Say Something

9/11 brought many changes to the New York lifestyle, chief among them being an awareness about security and our vulnerabilities. 
It seems laughable now that we had such open systems, but in the quest for freedom, we sometimes skew towards the lax instead of what is actually reasonable. The first popularization of what has become the country's motto began in the subways of our fair Gotham, with one very powerful slogan that deeply reflects our inherent honesty as a culture, with this sentiment: If you see something, say something. (https://www.dhs.gov/see-something-say-something)

I tried it out for myself one Sunday afternoon, traveling by train from Rockland County through Secaucus Junction in New Jersey, on my way back to Park Slope in Brooklyn, after visiting my mom over the weekend. An average, middle-aged white woman left behind a medium-sized bag on the rack above the seats; something that's typically expected from a city tourist, but not the commuting locals. 

I immediately noticed it, and said something to the very next ticket agent I saw coming down the aisle. The woman in question happened to be an off-the-clock transit worker who left her belongings behind, but that didn't deter me at all from doing the right thing. You shouldn't be swayed by some slight (and temporary) discomfort, either: http://web.mta.info/mta/security/.

We built this society as free people, and it is up to us to maintain it properly. I submit to you as an example that of my upstate people, who relish this current opportunity to partner up with law enforcement, so that we may catch our criminals who escaped (with inside help, of course) from our state prison, as they head(ed) north to another country. It is not our way to leave problem-solving to our neighbors, because we patrol what we love. 

One more to go! Keep up the great work. Be safe, follow the law, respect our officers in times of crisis, and always defer to the trained authorities who work extremely hard to track our society's convicted murderers: http://www.cnn.com/2015/06/26/us/new-york-prison-break/. You're doing a phenomenal job.

 

1-888-NYC-SAFE

Leatherbound

Pressed leaf from a Ginkgo biloba tree.

As a publisher, I have books of all shapes, sizes, types, languages, and purposes. Most are for reading, but I am media-independent as a creator, which means I do not experience biases based on other people's preferences. 

A junior staff member from a small family business I worked at years ago was horrified to discover that my priceless going away gift, presented to a homesick Midwestern admin, was actually a one-of-a-kind art piece crafted from a hollowed out duplicate of a hardcover classic that's been in print for hundreds of years.  

A gift of a leather bound journal for whatever I want. Thanks, Jang!

Yeah, I know. It's why neither former female employee (not the gift getter, nor the assistant) works in publishing anymore. They don't understand that a book is more than text communication; it's also an art object. The very essence behind my success lies in my ability to transcend individual intentions (which are probably wrong) to ascertain real value, make something from it, and present it to all of you. That does not mean the people around me necessarily "get it", or see worth right away, because they can't. My job is to see.

I use bound materials the way any artist uses any medium in a serious way: by pushing it further than you ever could, and that's what keeps it so fun and fresh. Plus, I really enjoy the feeling of "shock and awe" on your faces that rings in "frontiering". Hey, parents get bored, too! Have fun this weekend and go make something, will ya?


"For those who fight for it, 
life has a flavor that the sheltered will never know."
- from the movie, Sucker Punch.

Hanging by a Thread

"Magic" (a dogwood petal hangs by a thin strand).

Killer

Fake food makers and sellers are the new pharmaceutical companies, and "Big Pharma" was the beast that replaced the tobacco industry. It's disconcerting for lobbyists and other middle men, because if they can't skim off the top, who will feed them?! 

And that's the problem with stealing the flame from your neighbor's hearth: it robs everyone else in the tribe of life-giving warmth and protective light, forcing us back into the cold dark befitting scavengers who prey off the good that a torch-bearer brings, which means this in"Newspeak"*: evil does not change garb often, because it can't. 

http://www.medicaldaily.com/pulse/soft-drink-dangers-8-ways-soda-negatively-affects-your-health-319054#

Bad people are not as good as us because they never have been, and they never will be. Oh sure, one can conjure up a false sympathy for the devil and his agents, but at the end of every day's light lurks a demon of the night seeking to benefit from creeping around the edges of a real society's earnest efforts. 

