Wretched Guts of Freedom

The interesting thing about art derived from an ugly wretched pain is that the artist develops a greater understanding of that pain. To be moved enough to create something out of pain is an acknowledgment or confrontation of that pain, a process. The result of that process is a transformation with a deep meaning to the creator. The transformation is the eventual letting go or moving on.

Even with letting go or moving on, there is still that knowledge possessed. Letting go isn't eliminating or forgetting pain. Letting go is a choice. It is choosing to refrain from struggle. It is a freedom. The pain is there and it cannot be denied. It just exists in an altered state, another form. For me, that is the beauty in art. Even art derived from something ugly, wretched, and painful.

For me, it is freedom...

Outside the Box

Think outside of the box and write outside of the box and you will be outside of the box.

How do I cause thought outside of the box? How do I write that down while outside? I don’t know and I don’t know. If I knew it would be inside of my box. Even when considering the boundaries of my box, as I breathe and see, there are varied concepts of volume and distance. Does my box have windows and doors? I’d never be able to get out without them. After all, the most useful part of a box is the part where the box isn’t. The passage of open mind is always permitted. The knowledge of my box is not static. With a closed mind all volume and distance is static. I am certain of that.

So then, if the knowledge of my box is not static what are the assumptions for the change in volume and distance? Am I free to interpretations? Yes, I am free to interpretation. I am free to live, think, and write outside of the box. I have no idea how, but I am open to that. If I claimed to know how, then I would be inside the box. How do I forget everything I already know or disregard everything I want to know and place my pen down to paper with a clean page?

Now then, I wander outside of the box and I realize that. The moment I realize that, I have changed the borders of my box. I am no longer outside. Did I merely move the box or did I expand my box? What is the perspective of movement from A to B? These points can be inside and outside at the same time and each may be viewed from the other. I equate this to seeing myself as others do. Step outside of myself and see me. This is my realm and outside of my realm. The focus can be inside the box or outside of the box, inside my realm or outside of it.

Did you ever wonder how many people only see the "outside of the box" as a two dimensional box? Draw a box on a piece of paper. Put a dot on the inside. That is you. Put a dot outside of the box. That is also you. That is not thinking outside of the box. That is thinking outside of the square. That is X and Y. Pick your pen up off of the paper and put a dot in the air. That is also you. Include the Z axis. X, Y, and Z. Why? Because it is then a box. Shoes come in a box. Cereal comes in a box. We live in a box, so to speak. They all have a known volume and distance. Don’t be so comfortable in there. Eat a good breakfast, put on some comfy shoes and go for a walk outside of your box. Have an open mind. Utilize the useful portions of your mind and take the passage beyond.

Furthermore, don't see the box as three dimensional. I don’t know what I don't see...

Memories of John Lennon

Yes. Dearest Yoko, my memories of John:



http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/5245222138/

I traveled to an unfamiliar city (NYC) and met an unfamiliar woman. She learned that I did not have a place to stay for the night, that I didn’t know anyone, that I was alone. She offered her couch, I accepted. At her apartment she brewed an evening pot of tea to share. I could hear the water getting hot and I could see the vapors rolling out of the spout. Just as it whistled she stood up and exclaimed "O'cha, honorable tea!" She played music: John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, repeatedly. We spent the evening chatting, sharing the stories of our lives and sipping jasmine tea. There is one song still fresh in my mind from that evening. Isolation. It brings me back to that evening, back to that pot of tea, back to the particular moment in my life where the fear of being alone wasn’t the obvious feeling. The prevailing feeling was the joy of unconditional company. The evening ended with her whispering to her tea cup “Invisible flowers, unfold your wings and fly with the sunrise...” When I woke up she was gone. There was a note on the table to enjoy a muffin with the sunrise. I finished our pot of tea and I left to continue my journey. I never saw or spoke to her again.

I have no direct memory of John. What I do have is his presence in the memory of a peaceful moment in my life. I am grateful for his subtle and lingering influence he had on my life that night. Jasmine tea and the John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band album are a catalyst for recalling the peace in my life. They remind me that I am not alone in my desire for the situation to harmony. Yoko, as a complete stranger, in direct contrast to my rebellious tendencies of isolation I thought I would share that with you. I thought I would share that with you out loud in public.
Thanks for asking.
http://imaginepeace.com/archives/13454
Peace.
Rebel with a Frog

what use is the 25 hour sunday

I used to call people when I knew they weren’t home and leave short poems on their answering machines. The problem with that today is twofold. 1. Cell phones and voice mail. More people abandoned land lines and carry cell phones. How do you call them when they’re not home when they take their phone with them? 2. Answering machines have fallen in use to phone service voice mail. The transfer of information via recorded message is the same, but the vehicle has changed. Old School: There was nothing like coming home, standing in your dining room or kitchen, pressing a button and listening to poetry. Time changes..

