201220 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Cheerfulness is our friend - that and curiosity · yet we are besieged by cautionary tales about strangers and what kills cats. Right now it is raining still - a cold rain for the land i live in and i’am curious about my neighbors, my landlords, friends and enemies alike for a flood is not inconceivable here at this turn in the existential road. Yet i am comfortable, sipping a cocktail and cooking entirely outside the realm of any sophisticated palette i’m aware of. For example: my cocktail is: one part, strong red wine; two parts marijuana tea and turmeric infused with black pepper and Hibiscus; a splash of rice wine, and a dash of whiskey. My renegade skillet is simmering: olive oil, turmeric powder, diced ginger, salt/pepper, onion, white potato, garlic, thai chili, tomato and a 1/2, half can kidney beans and fresh purple cabbage crown - i contend it will be more sumptuous than your meal tonight, and yet i eat alone · go figure.

Shortly i will be without a kitchen and will again conjure out of thin air someplace near my new door to mix nutrients in minimal time with supervision enough to maintain the temperature and moisture necessary to meld food value without being retentive about it or singe the tender vegetable bolus rendering it less helpful to the “carbon chain.” I laugh sort of because my bare feet are sitting in an empty beer box to keep the abnormal cold of the marble floor from riding up my spine. This while racing the cooling skillet of my maybe tasty, maybe metallic tasting melange of stir fry against the remaining 3 paragraphs i still hew to for legitimacy at a time in our collective history where the known plastic polluters: Coca-Cola, Pepsi and Nestlé continue to demand ever increasing petrol poison to manufacture the only thing they market - plastic bottles · (it was metallic tasting and a sprinkle of the tiny dried fish one can find in every part of the world rescued my meal and my culinary confidence) ain't life grand.

"They" commit their ecological genocide in broad daylight with the full support of every regime on the planet: Democratic, Muslim, Fascist, Communist, Christian and Socialist; et al. Yet people continue to buy the organic, filtered, non-sweetened, re-bottled, hipster doofus, capitalist- wannabe-intern-entrepreneur version of this farm system for dumping micro-plastic into our already devastated anatomy. And people buy the shit, ‘cause they see it on their screens, on the side of cabs, in the newspapers that still exist, as well as hear it from their barbers and hair-dressers; “Coke the drink that refreshes. Fuck yes, you’re gonna drink that shit - it’s 45 degrees Celsius in the shade and you just read on your nephew’s telephone, it’ll be 10 degrees hotter tomorrow.

The same room where i sit now with my feet in a cardboard box to keep the dank cold from rising up my spinal column was intolerable 6 months ago without the fan on. It took an 2 hours to cool off from a morning ride such that the sweat would stop pouring from my pores, this after a gentle ride - a ride in which you could not pass laborers working, and if you possessed an ounce of compassion could not pass without praying for them and their families. The same families who may have to paddle across estuaries to bring what leafy greens were left in the continued aftermath of the last typhoon. This world could be a garden of remarkable ease and abundance and many are aware of that but have hidden the repercussions of burnt fossil fuel and its danger to the atmosphere.

Why¿ why would anyone who has half a brain and some portion of heart allow the world to be savaged for a nominal increase in profits? My meal is growing cold and i grow sadder for lack of years left to rectify and battle such nonsense, but remain smart enough that without kindness to my own existence and to those around me, nothing is going to change. So daily i execute this ritual of evaluating my logic against a puerile inclination to whine and shirk my own reckoning. I like to smoke and drink, fuck and cuss - i'm not easy to get next to and once gone you live forever in my memory - and Presto Chango · it is "The Age of Aquarius," lucky us .

jts 20/12/2020

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191220 - Extinction Chronicles ·

I had vivid dreams last night involving violence, jealousy and growth. They were old wounds that contained symbols of Oedipus, autonomy and personal responsibility for the role of angry feelings and their relationship to fraternity and respect. When i woke i was not disconcerted and welcomed the communion with self. It was not difficult to detach actual life characters from their dream avatars and to understand them as aspects of my internal terrain. My 1st marriage ended within a month and involved directly and indirectly breaking the 5th metacarpal in opposite hands within 6 months of each other, as well as 60 stitches in my right forearm, missing the ulnar nerve by millimeters; i was 23 year’s old. In the dream i hit a wall and was shouting angrily; this dream event is much different from when i broke my 1st hand that year - i was not yelling and likely should have been; what else was missing from the dream was any sense of the guilt and shame i have carried these many years, as though somehow forgiven for strong feelings i had then as now, but carry much differently today.

