick to death of all the congestion, all the dust, all the toxicity of all the pesticides that have been used since WWII, as well as the Christian-Republican-and-other-parochial-bullshit mindset that permeates the Great Central Valley … but I need to stick it out in good-son fashion so that Mom has a decent endgame.  Can’t begin to express how fortunate I feel to have had such a great woman as my mother.

Sooooo … that’s the so-it-goes life-and-times of Michael in a nutshell as of 27 Oct 2017.  Whoo-hoo.

* * * *
Michael Holshouser: A List of Injuries and Strains

1960’s and 70’s – Tractor driving: lower back, left arm and shoulder; heavy lifting and moving.

1957-ish – Golf club backswing to forehead, and monkey bar fall causing classmate’s tooth to cut into top of head.

1967 through 1972 – Broke left eardrum three times, resulting in skin graft to ear drum.  This, coupled with driving tractor, forklifts, vehicles with open windows, and sitting too close to a few concert and nightclub speakers, worked together to cause loss of high range sounds.

1969 through 1972 – High school physical education: running, jumping, throwing, wrestling, and other boy stuff.  First hemorrhoids because of lack of fiber in diet and the resulting constipation.

1969 through 1975 – High school and Sunday afternoon football; some broken knuckles and a jammed finger joint; two major memories during frosh-soph years in football practice of a block that caused a snap in lower back, and a tackle that caused severe pain to (left or right?) shoulder/collarbone.

1972 to 1977 – Day packs full of college textbooks.

1972 to present – Backpacking, car camping, hitchhiking with a heavy backpack in Europe.

1972 to present – Coffee, alcohol, marijuana.

1972 through 1985 – Forklifting at Joan of Arc field station and Martella’s Walnut Huller.

1975 to present – Transient working life with many moves.

1978 – Heavy lifting and moving at Weinstock’s.

1975 through 1980 – Two or three solid hits to left jaw.

1980 – Peed blood after prepping on cold day for calf-tying event at La Grange Rodeo.

1980’s to present – Two or three bicycle crashes.

1980’s – Carrying photography equipment for Waterford News, weddings, special events.

1980 – La Grange Rodeo calf-tying practice strain.

1981 – Motorcycle slide on asphalt on left side in light clothing.

1985 to present – Graveyard shifts and sleep deprivation: Creative Alternatives, bread-baking, Kinko’s, taxi driving.

1886 – Bicycle strain on left knee.

1989 – Wave head first into sand.

1989 to present – Gun shooting recoils and archery pulls.

1989 – Falling onto feet while tying down rack on VW van.

1989 to present – Hallucinogens and other drugs.

1990’s – Heavy lifting and moving at Sierra Stationers and Kinko’s.

1998 – Carpal tunnel syndrome disability from Kinko’s.

1999 to present – Bad posture in computer use.

2000’s – Heavy lifting and moving at Creative Alternatives.

2000 to present – A couple mild concussions after passing out tightening upper back and neck.

2008-ish – Twice hit in left eye by racquetballs, the second time causing temporary blurriness for several days.

2013-ish – Sidewalk curb slip onto left knee.

2016 – Diving concussion at summer swim party.

Life, it’ll kill ya.

* * * *
Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

An Audi commercial in China compared women to used cars. It didn’t go well.

The thing to remember about the male-female partnership is that it evolved back when we were indigenous, and suited survival in a perilous analog world.  Civilization, and all its technologies and prescribed memes, have made it all but unendurable to anyone who is not willing to slave away their existence for the sake of their genetic coding.

* * * *

Back and forth with Patrick Newman on an article I sent:

California housing crisis spurring lawmakers into action

Monopoly is my go-to metaphor.  In any win-lose game, there are winners, and there are losers.  And, given the extremes to which human greed has played out over and over since long before any history was written, once everything's bought up, what happens to those who never even had a chance to roll the dice?  Feudalism, enslavement, migration, revolt, death.  It's all so inevitable.

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Silicon Valley is obsessed with meditation, and there’s new evidence it changes the brain for the better 

Meditation puts you in touch with the real you, with the awareness you truly are.  All this identity bother is the fluff of the delusion of illusion.

​* * * *
Response to an article from by Patrick Newman:

Chilean Economist Manfred Max-Neef: US Is Becoming an "Underdeveloping Nation"

You can teach trivia, you can teach regurgitation, but you can't teach critical thinking, you can't teach wisdom.  How fascinating it is to have lived through the rise and decline of the most powerful nation state the world has ever, and likely will ever see again.  Hoping it doesn't collapse while I'm still in the game, but oh well if it does.

* * * *
Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

The unknowable Stephen Paddock and the ultimate mystery: Why

Wikipedia: 2017 Las Vegas Strip shooting

People get upset when they can't get the answers they want.  Sure, it could be they'll find a brain tumor or some such thing, but I figure Paddock was just jaded and irritated with human bullshit.  And instead of just quietly blowing his own head off – which he ended up doing anyway – decided to go out with a bang, get himself in the history books, and raise the bar doing it.  Not something most people will want to believe, but it seems pretty clear and likely in my estimate.  We're all the same monkey; the differences are in the choices we each make.