I wandered around a bit on Saturday night. well into Sunday until it was time to change the clocks. With the moon about 0% full nothing visually inspired me, only words. Vexed atwix the weight of camera and weight of pen. I sat at my desk with fresh ink. not pencil, pen. I'm not afraid of not editing. I set my clocks back for daylight savings and went to bed.


listening to the night fill the room…
i don't so much notice the clouds, or lack there of, when the moon is so new.
as such, leaves are missing from the branches of trees.
pears in the bluster of darkness drop, the foraging racoons.
momentary water fills the basement toilet (jiggle the handle).
mental note: pay attention to old things.
window sashes bumping jambs. drafts or ghosts?
coldness in the air indicates neither, could be either.
in stillness,
she breathes warmth, wearing comfortable socks
fast asleep in slumber.
i lay awake under blanket
contemplating a morning cup of tea.

what use is the 25 hour sunday?

cloudwalking

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/3985606083/

taking a walk and shooting the clouds. the autumn sky in the morning causes pause.

I seek a vantage point to admire the clouds, to observe the trees, and appreciate the lake; as I breathe, nothing is more important than this moment. who am I to call for inner peace when the tools for concurrence already exist?

Featured 10/6/2009 on portalwisconsin.org/

disambiguation: "who ami I to call for inner peace"? I can't just turn inner peace on or demand inner peace on queue. The caption for the photo was partly inspired by a quote from Harry Emerson Fosdick
"No one can get inner peace by pouncing on it."

Note:
The more I look at this photo, the more I realize how important it was for me to "pause" that moment. I did not pounce, I did not demand anything. and I did not instantly relax. I merely stood still, took a deep breath, held it and then took a picture when it felt good.

I never planned for or imagined that the top of an outhouse would be included in one of my favorite photo/moments. But there it is tucked away in the subtle edge of darkness. I suppose at some point in the big picture, no matter what we're doing where ever we are, we must take care of business in order to be able to relax. For me this photo is the evacuated movement of stress.

Who Takes a Camera to go Buy Socks?

I went to go buy some socks. On the way I saw this sunset behind the electrical equipment and stopped.

Cool. By the time I got to the store, they were closed. Not cool. I'll get socks another day.

Rhetorical question: Who takes their camera to go buy socks?

Psychology of Walking on the Moon

Apollo 11 astronaut Edwin Aldrin photographed this footprint in the lunar soil 1969-07-21 Latitude/Longitude (deg): -00.57,023.49 E.

http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/imgcat/html/object_page/a11_h_40_5878.html
I dug out an old psychology essay for the 40 year commemoration of "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." walking on the moon on July 20th, 1969. In the process of commeration, let's not forget the other Appollo 11 crew members Michael Collins and Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin.

Comparison and Contrast of Adjustment and Personal Growth
What does adjustment and personal growth have to do with psychology? First of all we must have an understanding of psychology. Psychology is a science. Not so much as the science, which makes rockets fly or how cold it can get on the moon. But, psychology as a science in the sense of gathering information about observable behaviors and mental processes, to use that information to help suggest methods of adjustment and avenues for growth in ones life.

Let’s consider the astronaut Neil Armstrong on July 20th, 1969. How would humans function and or behave in outer space? At one time, no one knew. We do know that the demands of gravity from the earth continually pull on Neil to keep him grounded to the earth, his natural environment. Neil places himself in a rocket and applies a force against the earth, which is greater than gravity. He blasts into space and eventually walks on the moon; not his natural environment. Neil has successfully made many adjustments in his environment in order to maintain his desire to walk on the moon.

During this “adjustment” Neil most likely experienced many thoughts and feelings while he considered the effects of removing himself from his natural environment. There must have been a great deal of stress knowing that if he was not vigilant with the environmental observations needed to react to his changing environment and act appropriately to maintain it, his environment would change beyond life sustaining and he would expire. There are not many people who would subjectively put themselves in a situation like that for science.

