Thursday, December 31, 2009

hot water bottle, blue moon

meditation at 5:30 in the morning on New Year's Eve, 2009, blue moon time

laying underneath the covers
at the beginning of the night
pink hot water bottle warms me
as night fades
I warm hot water bottle
as morning comes
hot water bottle and I are the same

Monday, December 28, 2009

Paper Art Madness

Serious Aches & Pains

Well I had some serious aches and pains yesterday that conked me out all day, and they somehow metamorphosed into serious pressure in my ears last night that kept me up groaning most of the night. Not to mention my inflatable bed popped, but did not deflate thank god. I think my sinuses are draining but are trapped in my ears. So I need to work on that. I have a bunch of stuff I could do today, as I have more energy and I took today off to get better, but now I have this very distracting pain in my ears. Well, such is life.

I just had a soft boiled duck egg. Yum!

Sunday, December 27, 2009

so cold

It's rare that I get ill. I've come down with a bad cold, I'm very tired, sore, stuffed up, unhappy, etc... It's always the small things that get ya. Can't work tomorrow cuz of this cold, but I'm hoping I get well by Tuesday. My illnesses tend to pass quickly and when they don't I get nervous.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

I dreamt of a large cat last night, a mountain lion. The cougar is my spirit animal right now, my guide through the winter.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Ran out of coffee, started drinking yerba mate again, which keeps me less ravenous.

The mornings are gray, dusting of snow, roads will probably be slippery as all hell.

My carburetor needs to be rebuilt, my dad is going to try to do that this coming week. My shop wants too much cash for something that is relatively simple. Meanwhile, Old Yellow (my trucks name)is sitting content in her parking spot. I'm gonna go fill her up with gas and look for some presents for my sisters kids today. If I get stuck somewhere I can always have her towed. Anyway.

Looks like we're going to get some serious snow soon. It's gonna make travel hard. Why do we all travel around so much?

Anybody read this damn blog anymore?

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Brokeback Mountain

I'm watching a lot of movies these days courtesy of Netflix. I thought I might as well review them in case you would be interested in my humble opinion.

I watched Brokeback Mountain last night, my second time since seeing it in the theater. Since the first time, I have come to regard Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger as a couple of my favorite actors and I wanted to see how that would affect my opinion of the movie. My biggest impression after viewing the movie for the second time and weeping like I did the first time was that Ledger's performance was amazing. The movie could have so easily been campy with two characters that were almost caricatures of cowboys, but the talented and heartfelt acting elevated the dialogue far above the average love story.

In my opinion, the movie is not so much about two gay cowboys who fall in love (seeing as they were bisexual at the very least), it is a movie that explores the idea of what love really is, and how we as complex human beings tend to fight love instead of allowing it to become whatever it is, naturally. The movie is groundbreaking in its honest depiction of love between two men, so it rightfully deserves it's place as a gay feature film coup de grace, but the message of the movie stays the same whether you are gay or straight; To be happy in love and life, you must take chances.

The music and the stunning scenery lulls us into trance, while the depiction of a hard but pastoral cowboy life sliding inevitably into a domestic boiling pot of trouble reverberates with most working people. We don't really know if it makes more sense for Jack and Ennis to try to forge a life together in order to fulfill their hearts dream, or if they should continue on the paths they have followed for so long. All we know is that they aren't happy, and for them to become happy, we think that they must go ahead and take that unthinkable chance. Fear is what keeps Ennis from doing so, fear of the terrible violence that he saw with young eyes, the violence that erupts from those who fear the differences in the "other", which Jung has stated comes from that which we fear in ourselves. Where else would the violence come from? If we were at peace with ourselves, there would be no violence.

In accordance with that rule, we see Ennis becoming desolate and more violent, to himself and others. We watch as Jack searches for his dream elsewhere. And in the end, we find that Ennis is correct in his estimation of the violence in his fellow man, and Jack's dreams ring hollow, at least in that place in time in that particular society.

While the film slowly winds to a heartbroken halt and tears are coaxed from my eyes, I wonder why we as humans attempt so constantly to block love, to stop happiness in its tracks. It almost seems to me that our main societal endeavor so far has been to shimmy down a path that leads to less and less heartfelt action, toward an emptiness of the soul but a richness in material wealth in our daily action. When it comes down to it, how much of us are filled with love and happiness all day every day? How many of us are pursuing our dreams, for fear that not doing so would be the end of not only our dreams, but our lives?

the little bridge between now and then

My second day of work at the co-op I fell on a slippery floor and smashed my elbow and wrist. My arm has been hurting a little bit ever since and I started to ponder the amazing thought that my arms, wrists, and hands really are the bridge between poverty and economic stability for me. I am a man who has come to use his hands in order to maintain an income. I had never thought of it before but if my hands were put out of order, I would have to consider I different way of life completely. Most of us would, I guess.

Our hands are the most amazing things ever. Fingers, palms, and thumbs that help us grasp, manipulate, sense the world around us. Tied to our minds and hearts via sinew and bone, cartilage and vein. We eke out a living on this planet with such delicate equipment, artworks of biology that can easily be damaged in a thousand ways. The little bridge between our future and nowhere.

Other creatures and beings have evolved such similar but different approaches toward interaction with life. We are the animal that makes with our hands.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

little grace

Life is full of little annoyances and little graces. Like today, the annoyance of my gas leak continuing even though the shop said they figured it out. So I drove it over and froze my ass off on the way back home. But then I had a moment of grace when I realized my estimated taxes weren't due until January 15th, so I had some time to come up with a better cash flow.

I'm figuring on having the legal aspects of my business up and running by the end of January. Then it is a question of waiting until the snow melts and the ground thaws. Oh, and I get to go on a big shopping trip to buy tools. Fun.

I am enjoying my new job at the co-op. It really is like deja vu, though, the smells, sounds, sights, everything is very familiar. And that is a comfort right now, plus I enjoy being in warm kitchen. Everyone is very friendly as well. The co-op is a great place to work, no matter what.

Monday, December 14, 2009


I've always loved blankets. I like to wrap myself up and disappear into a cocoon. I love the snow blanket that falls from the sky. Each one is unique. We go out and trudge through them, cursing, or we ski gracefully over them, full of strength. The cold bites our lungs.

Inside we warm ourselves with coffee and tea, cookies and sandwiches. Sometimes our boots and socks and pants are wet, and we have to dry them off. Each act is a unique prayer to the winter.

I'm going to go clean the salt and dirt off my truck today, try to keep the rust from spreading. I think it will be an overcast day. Might take measurements to start a design, I figure the snow makes the yard a blank canvas. It would be good to remember my intentions for next year. I have a name, but I will only share it after I register it with the Secretary of State, I will do that today too. One thing I don't want to do but should is pay my estimated taxes for the third quarter of the year. It isn't necessary but it helps out when I have to pay taxes in April. Also you get a small fine if you don't pay something. Perhaps I will put it off or pay a smaller amount, because I need my funds right now.

Black beans are cooking on the oven. I have dough rising for pizza. A fresh cup of black coffee with organic whole milk awaits me. Then washing my face and going to clean the truck off and onward with the day.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

ephemera stew

Sunday, December 13th, 12 degrees F. Old squeaky snow lays in puffy glaciers.

A certain stability has arrived somehow, after much striving, straining, sore muscles and tear soaked cheeks. I get up, work at something, sleep, worry about something. Movies calm me down. Books seem naked and strange, like dead baby birds in the snow. I try to read them anyway. The sun is a joyful friend when seen. The shadows are omens of deaths to come. The winter season is in full on death knell, everything seems dead, dead wind and light, blood pumps reluctantly through veins of forgotten origin.

The leaf stoma closed, enclosed in ice and nibbled on by a dying squirrel. Smells are everywhere, my sense of smell seems to grow each day. Ghosts can smell but not taste, touch, eat, hug. They are a sense cut off from the others. The smell without the taste is so lonely, the touch without the whisper is unfinished. We are clusters of neurons, nerves, muscles, which all desire some form of satisfaction, some connection. We are metanetworks of sensory information being comprehended in life and dream.

Life whispers so softly underground in the soil, the earth our home, our primal birthplace. The soil smells of sugars and acids and ice. Water flows like stone in the winter, slow and unhurried. We are at rest, yet continuing onward, our flow in different tempos; freezing, melting, burning, fossilizing, being born, dying, slowing, speeding.

Heaven exist above the flame, and so we lick the toes of the clouds.

Monday, December 07, 2009

Friday, December 04, 2009

The mornings

The mornings are cold now, as the world and I are in mourning. The sun peeks out every now and then but knows his place is amongst the clouds. I am in my little apartment, peeking out at the world in curiosity.

My wallet is emptying fast but I feel full of life sometimes. I don't know if anybody noticed this but jobs are scarce these days. I am looking, sending out resumes, the grind. But my skill set is diverse and not particularly qualified for any one thing, in the winter. With luck, the right fit will find me, but my job is to let it.