* * * *
Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Women and Men Die of Different Causes in Middle Age 

Likely a helium tank or something gunpowder-ish for me on that day when things get too bothersome to endure anymore.  Will probably need to go out with a few chips on the table to assure I don’t accidently get stuck in the limbo of a rest home Alzheimer's unit staring at the walls for as long as this already bothersome body carries on.  What a horror show so many play out because they are afraid to let go.

* * * *
Response to a comment from Stephanie Stolt, Certified Rolfer and Somatic Experiencing Practitioner:

Stephanie Stolte

Hey, Stephanie,

When you asked at the last Rolfing session whether I meditated, I was kind of surprised, but then later realized I'd never sent you the links to all my writings online.  The answer to your question is that contemplation and meditation have been the one consistent thread through my adult existence.  My writing time in that timeline began after the wave injury in 1989, and at this point there are just over four thousand pages of aphorisms and essays, the most recent posted in Breadcrumbs: The Unfolding Next Round.

And then there are all the other blogs, with all sorts of other writings and whatever else has spiked my interest.  I'll chain them to this one in succeeding waves.

Other than that, still happy camping with the last session.  You've certainly changed up my game.

Enjoy the day.

Ciao ciao,

M

* * * *
Back and forth with Len Howard on an article I sent:

Want to live longer? Get a dog
Owning a dog could literally be saving your life. According to a new study, dog owner have a reduced risk of cardiovascular disease and death.

Len:  Michael … I don't know what I would do without my two. They make me keep to a schedule...allow me to get pissed at strangers … let me worry about their health, and have given us hours of laughter. Big dogs are such a presence in the house, and they are as funny as hell. I only have one goal left, my brother, and that is to outlive them, if that's doable. The horrible pain of loss for me would be more acceptable for me going first and to have them wonder what they did to drive me away. If anyone hurt them badly, I would kill my first human … unless of course they beat me to it.

Moi:  They've definitely been a part of many of our conversations, and we'll never know if you've lived as long as you have because of them, so keep on keeping on.


Len:  That's the same thing I tell them … The upside of them getting slower, (as am I as well), is as we all get a bit meaner too. I think Lao Tzu should re-work the line, "One to me is pleasure and pain" … Ciao


Moi:  Grumpier and grumpier, I am, I am, that's for sure. Never a human being again, I often say anymore. Assuming, of course, that there's another round, which I don't. Thanking gawd in advance.

* * * *
​Response to Bruce Styles on his latest and very painful bout with the aging process:

These bodies can be real torture units, that's for sure.  Don't know if it applies to your situation, but I've really found a lot of my bothers are caused by a tweaked-out skeletal structure.  All the work I've done this past year with Rolfing, arch supports, diet, and a very dynamic low-impact exercise and stretching program – including a lot of low-gravity time in the pool at Club Brenda across the street – are really putting this mind-body back on track.  A lot of work, and there's still plenty of snap-crackle-pop bother, but it's pretty amazing how much better I feel than this time last year.  Fortunately, I've always enjoyed being in this body exercise-wise, so I am able to be relatively disciplined about the regimen I’ve created. 

Insurance-wise, I retired without it, figuring/hoping I could make it to Medicare – I don't much trust the AMA for any more than cut-and-splice and medication, which I don’t much care to partake anyway – but Obamacare came along, and the IRS forced me to ​sign up with Covered California, which has done right by me, so far.  I also get a free smartphone.  Whoo-hoo for free stuff.  Hopefully, Trump and his minions will continue shooting themselves in the foot for at least another couple years.  If not, I always keep the helium tank and a .357 (or some such thing) within arms reach.

Anywho, off into the day.  Good luck with things.

Ciao ciao,

M

* * * *
Forwarded to Gianni Grassi with the comment: All very gradual, ever-contracting and expanding in this mind, that's for sure.

Buddha at the Gas Pump
427. Panel Discussion: “Sudden or Gradual: Two Paths to Realization?”

Michael Rodriguez, Isa Gucciardi, David Buckland, Rick Archer


There is a perennial debate in spiritual traditions regarding whether realization is direct (sudden) or progressive (gradual). But is this a false distinction? Realization is often sudden, no matter how many years of practice may have led up to it, and even after realization, most people find that refinement, clarification, and the working out of personal shortcomings continue indefinitely.


Who wouldn’t prefer direct realization to years of purification and practice? But how many examples of purely direct realization can we find? Can a path be both direct and progressive? Is it possible to have a taste of our true nature from the outset, and then spend a lifetime clarifying and embodying it? Also, is there one watershed breakthrough which can be universally agreed upon as final “Realization”, or are there many degrees and stages of realization, each of them important stepping stones in a never-ending journey?


Proponents of the direct path sometimes argue that if we regard spiritual development as progressive, we will forever be anticipating, never arriving. But some spiritual seekers, not appreciating the distinction between understanding and experience, mistake intellectual understanding with enlightenment, and consider themselves “finished” when they are just getting started.