How long is a human being able to sustain in an environment away from their natural environment? Are Humans able to cope and maintain an acceptable environment suitable for life in that environment? Are we able to act in accordance with prevailing modes, to accommodate or conform? We still do not know entirely. Observing the behaviors and mental process of astronauts in such an extremely controlled environment may provide some insight to help suggest methods of adjustment and avenues for growth in ones life in an environment not so extreme. One might imagine negative, positive and correlational methods of scientific study at this time.

Hmm. Many a hypothesis tested with further experimentation.

This trip to the moon and back most likely affected Neil’s perception of life, his point of reference. He may value many aspects of his life and the earth’s existence he previously did not consider. His points of reference are different than mine, yet mine may be similar. It must have been great to step there on the moon and contemplate all the previous steps that had to occur without fail in order to achieve that end result, the greatness of walking on the moon. It must have been great to realize how meaningless that moment is to him if that feat was not duplicated by returning to earth, his natural environment. When Neil returned to earth, it was Neil that had changed and not the earth. By acting in the specific manor of reacting to his environment, even though he subjectively placed himself in that environment, I feel fairly confident that he experienced some personal growth. I’ll assume he didn’t go to the moon to become a politician, or because it was neat-o. I believe he did it because he felt a need to create a novel environment for himself and for mankind by going where no one has ever gone before; thus, creating a sense of self-achievement and personal growth.

I was going to stop and think about Astronauts as a cultural sub population and how much of a minority they are but yet how diverse they are, and need to be. But I didn’t. What I did stop to think about was just exactly what does Neil Armstrong have to do with psychology and the comparison and contrast of adjustment and personal growth. Not much directly, but it was how I decided express my opinion to the reader to let them know what I understand about psychology and the comparison and contrast of adjustment and personal growth without just saying it. Adjustment is (extrinsic motivation) adapting to meet the needs of an environment. Personal growth is (intrinsic motivation) acting in order to become or meet the needs of an environment. The comparison is how both of them sometimes have the same end result. The contrast is how both of them come from a different space.

Blue Water Sunrise - Disambiguated

This day was strange because I didn’t intend take all these photographs of the sunrise and the light house and put them together in a time lapse. I just needed to do something different that day. You know, and I ask myself; what do a lake, a sunrise, and a lighthouse have to do with my grief? Nothing. What do a lake, a sunrise, and a lighthouse have to do with my grief? Everything.

I routinely and ritually have been exhibiting and dealing with grief and dealing with acceptance of the loss of my brother the same ways throughout the years. It’s still hard, it still hurts and it’s still difficult. And I found myself being routine in my grief. You know, grieving the same way every anniversary doing pretty much the same things and going through the same feelings. Every anniversary seemed similar. I went through the same moods, the same feelings, and used the same coping mechanisms. It is possible to become complacent or stagnant with my grief.

Grief is a perspective on the state of mind for a particular section of my life. It sounds odd sometimes I guess, but you have to grow even in grief. Grief is something requiring growth. In order to change it, I must practice it. It’s an ever evolving mood, feeling, and thought process. It is a growing outlook on life. Except, I can never outgrow the grief.

Someone once asked me “How did I get so good at dealing with grief?” I don’t think I’m so good at it. I just happen to struggle with it for a few decades. Struggle with something for most of your life and you’re bound to obtain different perspectives on it at times. Without growth I would always be in the same spot. To think that I would forever be in a state of shock and disbelief is something I cannot fathom. An introvert striving for the situation to harmony is not like that.

This year I just felt like doing something different. I went down town by the harbor pier-head light house and parked a tripod with a camera on it. I had no method. I just took a picture when I thought it looked cool or when I thought the view changed enough. I imagined that one or two pictures are bound to turn out.


http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/3429651508

Then, I went and had a large coffee because I was freezing cold. A large Bullfrog they call it; to be exact. What else would I be drinking?

I never intended to time lapse the photos as I took them. But, after seeing them all in a row I did. I dropped the song Blue Water behind the video to have some audio to the video. It was like the morning stood still. So I set forth to document my thoughts for that morning during the sunrise. The words that came out of my pen were just notes and feelings at the time. This was an odd process because it was different from the way I have usually written things. I soon arranged the words into the poem.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWWkWVdLZnw

It just felt different. You know the, the blue hour is twilight. It’s neither full darkness nor complete daylight and there there’s about an hour before the sun rises above the horizon. They call that the blue hour and, and things are a bit different that hour. That’s when it kind of all came together and I, I felt a bit, well, it just came together. Um, it’s not like I have this new grief coping gizmo that I’m going to pull out all the time and fix it. It was just something different outside of my routine, and I, even after decades uh, there is still room for growth in grief. You know it, it can become stagnant.