It is the beginning of the holiday season. I can't say I give a shit.

Friday, November 27, 2009

green tea
organic whole milk

heat energy
ceramic mug
thumb, fingers, palms, wrist

the whole kit and caboodle

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Weary these days. Not so much physically as overall. Being physically weary is not so bad. Mental exhaustion is worse. Some things on the horizon. Some moons drying up. This is just life, nothing more nor less. Got to keep working.

Monday, November 23, 2009

To Meet

I rolled Kou / Coming to meet.

The Creative, Heaven, over the Gentle, Wind.

My interpretation: It says I am like the wind under heaven, going everywhere, seeing everything. Beneath heaven, I am certain of my confines. If I was above the earth, I would think of myself as free. But no, I am underneath heaven: the way that I know is right, my ideals. But I am free in those parameters. One should always be magnanimous to everyone, the weak and strong alike. I need to be open and free to find my way, but like the wind I must be forceful, yielding, and everywhere at the same time. My future peace lies with my present peace, or lack thereof. I shouldn't let the weak or strong block or corral my path.

I am going to meet a friend in an hour as well, and I am going to eat some meat. The I-Ching has a way of making fun of me. I see oracles as generalized guides to our individual lives, just as the general laws of thermodynamics can help create a specific engine.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Okay, yeah, here we are, new week, new life.

I am going to dedicate this blog to the Now.

Being here Now doesn't mean worrying about finding a new car or job, paying the rent, or losing my mind. What it does mean is that I will be dealing with these things as they come up, in due time. What I can't do is figure it all out right now. I just need to be here, now. I just need to open up my heart and my mind and my body to this present moment. I need compassion to be a guiding force in my actions, because I have learned that this is a helpful way to exist, with an open heart. Otherwise, I get all caught up in my own game, and in a game, someone is always winning or losing. I don't think that's the case with life. Life is here, right now, and we need to enjoy it.

My apartment is cleaned up. My dead car is sitting on a side street, waiting. I have some job ideas, but right now a week after finishing up my last job, I am okay with taking it easy.

I have a comfortable place to sleep, a warm home, a TV to watch movies on, a computer that is almost ready to crash for good, my guitar, communications with the outside world. I am healthy and happy, to a degree. What is there to complain about?

What blows my mind is that everything that has happened has already happened before, or will happen again. My life is not unique, in the sense that I am no different than every other living being out there. But I am completely unique, in the sense that I am the Now of everything that has come before me. Sort of a paradox, but that's the warp and weft of the fabric of life.

You out there, you know I love you. Thank you for journeying with me, and we will see each other again and again.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Living the Dream Farm

Check out my friend's website I helped set up. I think it looks great, and I'm really excited for her whole farm endeavor!

Thursday, November 12, 2009

I have more feelings than thoughts this morning, my whole psyche is a quagmire, but my job is to continue on.

What is this flash in the pan we have? No really, what the hell is it? Why are so many people content with their little piece of cake and not wildly curious about what the whole cake looks like, or who is the baker? What is the meaning of this wild ride we all rent? I've never really understood the apathy I perceive all around, because all my life I've been searching for wisdom, knowledge, truth, beauty; something that gives life a heart. Or maybe this apathy is all just for show and most men and women are quietly desperate, happy just to get by with some dignity. I've been trying to ignore the stark reality of having to get by, but I'm beginning to see that an emotional rift separates those who are afraid of not getting by and those afraid of just getting by. Maybe it's not fear so much as an approach to societies whole game, and I guess I haven't really read the playbook. Because of my ignorance, I'm getting tackled just about now. Hopefully I can shake it off, but I might have a concussion.

I mean, why do we suffer so much, and why do we feel so much joy? Is it just synaptic touch football with a post-game endorphin opiate cocktail? I'm not even asking why we suffer, I'm asking why we even exist to suffer, why am I sitting here wondering why we exist to feel happy, sad, scared, exited; the whole gamut of our emotional reality. Why do my fingers have their specific shape, why do I walk in circles, why does driving fast feel exiting? Why, why, why?

Some of you may think that I am talking about philosophy or religion or art or science. You're way off base. It isn't that at all. I could care less about all these established modes of sticking life in a box, and that's what's getting under my skin. How can life be pigeon-holed? Why does anything need to be labeled, and is this quest to label everything in the universe our sick method of trying to wrest control of our lives, of life itself? In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God. Or so we would like to think. Before the Word, there was life. Before we labeled the mystery, there was the mystery. Before everything we know, there was something we didn't know.

Well, after all that is said and done, I still have to get up and do the dishes. I'm beginning to see that doing the dishes, taking a walk, holding hands, watching the stars, eating a cupcake, drawing a flower, everything, absolutely everything I do is life expressing itself and is of the utmost importance in the way that all acts are. Everything I do is a work of art, a science experiment, a prayer, a philosophic treatise. This is most definitely a metaphor, and it is not a metaphor at all. Life manifests itself metaphorically, I think, and the falling leaves in autumn are real.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Monday, November 09, 2009

Things plod along. The crisp dried out corpses of autumn leaves rustle on the sidewalk as I walk along the path from my back door to the car. The fifteen minute drive to work in Battle Creek in my old Olds is familiar now, but over today. That is a constant problem with contract work, you put your heart and soul into a place and get used to the commute and then wooosh, you have to start all over somewhere else, on a different project. But, you know, it's like life, more then a stuffy office job that you go to everyday for years and never get to vary your routine. So I am thankful for variety and instability.

The stones call to me, says they are going to bed. This is a prime season to gather stone, As all the trees and shrubs are sleeping naked as well. The book of Changes:

The Sun / Decrease

Decrease combined with sincerity
Brings about supreme good fortune
Without blame.

One may be perservering in this.
It furthers one to undertake something.
How is this to be carried out?
One may use two small bowls for the sacrifice

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

I am collecting stones, small and beautiful.

The day is dark by 5 PM now.

Most things are going bad but one is possibly good.

I have a pan with baked on grease.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

I feel a bit like a cornered animal these days. Like a wolverine caught in a trap.

I saw a young buck yesterday in the woods, and a crow spoke to me three times.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Friday, October 23, 2009

crashing waves

How do you separate the tragic from the comic? How do you keep philosophy in mind as you contemplate your empty wallet? Maybe this magic balancing act is our main call to arms as humans. We have this amazing life filled with happiness and sadness, and these large cerebellums filled with our own ideas of who we are in this world, and what this world means. Maybe love trips us up so much because we let others take over our own journey for awhile, so that we can rest. But after the rest we can't find the path again, and maybe just let the lover leave us on their own journey. Of course in real life they still sleep and eat with us, but spiritually they have their bags packed. Maybe if we all just kept in mind that we all have to go down our own paths, no matter what, some of interrelationship problems might dissolve, whatever they may be.

I have this overarching ambivalence these days, mixed with extreme concern. It is a hard wave to surf, my friends, a huge, choppy, cold wave. Yet I know it will break and crash its vast wetness on the sandy shores of time. It has to, because that is what life does.

I've been fighting that wave, looking for ways to get through, under it, past it, but it just stays underneath me.

Or maybe I've been lollygagging on the shore after a particularly heinous wipeout, going over it in my head over and over again? Yeah, that's more likely. I need to get back on that wave, my path, and see where it leads.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

warrior defined

I want to clarify my concept of what I think a peaceful warrior is.

Being a warrior means coming to the tremendous realization that you are a living human being, and pursuing the art of walking a path with heart. Being a living human being means knowing that your death stalks you, always. Knowing that death stalks you always allows you to pursue life wholeheartedly, without reservations.

For the most part, our story as human beings has consisted of hunting and gathering our sustenance, clothing, and shelter. Perhaps most of our innate behaviors comes from this immense ocean of experience. We have divorced our selves from this period of our evolution and called our current story "Modern Civilization". We love the comforts of this modern world, and we live longer lives. Lives in which we look for meaning.

The warrior does not seek comfort. A warrior can relish physical comfort, good food, laughing companions, and other pleasures, but no easement in life is sought or required. In fact the warrior recognizes that discomfort and fear are primary teachers. Like the spiritual warrior Siddhārtha Gautama, the warrior can see that all the world is illusion, but knows that the illusion is the only reality.

A peaceful warrior is one who seeks peace in his or her life. Some seek peace for themselves and their circles of friends and family, others for their countries and states, and others for the very future of the planet.

If a person can realize that they are alive and that all life is really a dream, essentially to be present and active in each moment, then they can be effective warriors.

That is what I now believe a warrior is.

As of right now, October 21, 2009, I am on the warriors path; a path with heart. I follow the wisdom of my elders. I listen to the words of my friends. I experience the many songs of the universe; the chirp of the cricket, the smell of the river, the taste of asparagus.