* * * *
Response to Robin Slovacek’s 64th birthday question about the influence of Jiddu Krishnmurti on my life: Happy Birthday and many, many blessings, Michael. Actually, I was going to ask you a question: Did you have a chance to listen to J. Krishnamurti in person?  If so, what a wonderful experience that must have been for you.

Krishnamurti used to come to Ojai for a couple weeks of talks every year.  I went down three times in the late 70's and early 80's, but never actually met him.  Ended up teaching fifth-sixth grade for a couple years at the Oak Grove School in the late 80's, a few years after his death.  An interesting experience – he certainly had a large impact on my life – but "wonderful" isn't a word I tend to use for such things.

He set the bar high and clear, and I've never considered following him or anyone else since, though I probably wouldn’t have anyway; it not being my nature.  He wrote who knows how many books, and there are ​all kinds videos available, as well.​ ​These are the books​ ​listed on my website​, but anything you pick up is pretty much talking about the same things:

Think on These Things
The First and Last Freedom
Freedom from the Known
The Ending of Time
Commentaries on Living Series
The Awakening of Intelligence
Education and the Significance of Life

Jiddu Krishnamurti

Oak Grove School

Krishnamurti Foundation of America
https://kfa.org

Introduction to the Teachings

https://kfa.org/introduction-teachings/

Complete Collection

http://beta.jkrishnamurti.org

Store

https://store.kfa.org

The 64th was a most excellent day ... Thanks for the good wishes ... Hope all is well.

* * * *
Response to Raphael Tyszkiewicz‪’s 64th birthday comment on my Facebook timeline page: Happy BE Day Michael! ... Thank You for your creativity ... I read your works, enjoy a lot ... and duplicate.

Hey, Raphael,

Saw your comment on my Facebook page, and just wanted say that I'm pleased you've found all my babble interesting.  Thought I'd make sure you've got all the links to everything posted, including the PDF's.  Well over four thousand pages, so far, and more popping into mind many if not most daze.

Everything written this year is posted in "Breadcrumbs: The Unfolding Next Round" at the link below.  For some unknown reason, Blogger hasn't let me upload anything since October 11th, but I'm sure it will work out sooner or later.

Feel free to pass anything on to anyone you think might have mind for it.

Regards,


M

​Website

The Stillness Before Time​

* * * *
A Google review written for Stephanie Stolte:
In less than a month, I will be 64-years old.  I began driving a tractor on our small family farm in Hughson when I was eight, and swimming in the canal across the road by the time I was nine, and have lived a hard physical working and playing life ever since.  There have been myriad injuries of every sort in all arenas - head, eyes, neck, back, pelvis, arms, hands, legs, feet, you name it – and I have explored a variety healing techniques, including chiropractic, massage, acupressure, acupuncture, rehabilitation, medication, and a few others whose names I have forgotten.  Many eyes have witnessed this mind-body, and all of them have helped keep it in the game, but none have accomplished the integrated restructuring that Stephanie Stolte has managed since I first contacted her in February earlier this year.  Her gentle but firm hands have gradually peeled away bother after bother in this tip-to-stern, injury-laden bag of bones and flesh and goo.  Things that I never would have dreamed to not be enduring anymore.  Every day I wake up freer and freer of chronic pain and limitation, and am moving more and more fluidly – and with more balance and flexibility and dexterity and strength – than I have in who knows how many moons.

Healing, whether in body or mind or spirit, can be a long and winding process.  There is no rewind button, and to expect any practitioner to cast a fix in one session would not be realistic.  Stephanie has an intuitive awareness of the many dimensions and interrelationships within all things.  Her ongoing studies in a variety of schools of thought, including Rolfing, Cranial Sacral, Somatics, Reiki, Sourcepoint, and human psychology in general – along with her innate ability to draw me into a partnership in my own healing – have all contributed to my being able to play out whatever time is left in a rejuvenated state of health and well-being that I never believed I would enjoy again.  As I stated above, I have known many healers in my efforts to deal with all the issues that have racked this temporal container since those youthful daze in the peach orchards and swimming holes, and I rate Stephanie high among them.  Her already sizable, ever-expanding repertoire regarding the human mind and body, coupled with her wisdom, her intuitive, empathetic, holistic grace, has transformed this old guy existence in ways for which I am forever grateful.

Namaste,
Michael Holshouser




Reiki

Sourcepoint Therapy

* * * *
A Christmas story idea back in the 70’s – after reading J.R.R. Tolkein’s “The Hobbit” and “Lord of the Rings,” and playing an old school board game version of Dungeons & Dragons – passed on freely to a variety of possible writers, illustrators, and screenwriters through the years that never made it off the ground.  This was the latest summary.  Maybe someday, somebody will do something with it.  No need to thank me.