Let's not allow them to win in this century, eh? Time for the Dawn of a New Age. Let's begin this age of enlightenment today and every day afterward, until we get what we need.

http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/living/cdp_pan_pop.shtml 

http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/living/sugarydrink-media.shtml 

http://www.medicaldaily.com/bye-bye-sugary-drinks-what-happens-your-body-when-you-stop-drinking-soda-326034

 

*Newspeak is the fictional language in the novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, written by George Orwell. It is a controlled language created by the totalitarian state Oceania as a tool to limit freedom of thought, and concepts that pose a threat to the regime such as freedom, self-expression, individuality, and peace.

Fertile Crescent

This past weekend at the grocery store, I tried (as usual) to find local fruits and berries, especially since California is all dried up, which is also typical and annually occurring. Thirsty berries from a huge conglomerate in Watsonville, California that also bought land in Mexico for an artificially induced, year-round growing season? WHY?! 

Because the system is crooked, that's why. And here I was, looking for them new strawberries designed by Rutgers University (http://news.rutgers.edu/news/better-tasting-strawberry-developed-rutgers-makes-its-debut/20150510#.VYgkFvAYFV4), which will be commercially available next year. (Note: Jersey, y'all can grab them at a nearby farm stand NOW, you lucky "sumthin'-or-othas"). Yeah, that accent's "phresh". Keep it! It'll keep 'em on point about who you are.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes: the futility of growing in a semi-arid climate and calling it "climate change", which is up there with spending billions of dollars to tunnel underneath Lake Mead, so them crazy-asses in Vegas (never the most legit town, but when are desert outposts square with the rest of society, right?) can drain it like a bathtub: http://www.reviewjournal.com/news/water-environment/they-re-getting-ready-pull-the-plug-the-bottom-lake-mead-photos. 

It's so fucked up, I don't know how to address the basics behind such rottenly bad and obviously corrupt thinking, but here it goes:

1) Growing is better near available and replenishable fresh water: http://www.tenshadesofgreen.org/shade2.html

2) Deserts do not grow as well as fertile river valleys, because....

3) ....life grows in valleys. See also: "The Seat of All Mankind" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fertile_Crescent) and Chapter One of The Holy Bible (http://biblehub.com/genesis/2-14.htm).

I really can't make it more simple than that, so if you don't get it, go take yet another class "Special Ed". No! I'm done with your tired ass. NOW, GO!

Christ on a....I will NOT tolerate another Great Depression or Dust Bowl from your dumb ass. I really can't this century. I CAN'T.

Your homework is posted here down below, and yes, you need to click on the link to see the information provided, so DO SOMETHING:

http://journals.ametsoc.org/doi/abs/10.1175/EI168.1 and http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/19955191, and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainmaking, 
and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dust_Bowl.

I love you, and I want you to GROW: bit.ly/1N8G6ds

Movement in Blue (and White)

This was the morning sky after a day of tornadoes that swept across Dutchess County into Connecticut. You can see the two systems blowing across each other, the one sweeping out the swirling clouds systems that had the potential to funnel, and dispersing it into vapor. Awesome. Pearl River, NY (June 2015)

Piano Jimmy

"Piano Jimmy" and Eunice, back in the day.

By now you know that my dad is a "one of a kind" sumthin' you don't wanna mess with. It's disconcerting for newcomers and out-of-towners sometimes. White, with flava, tho?! How'd you do that? How'd that happen to y'all? Yeah, I know. It don't wash off me neither, yo.

Well, squirrel friends, it's called "Old School", and it ain't exactly learned on your particular mean street. Yeah, those streets are mine, too. No, amigo, it's way back time. You see, when I was a kid, my father didn't even know where his father was, or what name he used, because my Ole Grandad didn't just hand out info like that, not even to family people, because in my line, family might be the first fellow who do you wrong, know what I mean?

Yeah, you do. It's like that with my folk, and so it is with me, too. 
Oh, I can keep a line on 'em any time I want to, because this New York-grown girl knows how to keep a light touch on her folk without putting too much pressure on 'em (because they sure as heck can't handle that, yo), but I didn't learn my all my skills from that paternal girl you see next to big Jimmy, mes amis.

No, my Grandma checked out young, too. But what my dad did have for me growing up was a little black book, the kind that he showed me once in awhile, because he taught me where to find it in his closet. 
It was in the front pocket of one of his suit jackets that I gathered for my mom to go the dry cleaners every week for his Mad Man-style job. 