I believe that your fears are your main soul killers, but if you face your fears, they become your primary soul teachers.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

There is nothing worth writing about at 11:03 PM on Tuesday, October 20th, 2009.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

run, alice, run

Went for my first run, I think ever, this morning at about 5:30 AM, 36 degrees F. It was beautiful out. The oak leaves rustled in the early morning breeze. Peeked at Orion through the maples. Rabbits kept hurrying away, timepieces in hand.

I don't have running shoes. I used an old pair of beat up sneakers. They hurt my feet and knees, and didn't provide any support at all for my arch. Today I will go buy some proper running shoes.

I couldn't run constantly. I had to make little bursts between various light posts. The first half hour I was just trying to break my heart in, as it seemed sort of painful. I didn't want to have a heart attack. But after awhile it seemed to mellow out, so I was able to push myself a bit. Hopefully I will work up to sustained running sessions of ten minutes or more soon.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

He's smoking his last cigarette, standing on the Stone Arch Bridge in downtown Minneapolis. He is walking north, toward Dinkytown. The old pea green army coat doesn't provide as much warmth as he needs to keep warm, and he shivers slightly as a cold breeze snakes up his back. His worn out boots swing passed each other in an old, sad dance.

He had been fired from his job that morning and had been smoking and drinking beer all day long. His eyes are watery and unclear. His mind is a jumble of anger, apathy, and despair. The despair lodges like a woodtick in his heart, a small, unnoticeable creature that slowly sucks the oil from his rusty motor. The rage bubbles up and he punches the metal railing, bruising his middle knuckle and causing a sharp pain to shoot up his arm. That hurts, he thinks bluntly. Fucking stupid railing.

He looks down into the dark water and thinks about jumping in, realizing how cliche that is. Probably wouldn't die anyway, probably just get soaked and frozen, catch hypothermia, rack up some hospital bills. His eyelids feel like anvils as he stumbles off the bridge onto a brightly lit street. Some well-dressed people are walking in clusters here and there, emerging from nearby bars, movie theaters, and offices. He feels a certain comfort being in the midst of people that seemed to have it all together. Not like me, not a loser who can't even hack a simple warehouse job for more then two weeks. They look at me and see the failure I am. It's written all over my face.

Fuck it, I just can't do this anymore.

He turns down a dark alley and looks for the right one. When he finds it, he takes off his stocking cap and wraps his hand in it. The car alarm bursts into life, shrieking a pissed off melody into the night air, as he smashes his fist through the rear passenger window of the car. The effort hurts his injured hand, and he throws the glass shard encrusted cap into the backseat of the car. Then he realizes that he can't get the doors unlocked from the back door. Shit.

Friday, October 16, 2009

He's at the coffee shop typing on the borrowed laptop, sipping a large dark roast and sniffling. His sinuses have been congested for a few days and he's worried he might be coming down with a virus or a cold. He has to blow his nose every ten minutes or so.

The coffee is making him jittery now. He is typing an email to a friend. He hopes she doesn't read it right away. It is a very personal email and he feels that as soon as he sends it, it will be too hot to touch. It needs time to cool down. His cell phone rings but he doesn't answer it.

A beautiful woman in a long red coat walks in through the glass door, a bell tinkling. He is captivated by her sharp features. A moment later a tall man in a leather jacket enters. The beautiful woman and the tall man exchange greetings and hugs. He wonders if they are a couple or friends. He wonders what the difference is.

His coffee and email are almost done. He finishes them both up with an artistic flourish and grabs his coat. Outside in the dark night he turns up his collar and hunches over a little to stride back to his apartment. He is ready to lay down for awhile.

He feels a presence. He moves his head a little to try to catch sight of anything behind him with his peripheral vision, and spots a figure trailing him. He doesn't care, just keeps on walking. The night is damp on his cheeks, but his internal temperature rises as he walks and all surface moisture evaporates.

All of a sudden he finds himself tripping over a bump in the sidewalk. His head is falling down, down, and smack! He feels a crack in his skull as his face kisses the pavement. Holy shit, he thinks, this could be bad.

He reaches up to feel his forehead and encounters a warm wetness on the sidewalk. His blood, the blood of his head. His heart begins to race and he starts to shiver in fear. Then a hand grabs him by the back of the neck. He calls out in alarm.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

She's strolling down the black street in tan shoes that she's always thought were a little too heavy for her feet. The streetlights that line Washington Avenue cast yellow light haphazardly out into the wet autumn air. Downtown Minneapolis smells like car exhaust and fried foods, popcorn and gasoline. She turns and walks up a street to her regular bus stop in order to catch the bus that goes down University every ten minutes or so. It is dark out and she is feeling nervous. She worked late tonight, trying to get part of a project done so that she wouldn't have to go over it all again tomorrow. She is tired of that part of the project.

Being a small female, she is inconspicuous to most people who pass by. But she thinks of the type of men who lurk in the shadows and prey on the small and defenseless. She doesn't usually worry, but every now and then she catches herself in the mirror and senses what could happen.

She wishes she had some pepper spray in her pocket. It makes sense to have some sort of protection, she thinks. Not a characteristic thought for her, but the dark coldness of the urban night feels tinged with danger for some reason. She stands, hunched into herself at the bus stop, trying to exude an empty feeling, trying to shapeshift into a blob with no distinguishable sexual characteristics.

The bus whizzes by without stopping, splashing a little dirty slush onto her newly laundered pants.

What the fuck was that, she thinks in disbelief. The disbelief slowly turns into a smoldering rage at the world. Why the fuck didn't the bus stop for me? Her thoughts go around and around in circles.

She starts to walk home, over the bridge that spans the Mississippi River. She was really counting on getting into that warm bus to help shake her crazy feelings of personal danger, but now her senses are on heightened alert and she is simply afraid, too tired to keep it together. Every noise is a maniac in the bushes ready to pounce. Her fear is slightly ambivalent now, as it all seems like a dream.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Snow hits the ground running

Snow has hit the ground this morning and the white blanket immediately takes me into the vortex of Thanksgiving and Christmas. I am sure in a few hours the snow will melt all over the rain soaked ground, which is not a bad thing. I am sure my soul will melt into a gooey mess this holiday season, but let it come as it may. Whatever, I am ready for it. I am excited right now for this cold, frozen, dark season to whip through my life like a maddened cougar running form naked hunters. I will stock my tea, perfect my bread baking abilities, read and write prolifically, and work toward a future I can not imagine.

I know that the term "warrior" is not popular right now, especially in progressive left-leaning circles. I am well aware of that, and it is not a popular term for many good reasons, mainly because it has been co-opted by violent men for violent purposes. But I think to be a true warrior in this age is unusual. We have many soldiers; of fortune, professionals, coerced kids, insular gangs. A true peaceful warrior must look toward the pain with delight, as one who know that the pain means growth or death. These are some of the peaceful warriors that come to mind when I think of true warriors: the Dalai lama, Thich Nhat Hanh, Ghandi, Will Steger, Martin Prechtel, Robert Bly, Pablo Neruda, my friend John Brian Becker, Alice Walker, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Winona Laduke, Rosa Parks, and Rachel Carson. Feel free to add your own list of peaceful warriors that have impacted your life in the comments.

I feel as though I have cultivated the inner farmer in me to the exclusion of the other soul parts that make up my Self. The inner farmer could be thought of as the corollary to the warrior, in terms of the diametrically opposed cultivator consciousness and the hunter consciousness. For such a long time I thought of the hunter in me as something bad, something culturally tainted, but now I see it as simply a part of me, a part of my genetic and soul make-up that needs to be addressed. There is no simple action to take, just simply an awareness of how I interact with this world.

Know this though. I have come to the strong feeling that you can't successfully embark on a path of healing without embodying some aspect of your inner warrior, your inner hunter and gatherer. Without this type of inner strength and fortitude, you run the risk of losing your Self to some force in this wide, crazy world.

Like the ancient Yamabushi, I strive to embody the warrior/monk attitude toward life right now. To connect directly to the divine with poetry and art, to live simply, to fight for what is right; these are simple ideals I hold deep in my heart.

Friday, October 09, 2009

It is really amazing how time passes, fast and slow, glacier and hummingbird.

I had 7 jump starts and a tow yesterday after picking out a ton of stone at the stoneyard. Met a few nice folks, had a strange and tiring day.

Now I wait for the alternator to get fixed so that I can go work on the small stone path and stepping stones at a client's place. Meanwhile I print out some poetry to send somewhere.

Now is the time to do. There are things that must be done, and they must be done now. I definitely know about the times to be filled by nothing, but the something cries out as loudly now.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

The cold rain growls outside as I sip my yerba mate with honey. This is the time of year when the landscaping season starts to wind down, as the weather is just not conducive to working well outside. For me this year, many things are winding down, changing, metamorphosing from slugs and weevils into butterflies or bats of a better future.