Michael J. Holshouser
1112-4 Cedar Creek Drive
Modesto, CA 95355-5213

December 25, 2015

ONCE UPON A CHRISTMAS … IN A NOW NOT TOO FAR AWAY …

Santa’s evil twin brother steals the magic indivisibility ring, the magic shrinking-present bag, and all the presents, a week before Christmas, and takes everything down to his dark fortress at the South Pole.  The story begins showing the joy of yet another year of the North Pole crew happily putting it all together, and then one morning, a week before the big night, everything is gone.  No one knows where.  The boy elf overhears Santa telling his wife about his evil brother for the first time, and that he doesn’t know what to do.  Santa is bedridden by depression, and everything comes to a standstill.  The boy elf pulls together crew of friends, and sets out to save Christmas.  After a convoluted and dangerous journey, against all odds, and down to the wire, the victorious fellowship returns to the North Pole just in time to save Christmas.

dragon (how the North Pole stays warm)
magic indivisibly ring (how Santa travels simultaneously through time and space)
magic shrinking-present bag (how Santa carries all the presents)

boy elf
girl elf
son of Rudolph
young dragon
grinch
elf
dwarf
fairy
owl
mouse
cricket

Santa’s evil twin brother
witch wife
evil son and daughter
wizard brother-in-law
dragons
wolves
trolls
orcs
rats
bats
flying monkeys

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Response to being blocked on Facebook by longtime online friend, Sandra Heber-Percy, a.k.a. Sandra Ma, who was born in Italy, but left her family to be a sannyasi in India many moons ago.  I had been posting some things on her Facebook wall that she felt would upset many of her less-awakened acquaintances.  Many of them are in the “devotion stage, or kindergarten of dos and don'ts,” she wrote.  “Sandra has to be careful.”  In our back and forth she stated that there are periods of life in which those awakening try to awaken others.  “I had my period 15 years back; now I am too old to try and tickle the world with Truth more than mildly as a pastime.”

I'm probably a little more wild than I should be on my side of the world.  Expecting to get shot any day now by some Christian zealot for all my blaspheme about the Son of Santa Claus.  That or some dull, rusty knife-work by the Muslim version of true-believership.  We awaken at our own peril.

Truth goes well with my morning coffee shop​ time.  And after saving the world an average of at least three times over with other regulars of many persuasions that haphazardly stop by, I retire to my hammock, a few chores, some food, and later to the club across the street for a mild workout and swim, followed by more food and a movie.  I usually share an afternoon or evening meal, and maybe a movie or sporting match, with me almost 88-year old Mum at least once a week.  Through it all, occasionally jotting down the ditty or three​ that spontaneously pop into mind for the next day's coffee klatsch.  About 150 pages so far this year, largely unread and unknown, which, ​as you well understand,​ is all right by me.  It’s all so passé anymore, anyway.  So, pleasantly bored, I am, abiding this world until it has had its fill of me, and finally lets me go home.

The Unfolding Next Round

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Betty Goesch of East Pine Street on my childhood penchant for cookies and water faucets:

The first seven years of my childhood were spent in a newly-built G.I. Bill three-bedroom home on East Pine Street, at the time a twelve-house cul-de-sac in Hughson, California.  There is little to tell of those early years before we moved out to the thirty-acre peach ranch on Hatch Road, but two anecdotes shared by Betty Goesch, a neighbor in the house at the corner of Pine and 7th Streets, stand out.  The first is that at some point I wandered around and turned on all the faucets on the block.  The second was that my mother would occasionally take me down to Betty’s for a morning coffee klatch.  Betty would always have cookies and milk, and I must have been somewhat vocal about asking for them before they were offered, because Betty says my mother told me not to ask anymore.  My response, according to Betty was to enter her house, take a sniff, and announce that it “sure smells like cookies.”  Nothing remarkable, but mildly amusing that the rascal-rogue-cad-rake-blackguard-scalawag-scoundrel-reprobate-ne'er-do-well nature was evident at such an early age, nonetheless.

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Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

Former Facebook executive Chamath Palihapitiya: "You don't realize it, but you are being programmed"

Moi:  Nothing new, methinks.  Technology has always shaped our minds.  We can't help ourselves.  The clock is a great example.  Did time exist before them hands started spinning in our heads?  Consumption and propaganda: over-the-counter-in-the-isles-within-every-screen soma.  Huxley caught it in Brave New World, and Orwell in Nineteen Eighty-Four and Animal Farm.  Some wake up; most don't.  We're not as superior as we like to believe.  Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.  Not our world for much longer, so no worries.

​Steve:  The invention of the clock wasn't intentionally designed to dick to you into looking at it.​  What's insidious and sinister about it is that corporations are manipulating people through tapping into that best thing to do is not use any of that shit

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Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

Having a high IQ is a curse ... just look at Donald Trump

Have never taken an IQ test, and I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be all that high at this writing the way this brain is dealing with all that's been done to in in the last 64 years: concussions; alcohol, drugs, and caffeine; pesticides, preservatives, hormones, and medications; gun solvents and lead residue, under-the-kitchen sink who-knows-what; circadian rhythm and sleep deprivation issues; early stages of dementia, Alzheimer's, and who-knows-what-other aging issues; philosophical malaise; et cetera, et cetera.

