"Floaties" in the eyes super-sized experience inside the cosmis rays of this epic sunshine... oh yea...Right now



always an 808 State of Mind

Memories; 3-D ‘floaties’ in the eyes gone BIG

5:21 pm
Saturday, August 17, 2019
A communique from Mum’s backyard porch

Sunny summer day; sunshine so dazzling, it is only necessary to be present. Listen. I’m a child. Listening to the breeze. Feeling the warm air dust my shoulders on this early evening. Quietness surrounds. The trees (Aspens) have a low, dull roar of shimmying. Sunlight plays in between the trees. Reminds me of hide-and-go-seek. Childhood memories; gold-shimmering low setting sun, sweet winds, innocence, whimsy.

Upgrade 2.0. This consists of much of the same elements, but a Keweenaw Brewing Company Borealis brōo can on the wrought iron table. Definitely looks strong enough to hold up this kick-ass can of beer- indeed! The ultimate last-minute over-the-top addition? Why yes, you guessed it: Da kine & da kine.

I was called into a higher awareness this afternoon when I got called into the kitchen to ‘help’, as mum so sweetly called out to me on the back patio while I was zoning out, reading my Ancient Mines of Kitchi-Gummi book on local Lake Superior lore. Like so much of the UP here (Upper Peninsula of Michigan), there is a lot of lore. Most have to do with shipwrecks, and this could be somewhat connected.  I use the word “could” quite liberally here as this entire book is possibly “could” make a connection to what the author ponders, rather adamantly in a passive-aggressive manner!

So yea, it’s an interesting book if you wanna check out an interesting read on  specialized local lore with a lot of Mesopotamian and Mycenean history- that is generally accurate actually- including the bit on Bahrain’s “Dilmun” civilization.

I digress… There seems a point I was hotly making. *lost*  Oh well. Onward I press.

The main point, lest I forget again, is that this was just an awesome awakening kinda day, here in America. I love falling in love with America all over again- during my annual returns.

On the Road Again I am. I love live on the road.  There are so many roads I seek to travel down. I love the energy, the challenges it provides, the introspection, the slowing down of time.

Listening to the coyotes’ hysterical laughter-like sounds during the Bewitching Hour. Being awake for the Bewitching Hour here is amazing to tune into. Honestly, there is so much to soak in during the Bewitching Hour- wherever in the world you’re vibbing.

Speaking of good vibbing, my mum is next to me on the porch reading Time Magazine, showing signs of slightly napping intermittently.
The sun just ducked behind the house and the shadows are stretched long- like a northern European Mannerist painting, but instead of an elongated neck of a human, I am staring at the elongation of trees.

We spent the afternoon making one of my brothers’ favorite dessert, apparently, but with blueberries substituted for lemons filling… It was pretty dodgy there for a fair bit, but in the end, I think it will taste fantastic because it was made with so much love and mad laughter.  At one point mum was laughing so hard that she was crying. Magic. It’s been that kinda day.  My Turkish meatball dinner prep won’t finish by itself, so I should tend to it now, but dammit if the weather just isn’t so dreamy.

Pine Mountain, another memory I celebrate every year by building onto those memories with sweat. Five hundred sweaty steps to be exact, climbing to the top of the ski mountain where, in summer while visiting we (most all of us at different times) converge and lower our blood pressure by climbing the stairs- at least one round, but as of late I’ve got it in my to complete 4 rounds. I love the challenge, the shaking legs, the quickening heartbeat, the sweat, that feeling of sunscreen dripping down from your trucker hat, past the outer corner of your eyeball, paralleling your nose to finally rest atop your upper lip.

The long shadow followed mum back into the house. One last patch provides a view of wild Turkeys foraging for uneaten corn, the infamous black squirrel that only speaks to brother Tim, feisty chipmunks, and some intrepid deer. It’s pretty relaxing, yes.

My apologies in advance for any sentence fragments, dangling story-endings, etc…


The ebb and flow of the tide of my existence

Here it is; 2019. Already.

Reflecting on this wishy-washy day here in Mesopotamia. Weather as fickle as my ponderings concerning where to next on Planet Earth. Philosophical ruminations of housing placement absorb my moments of blank-slate time. Google Maps is hardly a replacement for a globe. Oh what I would give to have a globe here. A nice, sturdy physical map-style globe a plus.

Spinning, trailing, anticipating, story-telling, culture-weaving- globes hold my fascinating. I remember growing up and going into the den. My father had an abacus. It lived in the cabinet, along with old photo albums. The encyclopedia set rested on an upper shelf. Always patiently awaiting someone's arrival. Some intrepid inquisitor wanting answers from the Oracle of stored knowledge- long before Google.

The globe was also in this spiritual realm- my spiritual realm during my wonder years. This den of knowledge on display. Questions answered right there.

We were a large family, yet I spent a lot of time at home entertaining myself. Being the youngest, and with a generous gap between the oldest sibling, who was already out of the house as my Wonder Years were in full formation, I had a perhaps typical childhood. The brothers, they were busy with intermediate and high schools respectively. With my father lecturing full-time and my mother a (progressive 70s) 'back-to-work' part-time librarian/social-worker, everybody was busy. I was curious.

The den. Typical 70s middle-class, I assume. All my friends had a 'tv room'. It was dark there, if I recall correctly. I loved opening the cabinet drawers. There was that cardboard box of typing paper. You know, the thin, crepe-like paper and then those sheets of blue carbon-copy paper. Seeing my ink-blue fingerprints from touching the carbon paper was another compulsion. This too met my expectations I suppose.  I indulged in this from time to time, yes. Throw in my typing fascination (I loved typing), and I was pretty successful at having a good time alone.

There was something about playing with the abacus. The clicking sound made by moving the beads. Very satisfying indeed. I didn't know what I was doing and it didn't matter. All I knew was what my father told me, tried to show me. Some method of numbers, I made up my own rules I suppose.

Moving along to the globe. Tilted. Why was it tilted? Damn that north pole looked good. White. The south more mysterious. Tasmania? Tasmania. Look it up in the encyclopedia! Make the connection from the Looney Tunes cartoons' character The Tasmanian Devil to this far-off solitary island I discovered and then read-up on. Life was pretty fucking fabulous.

Cuba. Another outlandishly mystifying island. All I knew about Cuba was that my father got my mother a mink (?) stole while he was there. I suppose I heard the word uttered a few times when we were all in the den together watching the news. I was there, yet not sure exactly what I was doing. Politics of the times wasn't even a consideration in my world.

Cuba led to Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Australia, Tahiti. Ahhh islands. My connection was forming at this time and I didn't even know it.

My father was all over the world during WWII. I remember him talking of the Philippines. Seeing his photos of Honolulu. That one with the palm trees swaying on the base, and that jeep. How cool was that jeep?

Jade Buddha. Still today my father's jade Buddha fascinates me. Every visit to my mum leads me to her top dresser, where the Buddha dwells to this day. Rub his belly. Dream.

Where does one learn to daydream? Lying in the grass squinting into the sun on one of those glorious days, I think. We had this tree in our front yard that I always used to play on. I used to do my gymnastic tricks in that tree. Hanging upside down was one of my major accomplishments. Something complete where I could bask in my own pride. I especially remember the bark on that tree.

Further satisfaction, peeling at the bark. I never wanted to scratch my initials in that tree, though.

From the balcony I gaze up into the hills, leading to the mountains, to Iran, to destinations unknown. I understand this fascination with destination unknown. Where to next? When to next?

I woke myself up this morning from a dream that I was missing my plane. I was at the airport and couldn't figure out where my flight was. What does this mean?