This year I have many ideas of what may or may not happen over the winter. This snowy season I may or may not be more alone then I have ever been, which may or may not be good or bad. I intend to work through the winter before starting my own business in the spring, which may or may not be my full time gig, at least in 2010. My hope is that some sort path will crystallize before me. This happened before a couple time, once when I was an intern for Happy Dancing Turtle, and once when I started working for Local Roots. Before that, working for the Seward Coop helped me solidify my abilities. Before that, I had dreams of becoming a musician, a poet, or a genius in general.

Not only do I desperately have to address my creative abilities and possibilites, I have to delve into, swimming all the way to the dark bottom, issues of the pocket, the career, the cash flow. As an adult male who wants to have a house and family, I need to be able to provide for those potentialities. One doesn't do that by sitting around an apartment in your underwear watching Netflix movies until beer thirty. But without the geyser of creativity being addressed within me; making a pact, coming to terms, outlining a potential future; I won't be able to put those feelings aside and simply make work work.

Monday, October 05, 2009


I want to start a new group of people who have decided that we can, and will, be the Hiber Nation. I swear, I want to hibernate right now, the chill and wet air have me reaching for the blankets and the ever present darkness of the clouds and night have me closing my eyes in exhaustion. It is time to slow down, way down, and pay attention to the small and big deaths that unfold all around us. In my life, fear of the unknown is dying a long painful death, and all the friendly asters alongside the roads are drying up like corpses of grasshoppers in a cut down cornfield. Their is a grief deep in my heart that has become my companion, my second heart of frozen winter.

Within my mythical make-up, the warrior has slept a long time, a slumber made possible by various circumstances and behavior, but my struggle today is to reach deep into my DNA and find that warrior who will guide me through the bogs of doom. You know, kind of like the Princess Bride...

Men have struggled alongside women in this hard contemporary urban based life, and it is certainly as valid for a man to go on a journey to find what being a man means to him, as for a woman to explore her womanhood, but I feel that in this society we are fed facile and grotesque examples of both as our daily fodder. To understand who I am as a mythical, spiritual, and physical man is my daily bread. I have drowned in the sea of womanhood, a baptism by salt water, and now it is time to be burned into ash as a man.

Friday, October 02, 2009

My birth day, Burning Man, and Iron John

Is it a coincky-dink that Burning Man happens around my birthday, a wild arts festival held on a dusty desert in Nevada? What is more important than art, love, spirituality, and pyromania? I don't know, and perhaps I don't care. Perhaps I will go one day when I have a good grasp on my Self, because I don't really want to be shattered into a million shards over and over again if I can possibly help it.

Is it coincidence that Robert Bly has spoken to me in a deep way for the past couple of years, and I am just starting to read a classic book, Iron John, and that is speaking to me in a way that could never have happened before now? Is it a coincidence that Martin Prechtel was helped through his dark night of the soul by his friendship with Bly and his beautiful books have played a major part in shaping my consciousness this last year?

I don't know.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Change is for the better, right?

Let's just say life has handed me a one-two punch, perhaps even a three-four punch, to the belly. It is early morning and I am in early mourning for the life I used to think I was living. In a way though, it is all for the good. Growing pains hurt but life is always changing, and it always is metamorphosing into different forms. I am taking a page from the playbook of Qeuetzalcoatl, and shedding my skin, over and over endlessly. I have wings to fly through the clouds and I slither through the dirt just as comfortably. Evolution is dependent on those with the most flexibility, those who can weather the change with the least agony. I keep telling everyone I know that change is the fire under our psyche's butt, and now, yes, even I have to live like the Pheonix through the ancient combustion of life's licking flames.

I don't think we, as cosmic monkeys, are hard-wired to like it though, seeing as we put it off until nothing else will do.

Let me just say this to the universe. I want to change, I want to flow into the new life, but I don't want to cleave myself from all that I know, in order to keep the spark of life and love that I understand inside of me. I feel apprehensive that the cold winds of this world might blow out that tenuous spark otherwise.

And that is all I will say about that for now.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

wrenching the heart

Are we, each of us, micro-universes, and is the universe a macro-self?

This is a central teaching of shamanistic and pagan traditions across the world. These wisdom systems all share a core understanding of what humanity represents, which is a personification of the energy that creates the universe. We are, essentially, love incarnate, which fuels the fire of universal procreation. Mountains and rivers form in the heart of the universe, creations formed from the unique and amazing woven fabrics made from the threads of love, the energy of the heart. Who can say what electricity is other then the movement of energy toward itself, the longing of the individual pulse to unite, to yoke itself, to the endless ocean?

Can feelings be used as evidence while gathering empirical data? Aren't feelings as real as thoughts, and aren't thoughts more real then we give them credit for? A thought is a something as much as a word is, or speech, or even a movement. Perhaps a thought is simply the seed of action, but that certainly doesn't make it not something. A seed is one of the most powerful things that exist in this universe.

Shamans and other wisdom seekers learned about the universe through various means other then the scientific method, but amassed a vast amount of demonstrable fact regardless of their means. How did humans know so much about the plants of the world, before the scientific method figured out how to analyze plant particulates? The shamans, pagans, vegetalistas, and herbalists would have us believe that the plant communicates with them. The only reason we find this hard to believe nowadays is that the scientific method has insisted that only mammals communicate, and only human mammals communicate complex thoughts and emotions. This is simply a bias, I think, just like when the world was thought to be flat, and the heavens spun around it. Just raw egotism.

When the world, even the universe, is understood to be populated by an infinite amount of beings, who, like us, are traveling through space and time being what it is they are, and when one believes that all these beings can practice some form of communication, then the internet becomes a shallow experience compared to the network of communication that exists not only out your back door, but perhaps even on your desk. The wisdom keepers of the ages have understood that the only way to communicate with all these beings is with the heart. The intellect is our human toy, perhaps as unique to us as the opposable thumb. According to wisdom keeper Martin Prechtel, the grinding noise of our minds keeps many beings at bay, put off.

Perhaps it is time to recognize the mind for what it is, an extremely useful tool. But just like a wrench is useless without a hand, so is the mind is useless without a direct connection to the heart.

With that in mind, please watch this clip and dance around. Connect to your body for a little while.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Joy in the Rain

This is just the best photo of my nieces ever

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

simple pleasures

an oscillating fan on a hot summers day

chocolate bar

a clean car

new socks

a walk in the dark with a friend, and spotting a huge dog that becomes a small cat

free range eggs

a rainy day without any chores

forgetting your cell phone at home

ordering a large Pizza Athena from Pizza Luce

taking a nap!

Saturday, September 12, 2009

To be aware

To just be aware is the hardest thing.

My impulse is to do, think, reason, act, do, spit, stir it up.

But just to see, hear, taste, touch; to take it in through the filter of my senses.

It will all be gone someday, the mortal coil shall slip.

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

clean water

Every day I am thankful that I can turn on the tap and draw clean water from our city water sources. Some would say that this water is not that clean, and I do admit not relishing its flavor because of the chlorine and whatever chemicals used to make it potable, but it is good, clean, safe water nonetheless. This in a way is a treasure, this water that allows us to feel healthy and safe.

It could always be better. I could live in the country and collect clean rainwater, or draw on a crystal clear aquifer. But I think it is always a good thing to appreciate what is right there, in front of you. We are taking pretty polluted water from a main artery that flows through our city and cleaning it to the best of our abilities in order to supply the system with good water.

If we look at it from a permaculture perspective, it falls short in many ways. Too energy intensive, no stacking functions, no longevity of infrastructure, or self-maintenance. The whole thing is a wild, unruly mess, truth be told.

But that is sort of comforting. I am a wild, unruly mess as well. Perhaps we should redesign these systems in a better way, but right now I think we should respect what they are, and the spirit behind them. Vive la vida!

Sunday, August 30, 2009

watch your actions and thoughts

I am making some kimchi right now, with a giant daikon from my garden, as well as baby carrots, onion, another trype of radish, and turnip. I purchased Napa cabbage, peppers, and garlic from the coop. This time I splashed a bit of fish sauce into the mix, as that is a very traditional ingredient to kimchi. I think it will turn out beautifully.

What I really need to do is clean out all the ferments I have in the refrigerator. There are all sorts of goodies in there, some of which may be past their prime.

I went out looking for Ford Ranger trucks yesterday, as fremenine went to an old friend's wedding in Mankato and I had some time to do this important search. It was a flop; one person I called told me her truck just had the "service engine" light turn on so she wanted to get it checked out, one truck just stunk, and another I had found on craiglist was just sold. Since I had driven 30 minutes to find one of the trucks sold at the lot, I decided to call the next place on my agenda, and found out that they had lent the truck out to a friend and he had forgotten to return the key with the truck. So no go on that one for now, plus it is all the way down in Savage which is like a 45 minute drive, so I don't know about checking it out at all.