The day began different than usual, and finished different than usual due to the new morning, or is that the new mourning. ??

Do the Next Right Thing

Did I ever tell you this story?

I’m supposed to be to work at 8:00 am. It’s Monday. It’s February. It’s snowing like crazy and it’s freezing cold, cold like a blizzard. Crazy cold. Your boogers freeze when you breathe through your nose kind of cold. I’m in bed, I have pajamas on, but no socks and my feet are cold. I’m too tall for my short bed. I was so cold I couldn’t sleep all night and I’m still tired. I’m lying there in bed thinking about how broke I am. Washing dishes at the Chancery doesn’t pay much. All I have for cash is bus fare to get to work and pay day is on Friday. And I think to myself, this sucks. I look at my alarm clock and I have two hours to get to work, which is more than enough time. So what do I do?

I get out of bed, grab my bus fare and run for the bus. In my pajamas and barefoot, no jacket, gloves, hat, or keys to the house. I don’t even take time to lock myself out. I just leave the door wide open with the heat on. I get to the bus and I ride the bus as far as it will go. I’m like ten miles from home. I get off the bus without getting a transfer and I run farther than the bus until I see a car in a driveway of a nice big house and people inside. I run up to the front door and I bang on the door and ring the doorbell like crazy. I run out to the car in the driveway and I crawl underneath it. I stick my tongue to the muffler. It is instantly stuck. So where does that put me?

I’m under the car of some strange guy who is mad at me and yelling. I’m frost bitten on all of my appendages (including the peeper). I’m hungry because I didn’t eat breakfast. I’m breathing hard from all that running and my lungs hurt. I have no way to get back home. Even if I did, I don’t know why I’d go. I’m late for work. In fact, I’m fired because I’m late again. I’m sure the hoodlums have walked off with all of my Belinda Carlisle and Teena Marie CD’s. I have to pee. My tongue is stuck to this guy’s muffler and the only way to get it off is for him to start his car and burn my tongue. While he’s revving up his car, I breathe in the exhaust and pass out.

I wake up in the hospital. I hear David Bowie: “Ashes to Ashes”.

I make up this story all the time. It’s got the same scenario, but the events change. It’s my worst case scenario vignette. It’s funny, but laughter is not the only best medicine, there is crying as well. I think of Peter Gabriel and his CD So. A line from Washing of the Water “and if I follow through, I face what I deny”. I can make myself cry to that song all the time. I think about doing the right thing. If I always do the right thing, I’ll never have my tongue stuck to a car in a blizzard wearing pajamas away from home and late for work. …Yeah. I don’t know why it works, but when I’m out of my head, Ashes to Ashes does the trick. I lay there and listen for answers. I once listened to it for over two days straight, over and over. Nothing else but that. Everything seems to work out fine with some time to think and a little faith. It’s like my nerve salve. (Salve My Jagged Nerves)

I’m not going to go back and read/edit this message. I just babbled, like I was talking. And if I was really talking, I can’t take back what you just heard. So, I just talked to you for a while. Such a while that I’m sufficiently late for bed.

Keep warm,
Rebel with a Frog.

crispy… calmness in a strange twilight

So I find myself sitting around at night purging something creative from the marrow of my thoughts, the blurbs fledging for a glimpse of common sense or clarity so that I may document the moment. Maybe at some point I will revisit. Maybe I struggle with putting thought to paper. That locks it in, in black and white. Sure I can rewrite it or redo it. But Sometimes I don’t want to. Why is it hard for me to accept the passing moment as a moment and let it pass? Is it the great memories I have of favorite ideas that I never wrote down and simply can’t remember exactly what they were. Is it the great memories I have of favorite ideas that I wrote down and can simply remember exactly what it was. Yes, I contradict myself often. That is the beauty of being mortal.

Someday the wrinkled sleep that overcomes my complexion and sits in the corner of my eyes will smile as if it were actually my eye. There is something subtle and intent about blue, something that doesn’t matter to anyone except to anyone that matters, something that will wake up. Really, what color is blue? Is it eyes or sky? Is it CAT5 cable or cute cars? Is it planned or spur of the moment. Is it the darkness blindsided or the coffee forsaken? I will wake up to a new day smiling and never move my mouth except to yawn and sip my tea.