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Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

Why The World Is Getting Better And Why Hardly Anyone Knows It
https://www.forbes.com/sites/stevedenning/2017/11/30/why-the-world-is-getting-better-why-hardly-anyone-knows-it/#384253b27826

Steve:  So this article is predicating the statement that the world is getting better up on the fact that there's fewer people starving etc etc what it's not taking into account is that the world I either Earth is not itself any better it's going to hell in a hand basket because we're destroying it it's like saying that a train that has luxury food and sleeping compartments on it that's headed for Cliff is getting better because everybody's having a good time but when we get to the cliff we're fucked

Moi:  I think the human drama can be synthesized into a very simple fact: Everything we do is about endorphins.  Relationships, sex, food, drink, drugs, entertainment, power, fame, fortune, work, play, art, games, sports, war, et cetera ad infinitum.  We are quantum-chemical-biological patterns, and feeling good is a huge piece of our survival mechanism.  Some are naturally "happy" much of the time, and others inordinately "sad" much of the time.  Most of us, of course, cross to and fro as ebb and flow dictates.  To become master of one's patterned make-up in this sensory play is the challenge.

As challenging and wearing and exasperating as it is, the fascinating thing about living in this time is that we get to watch a fair portion or both the rise and fall of a modern Rome, as well as witness at least part of the inevitable crash and burn of the human cancer and all its vanities.  Drag to see the world be undone so badly, but Gaia doesn't give a hoot about its anything – creation, preservation, and destruction are equal dynamics in this dreamtime – so why should we?

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Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

The ages people are happiest with their money, their looks, and life
http://www.businessinsider.com/what-age-are-people-happiest-2017-12

Happiness ... Sorrow ... Pleasure ... Pain .. What is they anyway? ... How preoccupied we are with the ever waxing and waning ephemeral states of mind ... Pffft on all of it ... Change is ... So it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.

Steve:  I also don't think you can generalize like they did ... being 60 and comfortable vs. 60 and homeless are two different things ...

Moi:  Writers and talking heads filling space with mind gorp to get a paycheck.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:​

Former Facebook Executive Antonio Garcia Martinez Predicts Collapse Of Civilization Within 30 Years

He is much more optimistic than I.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:​

PhD students have double the risk of developing a psychiatric disorder than the rest of the 'highly educated' population
http://www.businessinsider.com/phd-students-could-face-significant-mental-health-problems-2017-8

It just does not pay to be either too smart or too stupid in this insane asylum.  Learn to breathe in, breathe out, I say, and let go what does not matter, which by my middle-way reckoning at this writing, is a fair portion of all of it.

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Response to cousin Steve Hunt's sending the links to books on the competition between men and women:

The Red Pill

http://theredpillmovie.com/

The Myth of Male Power

http://www.warrenfarrell.org/

Who Stole Feminism?

https://www.amazon.com/Who-Stole-Feminism-Women-Betrayed/dp/0684801566/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1501887792&sr=1-2

We will see how powerful women are when things really go down.  The duplicity of civilization's political correctness allows them to pretend they are more than they are, more than they ever can be.  Let them pretend, I say, let them have all the rope they want, and see what they do when the noose rests about their pretty little necks, and the boys their mothers bred are too impotent to pry it off.


Who builds the roads and bridges and buildings and dams? Who mines the coal or mans the oil rigs?  Who lifts and carries the heavy loads?  Who fights the wars?  And on and on and on.  Women are good at stirring froth and nurturing the young, but it is men who bend steel, carve wood, tunnel into the earth, and fend off the beasts.

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Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent with the comment:  Yeah … I saw this … My thought after reflecting on it is … that we’re all the walking dead now … and aren’t even aware of it … so the people who did this research are missing the point:

When you die you know you are dead: Major study shows mind still works after the body shows no signs of life
www.independent.co.uk/news/science/mind-works-after-death-consciousness-sam-parnia-nyu-langone-a8007101.html

Just a collection of molecules pretending to be alive.

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Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt, who suffers from CFS, on an article I sent:

Scientists Edge Closer To Elusive Lab Test For Chronic Fatigue Syndrome 

The trouble with science is that many so-called scientists are often unable to grasp there are some things that cannot be easily measured, or may be completely immeasurable, but that does not mean something is not real.  Sometimes the question, the hypothesis, is not large or small enough for the answer.  The true scientist never assumes a final conclusion.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Smartphones making teens isolated, immature, suicidal

The reality is that we are all ultimately very much alone.  Our tribal instincts, our socialization as a species is nothing more than evolutionary wiring.  The challenge is to realize it at such a level as to be alonely, not lonely.  It is a sovereign state of mind that does not dread solitude.

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Response to an article from Ninos David​:

Greece: A (Basket) Case Study In Savage Globalization

The irony, of course, is that it was the Greeks – Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Thucydides, Herodotus, Athens, Sparta, Alexander – that set Western Civilization in motion, and began the conquest and colonization of the world by taking down Persia and Egypt.  Yet for the Greeks to think they are more disenfranchised than anyone else is absurd.  Across the world, billions of people are living out harsh lives with no hope of ever freeing themselves from the chains of powerlessness, of despair and futility, created by the inherent violence of greed.  “Poor me, poor us” will be an echo across the world for the rest of human history.  And as for the violence, I suspect we have only scratched the surface of the horrors this century and beyond will witness.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Is Marriage Improving Your Health? 