All in all, I think maybe the spirits are telling me something about Ford Rangers.

I think I am going to get my shoes on and go buy some flower at the farmers market.

Friday, August 28, 2009 on my side

Yes it is!

To reflect on time has been the essence of this 30th year of my life. Perhaps all of us who reach thirty years of age are somewhat amazed. Of course, years are an relatively arbitrary invention, but that doesn't mean that a year is not intensely important to our souls, bodiess, hearts. The impact of time is still being deciphered, age after age.

To follow my sweetheart, fremenine, to follow my Ecstatic Heart, to follow the stories of my friends and family, to follow my garden, to follow the path, to follow the seasons and cycles of life through time is all there is. It seems that, at least in so-called "civilized" cultures, we try to sort of ignore the passage of time, try to make light of it, but time, and his sister space, are what we have to work with here, and if we work with them poorly, life will be poor, uninspired, ugly. If we want beautiful, inspired, joyful living, we can't ignore the impact of time.

There is a natural time and unnatural time. We are stuck in unnatural time because of our jobs, lifestyles, societal pressures, and so on. This is not necessarily the worse thing that could happen to humanity, although it may be, but how do we work natural time into our lives, to struck some sort of cosmic balance?

It is a question that is hard to answer. Perhaps there is no answer, only striving toward balance.

If there is one thing I have learned in my 30th year it is this: To utterly relax and enjoy the passage of time is an infinitely valuable skill.

If there is another lesson I have learned it is to follow my heart, always, no matter how hard it is.

If there is one last thing I have gleaned in 2009 it is to allow all things to just be, to be aware as much as possible, and in that open awareness to follow my bliss toward love.

The desires to define, box in, codify, win, acquire, name, and possess are all related pressures. I feel three words can best describe my inclination toward these desires right now.

Let it go.



Thursday, August 27, 2009


I found some words I wrote a few years ago that resonated with me.

Sleep like a baby
Dream like a boy
Live like a man

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

thunder and lightning

I woke up this morning, back in my comfy bed in Minneapolis, to crashing thunder and pouring rain that echoed my pounding heart in a chaotic swirl of elemental energies. When I was away, as I read a story about the North Wind zapping the Daughter of the Sun with lightning, a symbolic knife that cuts her into her elemental pieces, her most basic intrinsic beings, tornadoes whirled through Minneapolis without warning. Nobody was hurt, but the reminder is there: Nature, the life force, is always present and strong, and Chaotic Time is sometimes the instigator of change.

I did have a vision on my quest, but it wasn't necessarily about it me, it was about my place on this Tree of Life, my story in the big story. I have found a path that I will follow, but it is no big thing, it is just what we all must to do live our lives in love.

I did have realizations and insight into my own personal journey, and it was very helpful to have some time to understand these things, our lifelines, our story patterns. In a way, I feel like trying to relate these insights and thoughts right now will not be helpful to me, as if I am nurturing a seedling and I need to grow it to a certain height before I can begin to harden it off outside in the real weather of the world. Also, the written word is not as alive as the spoken, and I would like to explore my connection to the life of communication via the spoken word for awhile, which may mean that I post less on this blog.

Suffice it to say, right now, that I have the intention to follow the Ecstatic Heart on my journey, my storyline on the great tree of Life. From what I can tell, the Ecstatic Heart is the spirit of all that I believe, and has many other names, but is essential to the creation of love. In a few months, I may discard my ideas for new ones, as we all do, but that is fine as well, because underneath all of my ideas, concepts, and philosophies, there is the pulse of the ecstatic heart, my soul, my spirit. Everything I do comes out of that great well of life.

Even writing those last words illustrates the difficulty of relating my experiences. So I will stop now and wish you a beautiful day, full of good heart and tasty stories.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The thing that men don't understand is that women see things more clearly, more in tune with what is really happening, here, on earth. We want to believe that our reasoning can make sense out of all this madness.

Monday, August 10, 2009


Off in a week to seek the vision that will guide me through the rest of my life.

Friday, August 07, 2009

all one

Seeing the dharma is like seeing a river for the first time. Each drop of water holds in it the essential nature of the entire river, and each river is merely a collection of the ten thousand drops of water. And when one starts to see the dharma of the river, one can't help but see the dharma of the lakes and seas, the earth and sky, and so forth. And when one can see the dharma in oneself, then we have a buddha. When seen in someone else, we have sangha. In terms of interdependent origination, they are all one thing.

I am tired today, and it is going to be dark and rainy, which is fine.

Wednesday, August 05, 2009


Holy fucking shit:


The moon is full. The tides pull us out to sea, that salty brine that gave birth to us vertebrates. It has been a cool week, a cool summer, and the leaves have grown long in the sun. Fruits hang perilously on branches.

I wake up and my spine is stiff. I sit and drink my dark coffee. My spine softens as the day unfolds. I haul heavy stones and move gravel and soil from place to place. My spine becomes weary. Soreness, an ache that leaves me breathless for relaxation. And I wonder, would I relax as much without the hurt?

I long for isolation. Words drop from my mouth that do not mean anything. I feel forced to explain my every word and action. I would rather sit and watch the loons dive into the chilly waters of a lake left by ancient glaciers, sit on a rock moved by crawling frozen water from one place to another, my spine straight.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

cosmic moments

We have all had cosmic moments, indeed. In the last few years, I can attest to a handful that have left me breathless and mindful of what exists beyond my perceptions. I enjoy my senses, but I have a sense that there is a world of energy that exists beyond them, or perhaps only beyond what I have understood to be my own sensory limitations.

I have sat in my car on a busy street in St. Paul, Minnesota, and had the distinct pleasure of melting away from myself, and into all that surrounded me. What I was experiencing was ego death, perhaps, and an expansion of my boundaries. I felt as if I was everything around me, the people, trees, sidewalk, air, all of it. It was almost as if I had been holding myself back all of my lifetime, and finally had understood that I could let go. The ease of slipping into the cosmic moment. To feel deep compassion for the life force that surrounded me. To see myself in the eyes of others. I felt connected, my heart opening, pouring out as well as being poured into. Love is endless, the ultimate renewable energy source. I expanded outward, until I felt my boundaries reaching space, which is when I put on the psychic brakes and came rushing back into this body, this ego that has pushed me along my life path. This ego that I love, but that exists to feed itself, a snake eating it's tail, if you will. I felt constricted, comfortable once again.

I have been aware of time as the formation of crystalline moments, time as space unfolding like flower petals, every drop of liquid an essential life force, a consciousness, a player in this cosmic game of energy. I have become aware of my movements, the pumping of my heart, the expansion of my lungs, my eyes darting to and fro, the air moving against my skin; all of this illuminated by great gasping waves of time, time that doesn't exist as a parsed linearity, or a diced up mathematical goulash, but as the very essence, the endless Now of Zen, the last breath of our lives being spent so quickly and slowly, a glacial hummingbird sucking the nectar of life.

Once, my eyes opened in the morning, and I realized that I was still dreaming. This whole play of the dream we call reality. This play of reality we call a dream. We believe we have woken up, but only until we understand that we are dreaming are we really, truly awake.

I have seen places in between the pages of what we call reality and have wondered incessantly about these mysteries. My best guess: Life is the Art of Energy. Visionary, Mystic, Poet, Artist: all have been cracked opened, intentionally or not, and have experienced the dreamtime. They have attempted to bridge the gap. The calling of the endless openness drones on in the ears of those who have awoken to something more then themselves.

Consciousness is in everything, I have thought. The rocks and the hummingbird, even the TV and a spoon have spoken to me. I have decided to open my heart to this dream in order to understand and connect to the endless openness, rigpa. All I can do is live my life as well as I know how to, and open my heart to this beautiful dreamtime. My best effort is all I know.

Sunday, August 02, 2009

It is raining and
our garden is
the most beautiful thing in the world

raindrop thoughts

I am reading a lot of books simultaneously these days, almost as if I am returning to a place I left a long time ago, a cast aside fragment of who I used to be; an avid reader. Reading is one of my most consistent pleasures, an activity I can look forward to with delight, especially if I have found an intriguing new book at the used bookstore or library, and have an entire afternoon free to sit around, munch on snacks, and just read. I love to read, and I am not sure where I got this tendency. I am sure that, down the DNA coil, an ancestor of mine was a writer, perhaps a spiritual scholar, somebody who understood that the written word, if nothing else, was an incredibly dynamic way to forge endless connections between all the thoughts in your head and feelings in your bones. I read to understand, I read to plant new seeds, I read to relax.