You know, the kind tailored at "Wallach's" in the old Nanuet mall, 
made just for him off them measurements cards in the leather-chaired back of the store, girl. Yeah, but that was just another one of my many, many jobs, too, along with gatherin' up the wash, takin' down them clothes pinned to the line before it storms outside...there ain't nuthin' this ole girl don't know by now, feel me on it?

'Course you do, 'cause you been through it, too. And that's how me and my people did it: sometimes poorly, but always with great heart and soul, because we managed to survive without entirely cutting the cord to the mainland, you know? 

When we wanted to get a bead on our old Acadian boy, the one who knew how to play a reel or two for you at midnight on the "piana", drunk but still way betta than you'd ever be, we knew what to do. 

You'd go get lil' Jimmy's black book and look for "J", because that's where it was written for me to see: Piano Jimmy, under the letter "J" in my dad's old black phone book.

Come on down and see me when you want to, mes gens. I ain't forgot them old ways any day of the week we got, at any time that's good. "Happy Father's Day" to you, as well.

Little Cemetary

Meet "The Blauvelts"!

We live among the walking and the dead here in the Hudson Valley region, because the first Dutch settlers who bought the island of Manhattan for some wampum many moons ago to create the city of "New Amsterdam", also took the first opportunity they had to buy vast tracts of land upstate. In fact, Native Americans used the wetlands here on Pearl River's hilltop for a well, not just farming. Why would anyone want land that swamps out every year? Because it was easier to irrigate their European crops through flooding, that's why.

And that's exactly what many European settlers did: replicate their vast landowning system overseas to control property through agriculture and land resources. It's what's passed for Rockland County nobility over the years: that same sense of ownership and entitlement from controlling the land that marked the oppressive regimes of the corrupt European monarchies many of our ancestors rebelled against. How revolutionary of them to do so! Sigh....that's the rich white man.

And John P. Post! The British have not yet arrived.

And so it was that on one Monday morning in yoga, a nice German grandma had to let me know in conversation that one of her children is married to one of "The Blauvelt's", because as a first generation American, she's on much less solid ground than I am as a native, and she wanted me to know about her very important family connections. 

I name-dropped some rich German publishing credentials and European towns from my working past that she hadn't known first-hand as a German native, because she followed her sister over here as a teen to our now re-named "New of York", in honor of our country's next wave of wealthy landowners: the Brits.

Here lies a Mary Van W...something Dutch, and a Perry: Dutch and British!

Except for one very big and powerful distinction: I'm the publisher she follows, and I'm in yoga class with her instead of humping the grind that is the tri-state commute, a trial deemed by weaker souls than me to be so bad-ass, many outsiders write t.v. shows and movies about it. 

Enjoy your time here on our land of freedom; a land we fought for dearly and created, as it ever evolves and changes with the times, because that's what I call "The Royal Treatment".

Aha! A "Bogert" name-changer: much easier to trade with the Brits.

Here it sits on the sub-divivded remnants of their large land parcels.

Time, erosion, and neglect have removed many of their names anyway.

Goodbye, Ye Olde Blauvelts! Maybe someday one of their own will take care of this burial site, but not today. I'm sure they're hard at work at one of their very important desk jobs in the city.

The Spider's Web

Small town life is different than the city. "Gotham" is all about money and the "go, go, go" energy of our sometimes misspent youth. It's easy to get caught up in the exciting merry-go-round of "new, NOW, Next!", but for every time there's a season and a reason. Circumstances led me back here, and I am not sorry for it. Rockland is easy for me to manage. I know it because I feel it, and the kids I grew up with now run stuff, too. 

We can get anywhere we need to be very quickly, to put out those fires and chase away "the baddies". This area has become the perfect microcosm for us to patrol, manage, problem-solve, and ultimately, rule over. If we do it right here (at this scale and this level), we can expand it into a growing sphere that enfolds the larger world, which is the exact type of change we talked about growing up. It's become an organic thing that ripples out whenever we want it to, because we grew it, nursed it, and brought it back to health. WE ARE ALIVE.

It's also a lot easier to catch flies in a spider's web than it is to fly around the world setting up snares, which is something me and my crew learned early on, in our individual lives that we talked about together, because we'd be bankrupt twenty times over if we followed along with everything that seriously dead-ended any kook coming before us. 