The 2nd part of the dream involved members of my younger cohort who have in real life exchanges challenged my sense of reciprocal warm regard - a quality of my character i cherish, and find more and more not to be something one can expect, regardless of decent intention or worthwhile behavior. I did not easily fall back to sleep early, not from fitful resentment and frustration - more a sense of surprise, like unexpectedly meeting an old friend with whom you share a complicated history. I belabor this event because it is the most useful grist for this writing mill i know of. There is little in front of me but death and i would like to be more conversant with an interior that has confused me almost as much as it apparently shocks those i encounter. More to the point i feel liberated from an unconscious dynamic that seems to have reined over repeated patterns of outcomes i tend to judge too harshly, or explore too timidly - like there’s anybody else who gives a fuck why i do what i do¿?

As much as any of all that, i wish possession again of the joy and curiosity i remember as integral to my being before socialization began ascribing valence to things about myself i hadn’t yet understood, much less learned to appreciate. Some of it has to do with the abandon that comes from being a little crazy - like aren’t we all, or wished we could be · As a man-child, i believed things wholly and completely by faith from very early on. The charming quirk delighted my elder siblings when hunting Snipe, for i would sit for hours convinced that their periodic squeals of encouragement meant that “We,” were getting closer to our objective. Even after, i got wise to the game of Snipe hunting i somehow held faith there was a “We,” which ultimately proved to be a mythical domain solely within my tender devoted heart - a domain i mean to protect to my dying day.

Even if i remain the solitary citizen of that romantic principality of “We” - a habitat it would seem is no longer romantic, but integral to the survival of our species. What’s changed is the nature of the Snipe hunt, now transformed into what Noam Chomsky describes as a “limited spectrum of acceptable opinion” within which the ruling class encourages lively debate. I am physically a dual-eyed cyclops and "acceptable" anything is to me an anathema, mostly because orienting visually to do anything in my life has required a very “open” interpretation of acceptable with a concomitant tolerance for unacceptable - however counter-intuitive that might sound · it is even more so for me when i learn from my closest confidants that i tend to be “rigid.”

It is for this and many other reasons, i pursue this open-hearted writing ritual, however unorthodox, for self-examination - there is seemingly no other venue for a balanced estimation of aberrant behavior that comes from caring little about positions others take concerning my: appearance, opinions, strategies, worth or ______fill in the blank. The paradox is that i’m coming to understand the accuracy of Eleanor Roosevelt’s observation about worrying what others think about you - “they don’t think about you as much as you think they do.” I think about others as much as i can without intruding in their lives with my projections and assumptions, and have to stifle my yearning to feel cared for, or more accurately cultivate that skill of self-awareness which results in contentment about one’s fate - whatever that may mean within the wide open array of choices each of us makes from the moment we draw our first breath to the moment we take our last. 

jts 19/12/2020

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181220 - Extinction Chronicles ·

I’ve learned one thing - it is dicey trying to keep a calendar count using a literary chronicle, shit tends to get fungible; especially when you employ a “trance-state” to stay out of reach of the master, Ego. I’m pretty sure it’s Friday 18 December 2020, not because i read it on googol, but because my rent is due on the 19th and no one has come banging on my door. Still and all, there are worse places to be on the planet than a ‘hard bitten’, loving land of rice farmers and merchants trying to live up to a 600 year old tradition of their city - Hoi An Pho (friendly meeting place) · shortened for a time to Faifo, by meddlesome foreigners such as myself, a act similar in many ways to how the German Artist Walter Spies created the lucrative Kecuck Dance to popularize the ‘newly discovered’ destination of Bali by a well meaning however myopic double whammy of the intrepid hipster doofuses of their day, Charlie Chaplin and Margaret Mead, et al.

Laugh if you must, but a delicate Oaxaqueno culture was as destroyed by a similarly well-intentioned bank executive R. Gordon Wasson, amateur mycologist whose betrayal of “silence” - that Donna Sabina requested of him for sharing her medicinal knowledge which resulted in the “Rolling Stones” 60s enlightenment hungry entourage converging on her village, the villagers then burnt her house down and killed her son. We are a fragile lot and require care and consideration to survive, not the survival of the species paradigm or "herd immunity" of those free of the fray propose will yield a more rugged and viable species. It is this ignorant thinking that ensconced itself in the mind of a man out of his depth, #45 buying into tired eugenics bullshit that even the brain of Nikoli Tesla subscribed to proving only that brains are not all “that.”

If, we as a species cannot see the universe in a blade of grass, much less the value to all that a tear in the eye of a child represents - why fucking upload dreck loaded by some silicon apparatus to perpetuate more misery in a universe full of collision, calamity and grief. We humans have been afforded a unique blue green orb that defies description such that we cannot, or will not even express the delicate tenderness of our feelings about that gift much less try and teach the young to see it deeper - with the exception of the indigenous people being trampled under the hoof of civilization’s hubris and conceit that it possesses superior awareness defined by an arbitrary value attached to some symbolic place holder, now morphing into digital tic marks and merit based spirituality based on what is imagined rather than the pristine clarity of a mountain stream at the end of a long hike.