Now, the reading I have been doing lately has turned me on to some serious topics, such as the mystery of time, the mystical nature of space, and the magical reality of the Dreamtime. So many of the ideas, feelings, and words that have been born from the books I have read over the past few years have coalesced inside of me that I feel like I am entering a new stage of life, one in which I would like to erase all of my previous words, as well as all my previous foolish actions in life, and start all over, anew, fresh as talcum powder on a baby's bottom. I know this is a common feeling throughout the history of humanity, so I am not as troubled by it as I could be, but man oh man, wouldn't it be nice to really start over? I want to let the world know that I am a new man, but of course, the world doesn't believe it until it sees it. In any case, we are always becoming new, being reborn, every second, every day, every decade. The newness is the breath of life, the gift of time.

Sometimes we feel like we are stuck in the same old routine over and over again, and I have felt that way a lot in my life. But I am beginning to See that, it isn't life that is monotonous, it is us. But the blame doesn't lie solely on our souls, the monotonous and bizarre patterns of modern life are enforced upon us by the entire thrust of Western culture, especially in the wake of the Industrialization of human culture, utilizing the Gregorian calender and the atomic clock to squeeze individual life paths into convenient little boxes that can be utilized efficiently to milk the last bit of energy from the planet. This, of course, is not sustainable nor is it desirable to most of the people of the planet.

How many of us want to be able to sleep until we are rested, when we need to? Why is this solely the prerogative of the wealthy? Shouldn't rest be a human right? There have been a lot of improvements in the work week, due in large part to the courageous individuals who sought to improve the quality of workers lives, in opposition to the machines that ran them. Behind these ideas are thousands of words, many books by many people who have realized the essential fallacy of the workweek, the calendar, and even time as proscribed by the machine. We are not machines, so why are we run by them?

When we latch onto the paradigm presented to us by the established machines of power, I feel that we have already given up. Of course, we have to latch onto the machine somewhat in order to function well in this culture, but in our personal life paths, we don't need to at all. But it seems that we are cosmic monkeys of habit, and when we punch out at the end of the day, we punch in to our own schedules, schedules still prescribed by the power machine, the media machine being simply the screen through which we are taught what to do. What to do with our time, time as a linear sequence of events that end in death. And in allowing this idea of time to rule our every moment, we are pushing the natural, spiritual path of human fulfillment out of our way as we pursue material wealth.

We are human beings, and we are conscious, we think. We can feel love, we can feel energy of all sorts, and we can be agents of a permacultural way of life, instead of blind servants to a dying machine. We can work on our life as if it were a miraculous garden, and with this commonplace miracle understand that the entire cosmos is life itself, awareness itself, the ultimate manifestation of the dream. Or we can ignore this and pursue our own power over death, the ego's never-ending life, in the paradigm of the machine.

The machine interacts with us through the screen, telling us that it is real life, and in some ways, maybe most ways, we would be better of as living beings doing away with the screen between us and actual life. Of course, the irony is not lost on me as I sit here, typing my thoughts on a screen. We have developed our technologies to a degree that they seem indispensable to our modern ways of life. I do feel that the most interesting old cultures are the ones that can adapt most successfully to the technological realities of modern life, and yet still retain all the spirit of their ancient ways, and in that sense I believe that our technologies can be returned to the status of being tools as opposed to being the whole game, tools that better our lives. Essentially we are all cyborgs already, what with glasses, shoes, cars, houses, all the technologies that allow us to live. That is a subject to be explored, one that is too vast for this blog entry.

I dedicate this blog entry to the eradication of modern time, and the return of the myriad time spheres of the earth; hummingbird time, walrus time, redwood time, grass time, love time, star time, heart time, sleeping time, cooking time, eating time, building time, sex time, dance time, singing time, sipping time, snow time, wind time, magic time, sad time, pain time, fish time, raindrop time, wolf time, shitting time, anger time, kissing time, raven time, truck time, oil time, limestone time, death time, hunting time, meditation time, writing time, reading time, weaving time, buddha time, cat time, fire time, and of course, the Dreamtime, our life time.

Monday, July 27, 2009

erotic beer cans

On a similar note to my last post, fremenine and I went on a beautiful hike near the Mississippi River where prairie has been planted and the Culvers Root has come up. While there we saw discarded beer cans near seats of limestone, a drawing of a penis, and a sign that had an arrow with "To the Vagina" scrawled on it. Initially I felt disgust and horrified at the stupidity of man at these signs of the bottom of the barrel culture, but upon further thought processes and discussion with fremenine, one of the only really open minded people I know, I realized that, although the artists of these so-called profane works were perhaps rooted in a base sense of humor, they were also simply expressing that which our culture keeps hidden, and which maybe needs to be made open.

I mean, really, our obsession with the penis, scrotum, anus, vagina, nipples, and associated muscle formations border on the absurd. The most hidden of human artifacts, the most obsessed over. A coincidence? I think not.

Are the eyes, the hands, the skull, the toes, less erotic? This whole thing is erotic, folks. Remain calm, don't panic.

river of being

Some of us stop to smell the roses and some of us say, isn't god amazing, that he made roses that smell so good? I think there is such a huge, un-raftable rift between those who can appreciate that a rose with any other name is still a fuckin' rose, and those who think that a rose is a gift from god.

It is with great displeasure that I have to live in a world that seems like nothing less then a monotheistic orgy of self-induced pain and suffering, stemming from a compilation of books (ironically nicknamed "The good book") that induces a fairly pure neurotic inner horror. I am sometimes amazingly irritated at the fact that I have been born into this world, am actually traveling through my life, this bardo plane of pure natural beauty, and I have to contend with so many others out there like me, who are passing through this glistening pure bardo plane of unbelievable sensory delights, yet find some sort of grasping terror in their hearts at the thought of the nothing, the oblivion, as a friend put it recently, that sets us free, into the most amazing mystery of all. And in the terror they reach out and grasp this pure fiction, God the benevolent omnipotent micromanaging motherfucking anal retentive CEO of the galaxy. What a small way to live, is my opinion. And yes, I have my moments of terror as well, as I gaze into the darkness that is the resting place of our minds (egos?) after this path we follow has come to its inevitable deadend, down the yellow brick road, to find the fat little man behind the curtain. Inexplicably, it turns out he is us, we are him. None of your pastors, teachers, or political leaders talk about that much, or know what that means.

It seems that we who do not give up our ghosts and allow ourselves to be possessed by the holy spirit of the bible, who the gnostic christians rightly believed was satan himself, the dark side of this cosmic endeavor, a rutting Pan-like underlord who personifies the beastly yang concept, the oozing serpent of our dark soul, we who do not allow ourselves to be possessed by this beast, are struggling to find a way out of here, like a jilted joker or a thankful thief. We see the Destroyer as the Divider, a meaningful and important concept that has had enough sway in this world already, we've had enough. I believe what I am trying to say here is basically sacrilegious, no doubt a word coined by the religious, just as pro-life is coined by those who insist on the biological primacy of human birth, meanwhile not understanding what life means at all, in all likelihood. The cosmic understanding of life is deep deep deep. Is this rock I am holding alive? Is this daisy, this frog, these dust motes in the sun, is the love in my heart a living thing, are my thoughts a living part of nature? The pro-lifers idea of life is limited, the pro-choicer is trying to keep the options open, keep the Divider at bay while we desperately go through our lives looking for some meager happiness, clutching to the shreds of love left to us by the Destroyer culture, those hell bent on the pure destruction of everything biological, a form of life found lacking by monotheists.

What is lacking about life, lust, love, and lunacy? What is bad about this, good about that? Who decides? Mostly, we do, via consensus, and of course, this has its place and is a structure formulated by tribes to maintain a degree of safety and contentment with this amalgamation of skin, bone, thought, and feelings we call our lives. Here on earth, we are blessed with a beautiful green planet that is neverending in its wonder and beauty, pain and suffering. It is an example of the plethora of life, existence, samsara, maya, the great dream.

We dream each-other and communicate through our hearts. To be possessed by the holy spirit is, perhaps, a death sentence for our very souls, as we give them up to a maniacal power, a skulking and terrible death force. Maybe our basic endeavor is to give it all up, give up all of our ideas, our definitions, all the ties that bind, before we can see what really truly is, now, here, alive. Why do we need a religion, a career, a political affiliation, box of who we think we are? Don't all these limits, these ideas, these screens we see ourselves through, do nothing but bind us to them in a way that destroys our freedom to live as a spirit being, both matter and energy, light and dark; to evolve, to transcend, and become rooted in the universe?

The options seem obvious when one realizes the truth of our own personal drama. The Tarot, the I-ching, our DNA, the mytho-poetical quantum collective unconscious all show us the truth, the journey we all share on this circular planet, in this spiral galaxy. Yet, we try to pretend one thing or another is who we are, rather then becoming the river of being that we are.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

bear dead

I would rather be eaten by a bear then be afraid of being eaten by a bear.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Synchronicity on guard

It seems that things happen together when things are happening together. Maybe the dream dreams us? We don't know, which is all for the better.