And so this visual metaphor about a team of spiders weaving perfectly overlapping triangles has become the mental landscape me and my friends created, using what we had at hand: a tightly interwoven network that is flexible, tensile, adaptable, extremely strong, and unbreakable. We will move forward, and you're all coming along for the ride. Strap yourself in!

Don't be fooled by an empty-looking country road in a valley that's filled with the swirling mists from one very dangerous river; it ain't what it seems to be. You can trust me on that, because your bank just went out of business forever. Today (and every other day) we take back the land, for it is ours. This is just the beginning. Join us. 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10206227577064507&set=gm.1685789014982523&type=1&theater

Bunny Ears

Baby Jimmy in Maine, with his dog "Ranger".

My Dad's first job was as a shoeshine boy*, and I knew that because he kept the old wooden box in the back of his closet. I used to take it out to play with the polishes and rags, which made my Dad laugh: "Here. (sticks foot out) You want a shoe to shine? Do mine, and if it's any good, I'll pay you." Acadian papas like do that to kids. You ain't never seen anyone pinch a penny harder than my dad and his people. It's how we survive the hard times, becoming so ingrained as a philosophy as to make it's way into a "Mainerism" (http://www.asmainegoes.com/content/youll-only-hear-these-sayings-maine); these folksy sayings that my Dad likes to see carved into wooden plaques, or stitched onto embroidered pillows. 

It's crafts-y and also really annoying, because almost everything is some saying, but like so much of his parenting, I may not like the feel of it as his kid, but those sayings are the things that stick with me in good times or bad. One of his famous "Mainer's" (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/mainer) about money is that he can "...pinch a penny so hard, Abraham Lincoln's head yells out loud." Oh (http://webpages.charter.net/lorilady/glossary.html). So, I guess you will now judge my work subpar so as to not pay me for this shoeshine? Yeah. Now go away, kid.

And so it went. His quips learned as a child, the ones so easy any child could understand, quickly became a very young and rather inexperienced fathers' lifelines that he reached for whenever he tried hard to parent, so much so that it hurt me to watch him struggle to do it right. I passed over all the normal checkpoints any smart child would have, including making the move from using his shoe shine as finger-paints to tying my own shoes, a barrier he never jumped over. 

My dad was raised mostly by my grandmother, in a large extended family that was spread out between Rhode Island, Maine, New York, and Canada. At times, he had needed someone to "show him the ropes" besides his working mother, a sharp-tongued Jones girl of hardy British Colonial and early Dutch descent. There wasn't much room for bullshit, and so my dad was often troubled as a boy. He often told me as an excuse that he never had a real father, especially when he screwed up really bad.

I vividly remember one afternoon with him in summertime, as I sat on the top stair of our house in New City. I asked my dad (in desperation) to help me with my shoes, because the front door was open to our yard filled with my yelling, playing brothers and shrieking neighborhood kids. I'd already figured out that he didn't know much about helping me, because he became angrily defensive and impatient like my oft-troubled mother did. 

After they gruelingly purchased a door-to door set of Encyclopedia Britannica's on layaway one year (they only sent the next volume with the next payment received), my mom used it as a constant "out" whenever she could, snapping "Go look it up!" in frustration of our interruption to her much-beloved dish-washing chore. My parents couldn't help us with most of our homework in our highly educated Rockland County public school system.

And so it was with my little kid's shoe. My dad, eager to earn money outside the home with his shoeshine kit, couldn't tie his own shoes very well. He tied my sneakers with the childish "bunny ear" method. When I pointed out that I was learning the harder "bow tie" knot, he sheepishly looked down at my feet, as he so often looks at his shoes with his bottom lip pouting in embarrassment, like a scared child who's been caught stealing candy, and then he looked up at me full in the face (which was rare) from the stair below me, and sheepishly admitted that he never learned how to tie his own shoes properly. 

I asked him about that on his last visit here in Pearl River, in a car ride over to Louie's for Sunday brunch: how had he got around that, with his clients not knowing about it? I was also raised to sweat over each and every dollar, and I wondered how a kid could do it without an adult catching on. Did he not untie them? 