Define health.

And what of happiness?

My observation of married men is that they live in a state of trepidation: "Let me see what the wife thinks" or "I don't think the wife would like that." or "Let me see if the wife has anything planned."  And why is it so many practically live out in their garage?  

Marriage might work for many men, but I have no doubt I am much healthier and happier flying solo.  Can't tell you how many have said to me, "You're lucky."

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Back and forth with Sarlo regarding his guru rating service website:​

Sarlo's Guru Rating Service

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Howdy Ekim,

The wheels of Guru Ratings grind slow these days but I've got around to listing you today, on my Literature page at http://www3.telus.net/public/sarlo/RatingsL.htm, and the New Listings page and alphabetical listings lead there.

Best Wishes on your continued sojourning, Sarlo

​-----
Sarlo,

Your website, grind that I can understand it being by now, has always been an enjoyable wander, and I thought it would be amusing to at least get an honorable mention in the rankings of absurdity, so thanks.  Can't say I'm much of a guru/philosopher in any sort of big way by any means.  Life just sort of gradually shaped this mind into the thinker/writer zone, and for the last 25 years it has been something of a hobby to scribble down the ditties that always seem to pop into mind in the here and there.  Not at all interested in setting up an ashram or creating some traveling salvation show.  Way too many doing the glossy marketing thing already by my reckoning, and not always to right purpose as you have many times pointed out.  Plus I value anonymity and solitude way too much to give it up for all the bother of wandering stages, hawking books, and comforting the weepy.  So, silly as it all is in this vanity faire, putting it out there no-charge on the web in these-our-modern-times has been the obvious compromise.

Thanks for doing what you do.  Keep on keeping on as best ye may.

Best wishes,

M

The Stillness Before Time

Main Blogs

The Stillness Before Time

The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim

The Return to Wonder

Breadcrumbs

PDF's

The Stillness Before Time (53 pages)

The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim (505 pages)

Breadcrumbs (789 pages)

Current Breadcrumbs

Breadcrumbs: The Unfolding Next Round

Breadcrumbs: Standouts from "The Return to Wonder" Edit

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Hey, hey, Sarlo,

Another round of silliness coming at you.  Two score and fifteen-ish pages parlayed into five chapters, all posted in Breadcrumbs:  Leftovers I, Leftover II (One-Liners), Possible Titles, Corollaries, and Possible Last Words & Epitaphs.  Randomly pick thoughts from the two Leftover sections are being used to wrap the “Ponderings of Yaj Ekim” book that I’ve been slowly putting together.  Am aiming for 501 pages, 480 already uploaded.  Eventually, there will a downloadable PDF on the website, and maybe a self-published version with an ISBN number for sale on Amazon if I get to it.

Breadcrumbs

The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim

Enjoy the day.

M

P.S.  This for you from the Corollaries section:

Sarlo:
Effing the Ineffable.
Yaj Ekim’s Corollary:
Effing away.

And from Possible Titles:
The Halls of Sarlo

P.P.S.  Feel free to tell me to stop if you're not into getting these random dittyfests.  One of these daze maybe I'll just turn off the faucet, but for now it is, as I said before, an interesting pastime.

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Howdy Mike,

Thanks in return for your enjoyable replies and the link. Calling what you "do" a hobby (sans horse of course) looks like a detached but useful perspective and yes, it's good to "give something back" to the whole. Nice that you've found that balance.

Namaste, Sarlo

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Response to Ronald Arrington's "Today's Daily Scripture" on unmasking Lucifer's tricks and lies:

I am awareness, alone and absolute.  The dualistic notions of gods and devils, good and evil, right and wrong, and all the other countless fear-ridden concoctions of human consciousness, of human imagination, are not a reality for me.

But thanks for sharing.

Enjoy the day.

Ciao ciao,

M

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

The Uninhabitable Earth

Yet another round of mental masturbation that concludes with the pitiful, absurdly delusional four-letter H-word:  Hope.

Even if everyone woke up to climate change – which they're not going to do – and made some heroically significant changes to their lifestyle and breeding practices – which they're not going to do – and all the one-percenters and their minions set aside their greed – which they're not going to do – and all the politicians and lobbyists and donors stopped being corrupt and happily worked together – which they're not going to do – and all the nation states across the world turned off their war machines – which they're not going to do – and scientists and technicians and industrialists managed to close the freezer door – which they're not going to do ... and on and on and on ... ad infinitum.

In other words, the dystopian reckoning is coming, so keep your powder dry, and make sure you save one bullet.

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Back and forth with cousin Steve Hunt on an article I sent:

There’s a dark side to meditation that no one talks about

To me the meditative, contemplative life, is a solo act.  I don't do groups unless a paycheck is involved.  Too much bullshit anytime you hook up with anything organized.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Humans Are Genetically Predisposed to Kill Each Other

No boubt adout it in my mind.  It is only because of consequences (e.g., San Quentin) that a fair number of people are still alive in my trail of existence.  I am a natural born killer who chooses not to.