Fulfillment, that is the question. Following your own bliss is not so easy.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

the rain falls

We think of the rain as some sort of thing, that falls and makes us wet.

The rain, although it is also collected condensation on particulate matter grown heavy in the clouds, is also a life giver. The rain takes from the earth and sea and regenerates the system, the river and lakes without end. The rain is falling outside my window right now, and I hear its splish splash.

The rain speaks many tongues, all familiar. It says, here is the life you need to survive, here is the metabolic juice your body stews in, here is the kiss of the earth, wet and juicy. The modern man is concerned with staying dry and comfortable. The gardener and farmer is delighted with the heavenly gift of rain, and may become soaking wet in his or her endeavors to communicate with it. The wetness is commonly understood as discomfort, but I think it has more to do with our human decision to wear clothes all the time.

I will do mostly indoor chores today, but may venture out into the rain to finish a stone wall. Working with stone in the rain is dangerous and destroys lawns, so we tend to not do so.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

I love you Sunshine, my friend

Your path was one of hardship and pain

You live on in memory and spirit

We all meld at some point

We all flow back and forth

All things flow back and forth

We are all things

Wednesday, July 15, 2009


"'She was someone who could not be rushed. This seems a small thing. But it is actually a very amazing quality, a very ancient one. She did everything at just the same pace as before, she could tell the time of day or night by the moisture in the atmosphere, and she went about her business as if she would live forever, and forever was very, very long. That is the kind of mujer my mama was. When you look at me you see her, but I have lost 'forever; therefore I sometimes hurry.'"

--- from The Temple of My Familiar, by Alice Walker

Tuesday, July 14, 2009


around we go across the dirty days made of wind and rain
the stars mostly hide behind the smog of exhaust and hairspray

I'm made of sand

glacial terror
night sweats
balance beam

tense eyelids
floater fencing

the world pissed off at me

ground champagne
density demons

make an effort make an effort

Monday, July 13, 2009

you, forever

You, forever, always

I see the truth in you

(deep inside the onion layers we go, each day, crying the tears that drop so easily
from our sunburned cheeks

we remake the day each time the sun rises

each time the sun falls we begin the endings again)

I wish I could help you as much as you have helped me, but I can't
I can't, I have no more resources, I have done as much as I can now, no more or less
I know I can do more

I see you beyond this, this trite modern moonshine
there has been effort on my part, I swear, more then you realize, maybe you realize that

In this ending the beginning looms near
The weaving of our trailing parts calls for so much talent and grace
The question in my head is a gong (ding, dong) going off every minute
where is the path I should take, where is the path I have followed so long?
Is it there in my dreams or have I labored forever for nothing for good or bad?

so much more then I could have ever imagined, this effortless painful cleaving in two and coming together to rewrite this poem that we began with hesitant phrases
the old words color the new

the vision that birthed this twilight tinged tune was of you
in the ocean, forever, always
your feet bare in the sand, by the lapping of the moonset waves
you, free, forever, always
and happy as the breeze

Thursday, July 09, 2009

Failed again

Once again I failed at a following through with an idea/intention/activity, all the way to the end. It is the story of my life, and yes, that is a bitter statement.

Forget my food habits, forget my life, forget this blog. I am better at incoherence and non-linear reality.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Dawkins funds Summer Athiest Camp

Arch-atheist Richard Dawkins has helped launch a summer camp aimed at changing the way children think
By Rachel Helyer Donaldson

Richard Dawkins, the evolutionary biologist and author of The God Delusion, has helped launch an atheist summer camp for children. Alongside the more traditional activities of tug-of-war, swimming and canoeing, children at the five-day camp in Somerset will learn about rational scepticism, moral philosophy, ethics and evolution.

More: Here

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Monday and Tuesday

Monday was one of those get to work early, grab whatever is around to eat type days. For breaky I had an over-easy egg on toast. For lunch I had a Subway sandwich, ham and all the veggies. Yeah, I know, factory farmed ham is disgusting, but when you are working your ass off sometimes it feels like you need some extra protein. But I need to get rid of all "conventional" meat products in my diet. For dinner I had noodles and Four Cheese sauce by Newmans Own, with some mozzarella and romano on top, my fast lasagna type food for when I am starving. I also had some tortilla chips and salsa when I got home from work.

Today I had a pb&j for breakfast (what the hell, right?) Then I had some more of the noodles and sauce for lunch, and I am making butter poached Rockfish with baked potatoes and sauteed beet greens with red garlic. I think that will be a nice nutritious meal for the evening.

Tomorrow I have to use up some kidney beans so I am going to make red beans and rice, maybe casserole style. That's my plan anyway.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Sunday afternoon and evening

Wow, this feels like a job now.

The cinnamon rolls were great, we ate them with grapes and cherries and coffee. Later in the day I had a piece of an omelet with asparagus and red pepper and sharp cheddar. Then I ate a quick cheese sandwich and some nuts. We had a couple deviled eggs and crackers with cheese before we drove home. Basically, it was a lot of different little snacks.

Alright, well, enough of that. Also, I won't tell you that I ate a piece of cold pizza from Friday night a minute ago.

Sunday Morning

This morning I am making cinnamon rolls for the first time in my illustrious baking career. I made the dough last night and let it rise twice before punching it down and refrigerating it. The recipe is from the Fannie Farmer cookbook. I added walnuts and raisins and they are in the oven now. I will let you know how they taste.

Last night I did not have a late night snack, although this morning I felt like my body wanted more food yesterday. Well, in any case, I'm off to to the melon patch.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Rest of Saturday

So for the rest of the day today, I will report as follows. For lunch I had a very quick sandwich of aged cheddar and mayo. For dinner, we had a lovely meal of pasta with the aforementioned asparagus from the garden, crimini mushrooms, onion, garlic, and red pepper, and a salad of romaine lettuce with a blue cheese dressing, roasted beets, walnuts, and onion. I'm enjoying a summit beer right now as the sun sets over this lovely place, the Hilty Homestead, and the crescent moon is shining brightly above the fireflies blinking over the shadows of grass. Fremenine is playing piano and I am pondering a late night snack already, why is this??

We did have a long day, and the gardens are almost clear of weeds, the corn is beautiful, the sky was mercifully clear of pure sun most of the day. The rains came a tumbling down this morning supersaturating the soil.

The food I eat

This morning I had an idea. I am going to turn this blog into a food blog, and let you, the world, know all the food I eat in the day, for a a week. This will give me a rough idea of my diet. I don't understand my food habits very well, and documenting them might be helpful to me, and possibly interesting to you. And I won't start with last night because I ordered nasty nasty pizza, so let's just forget about that, shall we?

I will include beverages I have with meals.

This morning I made a fritatta with crimini mushroom, asparagus and arugula from the garden, red pepper, red onion, red garlic, scallion, mozzarella and monterey jack cheese. I used six organic free range eggs, Hope salted butter, sea salt, fresh pepper, and dried parsley from the garden.

I also had Peace coffee and Edenblend, a soy and rice beverage.

I had a peace of honey wheat Great Harvest toast along with the frittata. I don't usually put butter on my toast, I just eat it with the egg dish.

So far, yum.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The linkage of the soul to the elements to the wind and forever gone. The night stars seem cynical some times. The toilet flushes oddly, and voices reverberate in heads made of clay, ink, and tiredness.

God is a strawman argument. Our discussions are as pointless as daisies in the field, as poignant as the death of salamanders. My mind is as coagulated as the milk in a thousand year old churn.

Why not give me your heart, why not give me your soil. The sunset is heartbreaking heart-braking hearthshaking...I do I you

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Pure Ego

Maybe the secular world is the spiritual world, the separation between the mundane and sacred isn't real, and everything you've ever thought could be transmuted in an alchemical transition toward enlightenment. So what is the awakening? Why am I conscious? This is the road map toward illumination. Perhaps all religions and politics are nothing but naked pride preening on a throne of pure ego. Leggo your ego, homo erectus. Give the universe a chance, just once, before your mask allows you the comfort of illusionary stability.
Beautiful dreams of flying into island mountains, indigenous peoples, a magical dance out of a bag, trying to communicate with the magical artifacts, waking to birdsong and leaves shimmering.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

funky frozen frogs

Talk about frozen Jesus syndrome...

synchronized bioluminescence

Ill with Change

Taking refuge in the buddha, dharma, sangha when the going gets rough...torrential downpour, the rain is what differentiates us from other planets...Driving to Outback to buy a red maple (acer rubrum) to replace one that died at a project in Woodbury. Up late, again again again, watching movies, moving pictures, action, violence, spells, sex. As a freeloader, freethinker, freedom fighter, free agent I am overwhelmed with choices, to do whatever, how do you balance it out? I have to get up, after all that beer and cheese, get up and figure it out, make the day work somehow.