I asked him about it from the backseat of his rental car, his wife in the front seat next to him. He nodded "yes" and said "yeah", inclining his head slightly towards me in the back seat as he read a copy of RISDxyz that I'd given to him to peruse during our wait, as we sat in the parking lot and in the pouring rain, waiting for the doors to the old house to open for business. Of course I already knew that, because I know him so very well, and now I know all about kids, too. I'd become a parent way before my time, just like he had.

This one's for you "Cashflow", on this day that begins your birthday weekend. I figured you were worth at least one good story, after all that money thrown my way. Let's keep this "Midas Touch" thing going that we are so famous for. Bon anniversaire.


* https://www.google.com/search?q=shoeshine&biw=1280&bih=872&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0CDwQsARqFQoTCK_RhpnOisYCFdEvjAodTZsCmQ

Killer Bee

Killer Bee, indeed.

Last week, the honeysuckle bloomed sweetly after an evening rainfall. It drew me to it, and I wasn't the only one. I noticed a large bee on the hood of a white car parked nearby, as I picked some still-wet flowers for a home bouquet. It wasn't just any fat and lazy bumblebee either: this was a bad-ass hunter (like my encounter with juvenile dragonfly), with the same "no-moving-me" stance. I got closer to take a few pics, and it clamped down tighter on its' smaller bee meal like any champ would. That's part of the point about this life we lead: we consume other life as is dictated by the demands of our highly evolved physiology. That doesn't mean rampant, unchecked, voracious factory-style consumption, with a violent, vicious, slaughterhouse mentality. We don't need that much meat. 

Humans are omnivores, as adaptable and flexible as life is. We are very successful as a species because of it, after millennium following the animal herds we hunted for sustenance, grazing off locally available plants and nuts, gathering those things around us in the environment that we could carry and use. I'm not advocating some trendy "Neanderthal" diet (see our optimal diet here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_nutrition), because we are no longer those animals. But, I am most certainly arguing for a return to more compassionate farming, based on our ancient recognition that very few animals have the longevity our species Homo sapien* does. In response to these innate gifts, it is your duty as a caretaker of this planet to preserve biodiversity through mindful eating. Really, why would you do anything else? We have advanced based on empathy as one of our core strengths. This is no time to leave it behind. 

http://www.fieldandstream.com/photos/gallery/hunting/2008/10/bull-elk-takes-wolf-pack

Consider this example from the animal kingdom, from the sentient, sophisticated, and highly sensitive species that is Our Brother Wolf (see more about Native beliefs towards animals here: http://www.pantheism.net/paul/history/native-americans.htm). I saw a nature special on public television that followed one pack hunting a herd: suddenly, the fast-running Alpha broke away from the pack with a second-ranking, younger, smaller Omega to hunt an older Elk, also followed by a smaller, younger animal. After the rest of the pack tired of a futile chase, the pack sagely left their pursuits to meet up with the duo that had camped out in the brush to watch the old Elk huff and puff on the ground. Into the night, the pack maintained their vigil, to the amazement of the group filming them in this unprecedented and hereto unobserved animal drama that is the very stuff of life and death.

In the early hours of the morning the old bull died, and after an appropriate amount of time, so feasted a well-rested pack in rank order. It remains one of the greatest iterations of "Thou Shall Not Kill" I've ever seen. We can consume and live within our ecosystem by carefully observing the laws of nature that already exist here on Earth for us to follow. This world was created for your greater glory, as your destiny and birthright. Go for it! You do not have to live in guilt and shame. Learn more about life on earth, and live more. I want better for you, as I do for all life. It's worth it: http://www.uusc.org/ccc-resources-for-organizing-your-congregation-or-community, http://heritagefoodsusa.com/about_us.php, and http://compassionatefarming.org/.

Bigger bee beats smaller bee in the game of life.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homo_sapiens_%28disambiguation%29

Murderer

You should know by now that I openly express my disdain about people who use and abuse their so-called "religious beliefs", because I've published a lot of information about the continued erudition behind the scholarly traditions that comprise my religion. It ain't easy, yo. And that's why serious faith is mishandled so often, because it is so very hard to do. That's why, as Catholics, we say we are "practicing" our faith. 

Of course, I've been chosen to receive the greatest of G-d's gifts, which I try to gracefully submit to, in service of those greater strengths, but that doesn't mean average people like it or understand it. Many people are held tightly in the grip of their inadequacies, and that was burned out of me a long, long time ago. I do occassionally brush up against rank ignorance, though deeply ingrained prejudices tend to stay in remotely isolated areas, but it can happen anywhere in the world. 