Revenge has a long memory, I always say.  I suspect the trick to not getting caught carrying out any act of passion, is setting aside the passion, and coming up with a solid plan that includes things like no smoking gun, no fingerprints, no DNA, an alibi, and plausible deniability.  There are a fair share of perfect crimes committed daily by those who give it careful thought.  Politicians and bankers and bureaucrats are first and foremost examples.

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​Response to Patrick Newman regarding his advocacy for the homeless in Chico:

I admire that you are willing to put yourself in the line of fire, and though I'm plenty ornery, I've never enjoyed being on stage, much less walking around on it with a target on my back.  Besides which, there are just too many friggin’ issues to pick just one, and there is no happy ending to any of them in this eye.  I’m frankly just too fried with the human drama, my bullshit included, to want to spend a lot of time caring anymore.  Except for the occasional spontaneous, anonymous act – I don’t do tax deductions – my words are about as involved as I get.  Very few read them, and that's all right by me.  Trump and the Kardashians can have all limelight that the world so willingly gives them.

Breadcrumbs: The Unfolding Next Round

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Response to Patrick Newman on the human paradigm:

It's been interesting being a human being, but I won't miss us.

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Response to a Youtube video from Jeremiah Fair:

Richard Rohr: Becoming Stillness

Just finished listening to the Richard Rohr clip.  Definitely makes some interesting points, but his talking about the timeless stillness, the formless indivisibility of the mystery within and without, left me as always wondering why anyone who grasps the irony and paradox of it all, would ever need to believe in any god, ever need to belong to any religion, ever need to pray for any this or that, or ever need to partake in any idolatry of thought or form.  Surely, the fearlessness, the absoluteness, the indelible grace, of the timeless awareness, the eternal nowness prior to consciousness, is more than enough for anyone who has discerned the mystery firsthand.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

How Loneliness Begets Loneliness

Good article, well worth passing on, but not a major issue for me.  Ultimately, from my perspective we're all very much alone, so the trick is to discern the grace in being "alonely."  I've always been a self-sufficient sociable loner – being raised on a farm no doubt played a big part in learning to enjoy my solitude – and it's generally been relatively easy to chatter away with friends, acquaintances, and strangers.  Hanging out at coffee shops and the gym offer all kinds of regular interactions, and my philosophical view and writing, as well as all the online silliness, have provided outlets, as well.  "To have friends, you have to be a friend," is a line I heard years ago, and it has served me well.

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Response to Bart Marshall about his current projects, and how I started writing:

It's been a few years since I read the Bhagavad Gita, so I'll be looking forward to it.  Spent some time this morning reading up on the other thinkers you mentioned.  Though I hadn't heard of J.J. van der Leeuw, I'm familiar with the Theosophical Society and Krishnamurti, who was one of the early influences in the post-college era.  I attended a few of his talks in Ojai in the late 70's, and taught 5th grade a couple years at Oak Grove School after his death in the late 80's.  During the second year I finally hit the world-weary wall, and that, coupled with a concussion and fellow teacher giving me a copy of Nisargadatta's "I Am That," reset the course into seer-mode and all the many adventures and writings since.

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Response to cousin Steve Hunt on the state of things:

We're all slaves to one thing or another in this sorry-ass one-percenter world, and many if not most are far lower on the totem pole than you or I.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Third Way Man: How Your Soul Dies

INFINITE MOTIVATION for only $10!  Step right up, folks!  Step right up!

Thanks for sharing, but I don't think I'm one of the chosen few.  I've had plenty of fire-in-the-belly times, plenty of most-excelling adventures, plenty of creation-preservation-destruction moments, for my purpose.  Don't feel the need to be inspired any more.  Don't need or want to care that much.  Don't need or want to pretend there's something to hope for in the dark clouds we both see forming much closer than the horizon.  Guess you could say I’m feeling more than a little done with our kind.  I wish everyone well, but I’m over us.  Good luck to the progeny who've got more years to face, more "skin in the game" than you and I, is all I have to offer.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Is the Universe Conscious? Prominent Scientists Say Yes

http://www.corespirit.com/universe-conscious-prominent-scientists-say-yes/

I tend to differentiate awareness and consciousness; awareness being the same timeless empty-infinite in all sentient life forms, and consciousness being the thought, the movement, the noise, the sense of time in each individual mind.  We think ourselves separate, but in reality we are all ultimately very much the same eternal mystery.

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Response to Ninos David's comment:  We are living in very strange times, and among very strange and dangerous creatures, which are conducive to mental health issues.

Destiny is all, and we've both seen and done plenty in our little window of time.  All we have left to do is stay vigilant, locked and loaded, and watch and wait as our fate plays out.  The challenge in whatever time is left is to maintain the best quality of life the body and mind allow.

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Response to Patrick Newman on Christianity and history:

Two thousand years and counting, I always say.  The joke is on us that we allow history from thousands of years ago to steer this our modern world.  Boggling.

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Response to cousin Steve Hunt on computers and technology:

I long for the simplicity and tranquility of Old School.  What a blessing it was to wander about alone and unburdened by the weight of the world in all the many screens.

