Thursday, June 29, 2017

"Blasting out of the canal"

Blasting out of the canal
Set free from the prison
Baby, baby this ain't banal
When I engage there is fission

I wanna fight through this mist
of life that wants to weigh me
down onto the shore with a pounding fist
I get the sense it wants me to flee

Blah blah blah I speak through life
Thoughts pervade my mind like lice
Tickling my brain making me insane
Turn off to the side of the lane, ease the pain

Purple coat, looks like royalty
I appreciate when my wife spoils me
She knows not all my pain inside
But she senses some of the hurt that resides

Pick up a guitar in my fifties
Want to learn the rhythm of life
Through a sieve do I sift these
Pieces of ash, ancestors of strife

Like a sun I want to be
Wind blows right through me
Like light through a window
Energy, synergy, soul flow

And now I am at the time of dying
No more from life can I demand
Stop your worldly minds from prying
No way the decaying can understand

Into immortality do I ascend
But I don't know how to ammend
These atrocities that I did commit
So again, in another world, I will sit...

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Saturday, June 24, 2017

Martian Spice

I wrote this far-out comment on Reddit on a whim and was pleased with the result. Pretty cool premise for a sci-fi book or film, I think:

I've lived abroad for most of my adult life and this is something that I often think about. Sometimes it feels like the majority of my childhood memories are riding in cars listening to classic rock. In the '90s that meant Skynyrd, Allmans, Floyd, Stones, Queen, etc... So what do you call that kind of music now? And where are the Buddy Holly, Chubby Checker, Chuck Berry oldies? Are they still played or are they slowly being forgotten? It makes me think how interesting living in the distant future will be from a digital archive perspective. So much to discover. I guess that's what people were thinking when books first came out, but dialects and languages are huge barriers of entry compared to rhythm and melody. I can imagine some future dude finding dope rhymes in the dead language called English and sharing them with his friends. Then there's this small clique of friends on Mars (so they're Martians, I guess) and they're jamming out to Run DMC and rebirthing the English language. They use late 80s urban slang as code so they can talk about Martian Spice, the rad new psychedelic drug that's flooding the Martian streets. Then they discover this song and it really blows their minds. And all the while they're about thirty years into the biggest breakthrough of the history of the solar system's civilization: the same Martian Spice that the kids dig takes people to a place that proves the existence of an afterlife, immersing them in a world full of their ancestors, although they don't know the people are their ancestors while they're there, they only realize it once they've returned from their trip. The trip itself lasts a millisecond in Martian time, but feels like anywhere from a day to 125 years of Earth time. And their parents don't want them to take it, not due to the religious implications, and definitely not because they think drugs are bad, mmkay, but rather because it hurts them tremendously to see their precious Martian children return from these trips full of guilt and shame for how they've treated their ancestors and the beautiful planet that they destroyed once upon a time. Therefore, the Martian Spice becomes addictive, not physically, but mentally, for the takers of the Spice are compelled to return to the place of their ancestors to try to live a life of compassion and generosity, but they fail nearly every time, compounding their depression and malaise.

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Tuesday, June 13, 2017

The Narrow Road to the Deep North

I thought that I would have left Japan by now, but I am still here. And the longer I stay here, the deeper I am entranced by its pristine landscape. The rolling low mountains of Western Japan, emerald in June, entice and call me to visit them, to traipse eagerly and thankfully along their paths.


I am also now fascinated by gardening. This once-upon-a-time jock is now entranced by hoes of a different sort, by permaculture, and by sustenance. The connection to the earth is real. Try it if you haven't already. I'm going to leave this video here in hopes of inspiring others.

One reason that I think I've allowed myself to go down this green path is because of the news fast that I have been on for the past three months. Not being connected to politics has allowed me to gravitate to other things, and without the political bias attached. Not that I am even friends with many republicans, but the stigma of being politically connected irked me when I was news addicted. Now, it doesn't. Connect by disconnecting.

Basho said it best in his famous work The Narrow Road to the Deep North. These last lines of the book will forever sit with me:

As cemented clam shells fall apart in autumn
So too must I take to the road again.
Farewell my friends.




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Friday, February 17, 2017

Two Weeks of Convalescence

With the marathon two weeks gone, my body is still reeling from the effects. Some of those effects are because of the grueling nature of the race itself, but I sense that the majority of them are due to the months of training that preceded.

The sharp pain in the nerve that sits under my third toe has yet to cease. The meat that splays across the outside of the same foot's sole has become sore in just the past few days, as if it has come out of hiding.

I have gained a bit of weight, but that has been my own doing. Beer and snacks after work have been the ultimate guilty pleasures, ballasts counteracting the effects of the training, medicine to get me beyond the pain of defeat.

My defeat is more than not achieving my goal time. My defeat is ongoing. It's coming to terms with my age, my ability, my mortality. Once I can get my head around these ephemeral concepts, I will be able to turn defeat upon its head, to claim victory.

If it takes until my hair is white and legs have lost all their spring, I am determined to claim this victory.

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