The quickest social distortion begins with our easily understood written text that originated as the spoken word of firsthand testimony and witness, through books that hold our most sacred human stories passed down from our ancestors as they developed a higher, burgeoning consciousness that'll ultimately connect us back the universe, through what we call "Universal Truths". To deny that logic is an everyday mindtrick I won out against a long time ago, too, because in my world, it was called "childhood": http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2015/03/acts-of-creation.html.

Just like our ABC's, the first intentional misunderstandings of our faith start with those basic rules called "Commandments", with the understanding that to err is human. It is through His Most Divine Mercy that all can be forgiven with His Infinite Grace. We also believe in a greater technological understanding than that which currently exists, which means we actively seek to evolve into unity with the sentient universe that is forever, to reside in what we call "The G-d Consciousness". I know it's really hard. That's why people of faith are the most educated.

We do not define "G-d's Consciousness" specifically as an old man with a beard who lives on a cloud in the sky, but we do understand that our ancestors tried to explain their striving through a visual pictorial that was an expression of our belief about a benevolent universal truth, which we are also ever-expanding (just like the universe) through our continued exploration of the vastness that is our inner/outer space, which is also extremely hard to fathom and explain. And so, our ancestors started on a path to enlightenment with rather crude (to our eyes) representations of an inner space that's also at the core of our being. It's a very intimate place to be, like fragile newborns with their new parents. Try that on for size one afternoon, as a collegiate teen smoking and drinking with friends around a campfire. "Whoa, dude! All we are, is, like, dust in the wind." Yeah! I know! Stardust, "twinkle-toes"!

So, we accept that it might take several lifetimes (or less, depending on the human being/situation) to achieve this actualization of the self, and that you may not attain it, like, ever, because you suck, and heaven is for holy people ONLY. That's why we study so friggin' much. It's driven by a noble quest for the truth that's out there, as part of what can sometimes be an insatiable curiosity to find Our Maker within the beginnings of all life, like an epiphanic (http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/epiphany) flash of light and heat and collision and implosion that's expressed as an outward explosion, in a great BIG BANG! We want to propel ourselves backwards and forwards through time and space, seeking out an intergalactic journey that's also occurring simultaneously as an inner space within the apex of our human consciousness: on earth, as it as in Heaven. What is within us is also out there. Dude.

You kinda need to understand a lot of stuff (or not, as the case may be), and that includes basic reading/writing skills. I've come across learning disorders and other common brain disabilities/impairments so often that I've learned to group my spiritual gifts of understanding, compassion, and erudition in the rare class it belongs to rather than, say, your flawed interpretation of the rules.

For now, I want you to focus on what "Thou Shall Not Kill" really means, which is actually a ban against having a maliciously murderous intent towards your neighbor (as in, "Love Thy Neighbor"). Many extremist iterations exist that supposedly work in service to The Ten Commandments, and, as such, are likely be totally incorrect. That's the price you pay for a shaky foundation, like not knowing how to spell or simple mathematics. How do I do that? Oh, good! Here we go. Again.

I want you to spend this upcoming weekend contemplating that somewhere in the world, you are considered a murderer, because you have killed. The ridiculous "fruitarian" from the movie "Notting Hill", who only eats stuff fallen to the ground, considers you to be so, because you "murdered" the harvested carrot on her plate that is her belief system, fucked up as that is. Of course, that's just the surface that masks her mental illness(es) and eating disorder(s), like today's marketing-induced "gluten-free" jerk who merely seeks to trendily mask their fussy anorexia behind a legitimate case of Celiac's Disease or genuine gluten intolerance. Trust me: you don't ever want to feel that sick, even if you lose a few pounds from violent diarrhea and near-constant vomiting. Asshole.

Someone else's indifference to killing a spider in the bathroom is another person's holy fiat, as a Buddhist monk so strict, he carries a broom to sweep the ground before his feet, so as to prevent himself from killing anything. Yeah, it's extreme, but it's also this guy's legitimate cultural belief, because it was developed before they knew that life exists outside the limitations of human sight. It's kind of batshit, but he came about it honestly with what he had on hand technologically, at the time. He also thinks he might come back as a fruit fly if he screws up life badly enough, as a just punishment for his very human undoings. In truth, it's technically involved and spiritually in-depth, which is why you totally shouldn't do it. Their version of reincarnation is not your genetic inheritance, because you definitely don't have the Nepalese in you to do it correctly. Trust me, wigga. Yeah, you.