Somehow, the day always works out, in a way. I guess when it doesn't is the last day, when I'm in the newspaper, when accidents happen. The terrible openess of a blog, of a social network. We open ourselves up constantly, why, no idea. Because we must, because we want to connect, because the connection is more important then the actual thing.

Almost done with the design. Still need lawn signs. Need to figure out dinner, already. Need to stop watching the clock. Breakfast is killing me. Too tired to shine. Too many eggs in one week, says my doctor.

Always adjusting to the new situation, always adjusting the skin of separation. The new day, new job, new friend, new food, new this, new that. The adjustments are what tires me out. Adjusting to my addictions, my failures, my heartsickness, my overwhelming joy. Ill with change.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Is it too much?

Is it too much to ask that you share your dreams with me?
Is it too much to ask you to keep them to yourself?
Is it too much to to try to ride this wave to the end, when the end never ends and beginnings are always beginning?
Is it too much to ask if I can sleep away the day?
Is it too much to ask you to be my friend even though you are already are?
Is it too much to try to make it make sense, when my senses are shattered by it.
Is it too much?

Monday, June 15, 2009

Chalky lime days

Working with limestone all day creates a cloud of alkalinity in your nose and eyes and ears. Your lungs are coated with calcium and your fingers and back are sore. Working with stone in general destroys clothing and weakens bone and muscle. The weather has been blessedly cool, and I am happy to work out in the life giving breeze all day. Perhaps one day I will be dying and I will remember these easy halcyon days of stonework and golden youth, as I do my early years as a Taoist poet teenager. The sun sets on my home and I go back to bed.

Saturday, June 06, 2009

Bolad's Kitchen

-This is some of the most beautiful writing I have ever read, by an author I totally love, this is about his new school-

Bolad's Kitchen
Teaching forgotten things, endangered excellent knowledges, but above all a grand overview of human history as seen from a particular Martín Prechtel way in the search for a comprehension regarding the survival of unique and unsuspected manifestations of the Indigenous Soul in overlooked pockets of peaceful living during isolated times throughout the world as well as the worldwide historical displacement of indigenous people, plant and animal life-ways and the subsequent survival of core vestiges of these deep life and culture respecting understandings that still live in various everyday life styles among many of today’s mixed peoples and ecosystems. A way of hands-on village-style teaching in hopes of developing a language, consciousness and way of living that feeds and gives life to the Indigenous Soul of the Earth whereby scientific discovery working on behalf of a true spirituality of the Holy in Nature could give humans a real usefulness within the whole, instead of a fearful rationalist synthetic flight away from life into depression and extinction..

My experience has always been if you love something or someone passionately enough you will amplify your heart, eschew ancestral biases, open your mind, train your hands and go to any extent to learn the language of what you love, to comprehend and be comprehended, in order to converse with the Divine in the thing you love.

Since I was a child, it has been my own love of the Divine in Nature and my constant wanting, like a suckling child for the life-giving milk of her ever-changing conversation, that has led me to passionately learn as many of the intricacies of her vast and wild life-giving nature as I could, fearing otherwise to lose her relationship with my own undomesticated soul. Though she lives on inside the nature of every small magnificent thing, it is our attempted understanding of the way these intricacies are brilliantly and multi-dimensionally entangled, in which each containing a uniqueness of its own and an independent quality of her whole, are yet utterly interdependent and reliant on the other’s diverse natures and staggered existences in order to maintain their own and live on, that I call education.

A people who do not want this kind of education are a drifting ship of sleeping orphans, a culture numbed by a lack of stories. But orphans can wake up and those who do, hungry for this kind of education, could apply themselves to it and replant the world with life-giving culture. As a people we must learn this to continue as a people.

Love is always a matter of learning how to live in an unknown land. It is not just translation or about being secure in what one knows, but about learning how to give a true gift to what one loves by learning what it loves. Love is always about learning the Nature of things.

Learning should have a diligence that comes from love. That no matter how much pain one bears or to what lengths one has to go in the process of learning what one needs to know to speak and listen to one’s love, it will have all seemed as a simple minor event compared to the delicious inundation of one’s soul by the fascination of our heart’s desire.

Like an obstinate great hard green boulder of cultural assumptions and literalist intractability pounded down into a beach of jade sand by the persistent pulsing waves of one’s divine desire, once achieved, the hardship of what seems to anyone outside of love an awful toil, becomes to anyone in love a vague fulfilling memory inside the ecstatic swirling and swimming our hearts do finally have when the distance between what we love and what we have become in order to understand it, finally inextricably mix to form something more extravagant and beautiful than either of its parts.

Because the world is a boundless compendium of stories told in as many languages as there are things to know, the language of galaxies, of rocks, the languages of weathers, plants, and rivers, languages of animal and human cultures, I have never understood knowledge as a finite possession but more like a corral of wild language horses, with an ongoing responsibility to sustain and maintain them, upon whose unruly backs we must learn to ride; sometimes into the heart of twelve layers of holy stone, or into the heart of an old Jewish steel vendor in Armenia, or into the language of the tears of the Divine Female whose ever-birthing womb is a mouth that speaks this natural teeming earth and universe into tangibility at every present moment.

This is something of the kind of approach I am trying to plant here in New Mexico, to cultivate a "never-before-seen school" from my own ongoing learning, stemming from my search for the Divine conversations with my love of the Holy in the Natural and cultural earth of humans, animals, plant and the geological-astronomical.

From a dry objective point of view, this "never-before-seen school" of mine would probably be classed as a "school of spiritual ecology." But to me this sounds about as exciting as a rusty, dented, mud-clogged exhaust pipe spewing monoxide into the crisp desert air, while clanging off its brackets under the backend of a cold, over-sized reservation school bus dragging all the tense Pueblo kids through the winter’s rutted mud to the beating rooms and Anglocizing indoctrination pens on a slushy January day when we should have all been on adobe rooftops deftly cracking and spitting piñon nut shells, simultaneously chewing and swallowing the delicious meats while we were wrapped in smoky old Pendelton blankets watching a Buffalo Dance and thereby continuing our true education into the great conversation with the Holy in Nature.

As anyone can sense, the word "school" is something of a problem to me and applying any semblance of the word to this wonderful learning get-together we have been able to keep alive here in my native New Mexico leaves an evil aftertaste in my mouth. Therefore I did not call my new school a school, but by the more cryptically beautiful name of Bolad’s Kitchen. In keeping with the focused love of learning and spiritual way of thinking that I wanted to engender in the school, I left, in the beginning, the meaning behind the title of Bolad’s Kitchen as a riddle whose comprehension and discovery by the first person who then made the effort to correctly research the meaning and my reason for using it as the name was to be given free tuition to the first sessions. After several students in an excellent show of their love of the real beauty of language and human ancestry, every new yearly session of Bolad’s Kitchen ever since has begun with students applying themselves to a riddle of much deeper proportions.

Bolad’s Kitchen classes are a four year courses where people can continually pursue their interest in learning more in depth, with more time to do so, the connected overview of all the things I teach and believe, in a continuous way, picking up where we left off, without the limited geographical framework and time restraint of my annual workshops, conferences, etc. This of course includes a more in-depth participation and development of what I wish people to understand by reading my books, and the tangible learning of many indigenous and ritual life skills that I have always considered basic necessities for living on the earth, but which are rarely taught anymore.

Though I have a fairly clear and steady heading envisioned for Bolad’s Kitchen during the years to come, we shall have to adjust our rudder as often as we need to navigate the wreck-strewn waters of modern life and world situations in hopes that Bolad’s Kitchen continues as an ongoing event. My dream is that some of you who having attended as much as you can become such that I would claim you as valued villagers who understand and love this learning enough to be retained as paid teachers at Bolad’s Kitchen, continuing to inspire people in an understanding rooted in my own stuff but going out into the world with your own spiritual DNA and discovered abilities, thereby possibly causing a new knowledge and spiritual flowering beyond the present imaginings of any of us. If I do find teachers after a few years, then this would free things up for me so that I could really get to teaching even more delicious subjects to those interested hand-picked people who have attended the Bolad’s Kitchen. On the other hand the whole thing could fail magnificently, but it would never fail miserably, for in this scared industrial age failing magnificently in any attempt to feed the Holy and keep rare large thoughts alive, thereby creating culture in the process and maintaining the nobility of the natural soul, is a beautiful wild horse worth feeding and trying to ride, even if in the end he just runs off, thundering back to the untamed pastures of the Divine.

I intend to continue many of my annual, workshops, lectures and book events around the world, reviving the Behind the Eyes of Sleeping Bears Writing Retreat, along with a series of drawing and painting workshops in the New Hall. But all of these will be quite separate happenings with their own ways of going.

Blessings on all of you.
Martín Prechtel

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