The comfort in complexity is simple for me. I am a creature of habit and patterns. My favorite is breathing in and out without thinking about it and is shortly followed only by eating. Yes, the love of family is all over the place. That is a given. It is a given that acknowledgement of love must be repeated repeatedly. True, there is complexity in comfort and it is not that simple. Somewhere I’m out there. Somewhere there are stacks of thoughts waiting for the gate to drop and spurt out. Sometime I may have an idea about this glimpse of myself I recall, about the struggle for the situation to harmony. How I arrived at this subtle blue hour moment of crispy… calmness in a strange twilight.

Writing Haiku

A Haiku is a keenly observed moment pertaining to nature or human nature described in a short poem.

When writing Haiku I prefer the use of a 17-syllable verse form consisting of three metrical units of 5, 7, and 5 syllables. The inclusion of a season and a cut are also preferred. What do you mean a cut? A cut is the unconditional contrast and comparison of two instances, events, images, or situations.

Keep in mind that it is impossible to single out a style or format or subject matter as definitive for Haiku. I prefer the structure and inclusions to define and form the Haiku.

An example of Haiku as I understand it:

waves lap, icicles
lake snow melts, freezes, melts, drips
wet skin becomes cold


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bqJS5fqmmE

A closer look:
1. waves lap, icicles
Five syllables.

2. lake snow melts, freezes, melts, drips
Seven syllables.
Icicles and snow imply winter, the season.

3. wet skin becomes cold
Five syllables.
My skin in this instance is cold from standing in the waves and getting splashed. I never mention that as it is implied. I mention the lake, the snow, the ice, and the freezing/ thawing of water. Then, I mention my skin being cold. The contrast and comparison between the state of the lake and my skin. That is the cut.

But, this is my opinion and preferances for haiku and not a definition. I think Robert John Mestre; the Editor of the online newsletter Simply Haiku did a good job at describing haiku. He published his take on haiku in Volume 1, Number 1 July, 2003.
http://simplyhaiku.com/SHv1n1/pages/mytake.html

Not Cookies, Bakies!

So I spent the afternoon with kids making cookies.

No I didn’t. I spent the afternoon making bakies. They’re bakies I tell you. Not cookies. If someone told you they were cookies, they lied to you. If you thought you made cookies, well you didn’t. If you bought some cookies, you got ripped off and you should ask for your money back. You should be mad as all crumb at the world for spoofing you into participating in this foolish prank. Cookies? You still want to call them cookies? Unfortunately, you are a victim of incorrect thinking. Let me set you proper.

Cooking happens on the top of your oven, on the top of your range. Imagine cooking chicken soup, macaroni noodles, a bok choi stir-fry, grilled cheese sandwiches, mushroom and Swiss cheese burgers, or even Reuben sandwiches to name a few. These foods are cooked in pots, pans or skillets on TOP of the stove, they are COOKED.

Baking happens inside of the oven, inside behind the door with the window. Imagine baking meatball lasagna, chili con carne corn bread muffins, angel food cake, double chocolate brownies, or an Idaho baked potato for cheese’s sake. These foods are baked in pans, tins, and cups INSIDE of the oven, they are BAKED.

Proceed to your local grocery mall and pick up some of that already made dough that comes in a roll so you can slice it up and apply a dry heat to it in your oven for a dessert type snack. What would you put it on? You’d put it on one of those flat things that go in the oven with food on them, some kind of a sheet thing it’s named. Hold that roll of dough in one hand and go to your favorite house wares retailer. Look for the aisle where you can purchase one of those fangled sheets. Now, with your free hand pick up one of the aluminum sheets, the no stick sheets or the silicone sheets, whichever floats your boat. With that sheet in your hand ask yourself “What section of the store am I in?” You are in the “bake ware” section. You should be standing proudly in house wares in front of things you use to BAKE. Outside of the very center of your gaze you may see Belgian waffle irons, automatic drip coffee brewers, two temperature removable-crock slow cookers, multi function multi speed food processors, toasters for bagels and sliced bread all in the same appliance, blocks of bone breaking cutlery and if you’re lucky the cast iron skillets. Ignore all of those things in your peripheral. Concentrate on the baking sheet and the dough, the matter at hand.

What do you do with that dough? You bake it in the oven on a baking sheet. For all that is right in the world you bake it in the oven on a baking sheet. They are not cookies. They are bakies!