But, posers do it all the time. They deliberately misappropriate from another culture to hide whatever fucked up stuff they're too chickenshit to face directly, so they borrow someone's deep faith that's been passed down from their ancestors for millennia, like that yenta from yoga class who was totally reborn in an expensive ashram overseas (way spiritual, way existential), before returning from her vacation as the insufferable "guru" at your local gym, as self-righteous and obnoxious as ever.

And so it goes. To the faithful Hindu or Buddhist, you are a disgusting, meat-eating blasphemer blindly consuming their sacred cow. Think about that this weekend, while you bithely grab some hamburger patties to char during your backyard barbecue. Or, perhaps the next time you hero-worship that guy who slit women and children's throats during his "Fog of War" overseas while fighting our "enemies", who's now trying to cope with horrific flashbacks all day every day, while he sits in a lawn chair drinking a beer right next to you. He's a killer. I want you to openly wear the moniker of "Murderer" this weekend, as you go about your day-to-day life. 

Think about how you look to someone outside your particular set of cultural references. From this starting place, we will move forward to the more difficult questions facing society. That's all for today, "Mes étudiants". Live well, and with great intent.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ten_Commandments

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/murder

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_%28United_States_law%29

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/kill

"Oompa Loompa" Orange

I've mentioned before the inherent weirdness of the average urban New York lifestyle, and it's as true today as it ever was. More importantly, we have a human representative from EVERY COUNTRY on the planet within our environs, which (combined with a rigorous training in the arts, humanities, and sciences) pretty much makes you an expert on all things human-related, skin included. What do I mean? Glad you asked! I have a link for that: http://twentytwowords.com/snapshots-of-children-from-every-country-in-the-world-living-in-new-york-city/.

Additional information for the reading-impaired also handily supplied with this pictorial example below that shows natural skin tones as they exist currently on our planet Earth:

http://www.quora.com/How-is-skin-color-determined-in-babies

It's also called strange things like "Genetics" and "Science", so if you want to parent with another human through that ancient ritual of bonding that's "mating", you can have a general idea about basic traits that your children might have. Of course, not all parents care about skin tones, just like some people don't need to know the gender of their baby in utero to have a happy healthy family. So, why do I bring it up? I'm so glad you asked that question, too!

Think of today's post like a P.S.A., or "Public Service Announcement", because me and my friends (I know. We've talked.) are sick and tired of freak-show shit that isn't funny, like the kind of crap you see on scary shows about desperate mentally ill "housewives" off their meds and onto booze, in (once again) a scarily competitive "lesbian cheerleader" type of way; not that there's anything wrong with that, we just want to be perfectly clear about why you (as a human) might disturb us out in the wild.

Because who else but a totally effin' deranged weirdo would ape the skin color of a make-believe, surreal, scary cartoon-type of character from a freaky 70s movie like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?! Weirdos do: that's who does sh#t like that. Weirdos want to look insane, not normal decent people who bear children because they love kids and their partner, or we want to add value to the world by raising healthy, happy, and well-adjusted children. 

This, as seen below, is definitely not our great inspiration for skin tones (again, with a handily-supplied visual for reference, as seen below):

http://www.inkntan.com/FAQ/Orange-Stigma-Oompa-Loompa.aspx

As a further, deeper layer of investigation and public scrutiny into their crazy subculture (also serving as a "how-to" guide about what to avoid out there in the big scary world), please note they often combine it with their go-to bat-shit hair color of "Unnatural Peroxide-White Blonde" that's straight out of the bottle and far from human, too. 

They've evolved their own particular and often very rigidly defined look through repeated exposure to a daily freaky toxic cocktail of Eating Disorders, weirdo competitiveness over nothing types of guys and/or girls, scripted reality t..v. show appearances, Round-Robin (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Round-robin) stints in rehab/mental health care facilities for their ( INSERT YOUR ADDICTION HERE ) _______________, and mandatory breast enhancement surgery, often also freely electing to undergo many painfully invasive and highly dangerous cosmetic procedures, in a quest to look what they think is acceptably "Shiksa" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiksa) or "Gentile" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gentile), which is a really disparaging way to fetishsize goy peoples of the world (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goy). 