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Response to Berj Moosekian regarding the Buddha quest:

Was thinking after you left, that the Buddha quest is less about consciousness experiencing something more-more-more, than it is simply being free of a sense of identity, free of all the conditioning. free of all the delusion, free of all the inanity, free of all the weight of pretending to be a human being.  It is simply about being the awareness, unchained, at peace in the given moment.

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Response to an article from cousin Steve Hunt:

Stress really is killing us

Pretty astounding what hells our minds can create.  Just started Year Eight in my zen-guy retirement on April 1st.  Still feel some of the angst of the working world, but not near what goes on for you and all the folks in Silicon Valley.  I think being raised the son of a poor white farmer in a small rural town created far fewer expectations than you felt in your domain.  I tried to play the ambition game, but never really had the fire in the belly to take it far.

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Response to Cliff McFelter regarding Donald Trump’s rise to power:

You've ranted well everything I've been thinking.  It's just too fucking crazy for words.  And me in Turlock, surround by Trumpites.  Some friendships are definitely getting stretched.  This must be how many looked at Hitler and Mussolini in their rise to power.  How long Trump will last has got to be a bet in Las Vegas.  Who knows, teflon-coated as he is, he may even get through this four years, and go for eight.  The foolishness, the stupidity of our electorate leaves all possibilities on the table.  It just shows the failure of our educational system that the memes of ignorance are as strong, if not stronger than ever.

* * * *
Response to cousin Steve Hunt regarding detachment:

I've come to see it all as a ceaseless rolodex of irony and paradox for everyone at every level in every way.  And I well know how hard it is to play the detached game when you're swimming with sharks in the deep end.  In his bid for enlightenment and inner peace, Siddhartha, who could have been a warrior king, chose to be a deadbeat dad, living homeless in forests and parks, playing god to a court of jesters.  Not a role for which most have aptitude, much less aspiration.  And really just another facet in the vanity-vanity-all-is-vanity of it all.

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To Whom It May Concern:

It is certainly a curious thing to have gone this mystical direction in life.  Most definitely a road less traveled.  As far as discussing it with others goes, I think, as with any specialty, any sphere – science, mathematics, music, sports, business, politics, et cetera ad infinitum – that we all tend to search out like minds to focus on our interests and passions.  Scientists with scientists, mathematicians with mathematicians, musicians with musicians, athletes with athletes, businessmen with businessmen, politicians with politicians, et cetera ad infinitum.  Our little “lost” tribe of seers, being somewhat scattered about the globe, are not always easy to run across.  You just never know who will be sitting next to you in some coffee shop, bar, or park bench.

Personally, I have always been generalist and chameleon enough to enjoy chatting with whoever about whatever comes up.  There is great freedom in anonymity.  Many people I know quite well have very little if any clue about what I have done or what I have written.  It has just never come up.  I may probe and plant seeds, but do not worry whether or not they take root.  Some minds are fertile; some are barren.  It is just the way it is.

As far as staying connected with family, friends, and acquaintances goes, we each have to decide what is important to us, and it may be for some that burning bridges and moving on alone is only option they allow themselves.  The high school class of my small rural town origin celebrated our 40th reunion a few years back, and those who came had a great time reconnecting and sharing their life journeys.  Very few of them would ever be at all interested in my thoughts on things – many of them are true believers in one dogma or another – and I am okay with that.  No point beating yourself over the head over things you cannot change.

The big view of it is that I am one of who knows how many awakened eyes in this magical mystery tour, as likely are you if you are reading this.  Whether anyone else hears the call is something over which none of us has any say.  Nor does it really matter.  We may point the way to a larger vision, but it is each, abiding in their own set of capacities and limitations, who must, to whatever degree, wander the pathless land very much alone.  We are but ephemeral seed crystals, of our own devices, for consciousness to do with what it will.

Everything I have written since 1989, except for a couple notebooks that were lost, along with a few other oopsie moments on the computer, is my gift to the future, such as it is.  It is up to you and others I have befriended through the years to pass it on if you deem it to have merit.  It has been an interesting pastime to give so much of my time over to it: to think it, to scribble it, to transcribe and edit it, to throw it about like Johnny did apple seeds.  There may be in the neighborhood of five thousand pages worth by the time I exit this center stage.  And what happens to it is for time to tell.  I leave it to you to decide.

Best wishes to all, and no worries, I say, I say.

M

P.S.  Regarding the name Yaj Ekim ... It is just a reverse spelling on the first and middle names ... Michael Jay Holshouser ... Mike Jay ... Yaj Ekim.  Coincidently, make of it what you will, Yaj is an Indian boy’s name meaning worshipper, sacrifice, another name for Shiva, a sage.  And Ekim is a Turkish name for October meaning “sowing” (of seeds).

Yaj: ​
Indian boy’s name
Worshipper, Sacrifice, Another name for Shiva, A sage

Ekim:
Turkish name for October
Turkish origin, meaning “sowing” (of seeds)

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Th-th-th-that's all folks.
Until the next round.