They are bakies and that’s the way your reality crumbles.

I Wish I Was a Piece of Nature

How absurdly grandiose for me to wish this temporal conscious existence of a soul into a free flowing randomly automatic event. If I close my eyes my optimism doesn't give a damn.

Grasshopper Cupcake

I like cake. In case you didn't know, I like cake. I don't have a beer belly. I have a cake belly. I LIKE CAKE. I'm always looking for new ways to eat cake. Not that cake gets boring; I just like to be creative. So I have a few leftover chocolate cake cupcakes. They're not frosted yet. My 7 minute frosting got a bit dry in the refrigerator and needs a bit of water to bring it back up to spreadability. I could always microwave it, but who likes hot frosting. A hot cake fresh out of the oven should warm frosting, not a microwave.

I have a cold. I want to take some green minty cold medicine before I go to bed so I can sleep medicine. You know, the one with Acetaminophen, Dextromethorphan, and Doxylamine Succinate in it. It's supposed to be a good pain reliever, cough suppressant and antihistimine.

Do you see where this is going? Can you imagine a grasshopper cupcake?

Yes, I did. I put a dose of the cold medicine in the frosting and drowned the cupcake with my new grasshopper minty green frosting and I ate it like a mule eating an apple. Yes, I did.

If the obvious timeframe wasn't apparent to me I would think that I thought of that AFTER taking the cold medicine, not before.

This reminds me of the time I was eating some mint chocolate chip cookies and my friend said "Dude, what'r ya doin'?" I told him eating mint chocolate chip cookies. He said "Really? Mind if I try one?" I said help yourself. He ate one and said "Dude, that tasted like a regular chocolate chip cookie." I said I know, you gotta brush your teeth first.

Well, I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed so I can sleep. I already took my medicine.

Make Me One with Everything

Did you hear the one about the Zen Monk in Kinhin at a hot dog stand who said "Make me one with everything."?

Think of soil. Think of the soil in a river, the soil around the root of a tree. Think of the soil as boiling water or a load of laundry, it's always moving. Potato bugs make holes in it. Rocks make their way to the surface in a farmer’s field. Even under your house the soil moves. Have you ever seen a raised sidewalk? OK. Soil never sits still, it’s always moving around.

Think of water. Rain falls out of the sky, onto the ground. It seeps into the ground. A tree root soaks up the water, it moves up the trunk, out a branch and then into a leaf. Autumn arrives; the leaf falls to the ground and dries up. The water returns to the sky. Water never leaves, it just always moves around.

Think of air. Air just is, trust me. It's not just air with nothing there, it’s real and it's real. Air is so thin you can see through it. Air is so big the weather lives there. Air motivates my senses. Air is even in my blood. Air keeps me alive so I try not to play with it.

Consider this: Soil is not all soil, air is not all air and that water is not all water. There is air in the soil, there is water in the soil, there is water in the air, there is soil in the air, there is air in the water and there is soil in the water. Everything is everywhere. It's just that there are places where more of it is apparent.

Matter just doesn't appear and disappear, it moves around. Like the raindrop that never left and just moved around, people never leave, we just move around. We eat stuff, collect up the good stuff, add it on to us and get rid of the leftovers. The banana I just ate was on a tree in perhaps Jamaica, gathering minerals and water from the soil. Some time ago the banana was physically part of the tropics, now it is physically part of me. So, in a way, part of the tropics is me, I am part tropics. I come from everywhere. I am made up of all, air, soil and water. I am no different than a raindrop, a potato bug, a rock or a banana tree. I am composed of the very same. I move around collecting stuff, composing myself. Eventually, I will return to everything. (Lay on the beach long enough and you will die. Even if someone brings you food for the rest of your life, you will die. Just because you are getting food does not mean you will not die, it just means you will not die as soon. So, OK, you die, you dry up, you decompose. Decompose is the key word. ) Parts of me will move around regardless how the rest of me moves. I will decompose becoming less apparent in one spot. Liquid and ash separate, they return to the soil and sky. It's just that now I have a life form, a shell, a place where I am more apparent.

I never appeared out of nowhere and I will never disappear. All of me, all that ever was and will be was always here and always will be, so even now, I am one with everything.