You should know that we are totally on to you, so get the fuck out of our way or we'll eat you for breakfast, hexen. This is our town, too! Also a big "Hey, there!" and loud "HEY, NOW!" shout-out to my Rockland kids from way back when, and all my other 'round-the-way New York types: this one's for all of you who've also just fucking had it, today. I feel for you, so hang in there. I got your back, baby.
 

Badass Dragonfly

Me and a young dragonfly, on a beautiful Spring day.

Last week I walked out of the library on a beautifully sunny, warmly seasonal day to spot one very active dragonfly flitting about the entrance. I could tell right away that it wasn't a full grown insect by the size of it, but this little guy already had moxie. I watched it fly around it for awhile before I took out my smartphone to snap a few pics, fretting that the automatic door to the library would draw it in and seal its' young fate forever, before life really began. 

Within minutes I had a lot more to worry about, because I inevitably began attracting attention, which happens every single day of my life. Often I can channel those attentions and energies into more constructive actions, but not always. 

First, some older guy passing by wanted to pick it up and move it after I pointed it out. He worried in imitation of me, upping the conversational ante a notch by saying that the youngster would immediately get crushed by a passerby. He then went one "douchebag" move further, placing his socked Birkenstock foot right next to the bug to make it fly away, supposedly making his point about its' safety by its' immobility. It hadn't moved at all in response to him, unlike the fluttery open-wing display the young bug had flashed at me when I got closer to it earlier.

But that's not all, folks. Two pale hipster chicks with matching skinny jeans, face piercings, and large tats wanted to "help" out, too! I warned one of them away by pointing out her big dog jerking about on a small leash, with the well-known fact that dogs like to chase and eat bugs. Amateurs. One of them decided to get a piece of paper from within the building for emergency bug transport, thus opening and closing the very door I was trying to keep shut once again, which I kept repeating futilely to the small crowd. 

I think she thought she was an expert on all things related to bugs by stint of the rather odd and prominently displayed tattoo on her forearm of a lady's head inside a set of spider legs. It resembled her and her friend, who looked almost the same to me, but apparently I was way wrong about that, too! Oh...that's not what I meant by "Animal Behaviorist", out-of-touch hipster. They always kinda suck.

Finally, one of my older retiree friends from yoga saved me from the gathering crowd by simply passing by. It had gotten way out of hand over this one bug, so I just walked away from the situation. 

We chatted as we walked uphill about tai chi, yoga, seasonal storms and flooding, how water always flows downhill, and realtors that take advantage of your relative ignorance by selling you a place on the cheap that floods with each passing storm because you didn't research water tables before buying the house you now own (which is really about the inanity inherent in the human condition), and then finally, I looked at her tote bag printed with Northwestern Native motifs from her cruise to Alaska, because I know about that stuff, too. She looked a bit pale and exhausted as we parted ways at the corner.

And that's called "Mid-afternoon" to me, kids. I have a feeling me and the juvenile dragonfly I left by the library are going to be just fine without a group of well-intentioned helpers. Let's just call it "instinct" for today's lesson about appropriateness.  Enjoy the weather today. It's perfection.

The Handprint

The Handprint  (Pearl River, May 2015).

In certain lights, a mysterious handprint is clearly visible on the door that opens from the studio's kitchen to the living area. From my futon, I can see that it's the size of a man's hand. It's strangely comforting, like a "good" ghost turning on the lights for you before you enter a room (if you believe in that sort of thing), or a benevolent, helpful robot (like Rosie from "The Jetson's") that has fresh coffee and homemade donuts ready for you every morning. 

http://net.indra.com/~dheyser/rockart.html

I've had this feeling before, and it is a deeply spiritual experience, not unlike looking at a picture of an ancient cave dweller's hand through the sands of time. There's a link between he and I that transcends time and space. We connect through this old house as humans who were (and are) here. 

We will always have this space to enter into, as people who have shared and bonded through a particular set of circumstances that ties us to this place forever more. Do you know what I mean? It's way metaphysical. Enjoy the cooler weather today, New York.