Disambiguation of Thought

Ok, so I now find myself in this loopy circular thinking. If I write my first thoughts before I go to bed, are they my first thoughts (as I think them) or my last thoughts (of the day)? What if I happen to be up late at night writing before I go to bed and I happen to be up past midnight and I continue to write? Aren't those thoughts for a new day? Are they still my first thoughts? Yes, they are the first thoughts as my last thoughts of the day before I go to bed even if those thoughts are the first thoughts of a new day.

Is the time I perceive divided into segments of being awake and being asleep in alternating modes? The definition of "day" is in the perspective of the perceiver. When does the day start for a third shifter? At midnight, when they wake up, or when they are off of work? The weekend is often considered to start on Friday afternoons after work is completed. Let's say I stay awake for a day and a half writing, and then I go to bed. As I lay in bed, I might say to myself "that was a long day". The vigilance of time seems to be for consistent reference points for gauging how long something has been going on. Punch the clock, work overtime, sleep in, and stay up late. Our definition of what is an acceptable amount of time for these actions varies in as many people as there are gauging these actions.

Somehow "Blog of First Thoughts as I Think Them" is too complicated. I'd much rather amuse my muse with unintentional ambiguity and stick with BLOGOFT. It actually comforts me quite a bit being content without any disambiguation of thought.

An Explicitly Legitimate Knocking

5:45am, I’m sleeping. Somewhere in 1993, August perhaps. The one August I happen to live alone in an apartment building on the second floor. Sound asleep at 5:50am.

Knock knock, long pause. Knock knock knock knock, long pause. As I wake, Knock knock knock knock knock.

This is not just some random noise. Not quite the drunk neighbor below tripping on his furniture, but just as loud. And then again confirming my suspicions, an explicitly legitimate knock. Knock knock knock knock knock. This is serious knuckles on wood at 5:55am. It’s got that answer the door sound of a landlord collecting rent. It’s got that can’t you hear me knocking sound of a cold canvassing environmentalist. It’s got that I’m not going away sound of a Jehovah’s Witness who knows you’re home. Knock knock knock knock knock. Undoubtedly an official knock.

I alluded my interest in the knockee with a lackadaisical saunter to peek out the window to see if I could catch a spy on who was knocking and I woke up all at once as I looked. It was the police, a whole half a front yard full of police. EEK! That explains the knock. Once I saw it was the police I went to answer the door.

By 6am I was half way down the stairs when I saw their boots through the front door triple stacked windows. It was then I realized that I was in my underwear. Great, watch some neighbor open the door to see what is going on and I’m standing around in my cartoon boxers with the police. I’ll just answer the door, let ‘em in and scram back up to bed.

So I’m going up the stairs. Hmm, I thought out loud under my breath. They’re going up the stairs too. I furrowed my brow with confusion trying to think of a way to tell the police that not only are beginning to invade my personal space but they disturbed me from my warm sound sleep. They were all coming up behind me for somebody on my floor. I turned the corner to just mine and the old lady’s apartment across the hall and the police followed suit.

Rushing thought: They’re either here for me or Mabel; all Mabel does is make hot dog casserole, fill the bird feeder in her slippers and talk about the weather. Hmm, they’re not here for the old lady.

Hmm, reaching for my doorknob in slow realization that they were indeed coming to my place I asked them “You guys aren’t going to arrest me in my underwear, are you”? They asked me “Are you Scott Somethingorhteother”? I felt like Henry Chinaski from Barfly, answering the door in my boxers. I almost said “No! I’m Leon Spinks!” before I slammed the door in their faces, but I didn’t. Capitulate I thought, in nothing but your underwear, capitulate. Don’t resist anything to a hallway full of cops when all you have is your underwear. I did offer them Scott’s Somethingorhteother’s alias names though (I’ve been reading his junk mail. His junk mail is exceptionally trashy). I handed them some catalogs as evidence and showed them my ID as further evidence.

You know those signs at the gas station that say “Drive offs will be prosecuted”. They’re serious. Apparently the DMV still has Scott’s old address - mine. They said thank you and sorry. I said no problem.

Too Slow with BLOGOFT

Sleep is for the weak. I remember checking to see if the blog address I was interested in was available. It was. Then I pondered and procrastonated for a long while. Just ecactly what do I WANT to say? What SHOULD I say? It Dont Matter!

I wanted to grab blogoft.blogspot. but BLOG OF T got there first. You snooze you looze. So Timothy has the address I wanted. http://blogoft.blogspot.com Kudos to him for beating me to it. I'll settle for the whole thing blogoffirstthoughts.blogspot.