Now, we bank on wisdom programed into an LED matrix by pre-pubescent billionaires clutching the next rung on the only elevation they’ve been allowed to conceive of by the corporate overlords manipulating language such that as George Orwell so well anticipated, ruling class prevarication in support of cowardice, and stated simply in a too-soon-to-be-non-fiction of an emerging world, “War is peace, Freedom is slavery, Ignorance is Strength.” I’m no literary giant, not because i was denied access to the Phd program at the two schools which i applied - UCLA & USC · but because i do not relentlessly believe in the need of education to write my ideas down using faith and logic. I am lucky to be possessed of a paradoxically thick skin comprised of the tenderness of butterfly wings and the hide of the not-yet-dead-last Rhinoceros. Not sure i understand exactly why i survived, but suspect it is because most of what is left of my mortal coil is scar tissue from an infant child that just can't seem to stop crying.

So now i drink, you might even say “cryin’ in my beer” or the ever popular fascist dog whistle of the Neo-Liberal ad copy managers, just another “inveterate Snow Flake.” I am little better as a failed itinerant stone-cutter, than my grandfather the "Blue Dog Democrat" itinerant miner who was honored for his explosive expertise (true story) with setting off the inaugural blast of what remains a “weapons dump” in Hawthorne, Nevada, the day my mother was born 19 July 1928. Shit lasts long, and there is no reason to believe the commitment you make to love and freedom cannot be as long-lived as the lives of those miserable speculators who leaped out of NYC ’skyscrapers’ just because the old money of 1929 kept the rigged aspect of market loss to themselves and let the chumps vacate their stake, just as that same class of blowhards believed it worked so well the 2nd, 3rd, 4th time hijacking "the Economy"; let me ask "why not just steal the whole shebang if the herd is gonna be that fucking ‘tupid" ¿? that’s a question, or an observation depending on your take.

jts 18/12/2020

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151220/161220/171220 - Extinction Chronicles ·

Are we having fun yet ¿? my house grows slime i do not understand, but affects my toothpaste of coconut oil and turmeric in ways i can’t say are healthy or unhealthy. The weather impedes my daily cardiovascular bicycle rides that force me to consider my life when comes a time i teeter too much to peddle safely - especially in normally placid traffic patterns of the locals where now interlopers of foreign lands - the testosterone threatened, capital rich vagabonds of our species demonstrate their virility and worth with reckless abandon and bold access to the quiet alleys and loving byways of a very ancient coastal village where i live and which has provided me sanctuary from a major plague · yeah, i’m not confused, just old. What i suffer most, aside from my wrinkled butt cheeks is being thwarted in my lifelong ambition to love, and be loved in return, not that i’m not, just that i don’t see it now how i remembered it to be.

More to the point, is not having developed a vocabulary to describe the miracle of affection and love that i have found in my wanderings; the painfully delicate connections between one spirit and another that has provided me warmth through so many frigid and so many fetid nights that i’ve lost count. Now i wander looking for those i’ve lost track of that which showed me the spirit of warmth and remarkable gift of connection in a world full of strangers divided by nothing more than ego and wealth - mine, yours, ours, theirs · all of it. I can remember hitchhiking as a man-child and being engaged in profound conversations within minutes of having entered a stranger’s car; i can also remember being woken up and dropped off to discover the driver, my new friend, had stolen twenty bucks out of my naive sleeping pocket.

And still i write of: betrayal, loving embrace, ineffable but indelible memories of all those tiny components that add up to mystery within one life, but when multiplied by the billions of our planet constitute a species. My shame is not having created a rugged strategy for survival that does not include greed, jealousy or failure, but includes elation for the simple act of breathing on a planet being choked for profit and strangled by vanity - repulsions within my own heart, which has yet found no way to purge gently at my own expense without cost to all i encounter possessing the same. Each time i think i have curtailed some aspect of my baser nature using a pointed critique of another human, i find peering at me the Spiro T. Agnew’s and their benign conceit of innocence behind fake felicitations that fascist functionaries couch their false faith front with fictional foreswearing.

I am too tired to formulate more that is not fiction, that is for sure. .. Well into 171220, and still tired, though i did get a ride in. I have to question any manic aspect of this writing process for me. If i am not taking a pace which yields the soul soil for growth there is no point. Our corporate overlords and the Art Industrialists propagate the conceit that if you can produce consistently high quality content you’re “in.” I say to them if you cannot demonstrate a viable reason i should give a flying fuck about your opinion - you’re “out.” Yes, you might say i’m swimming upstream, pissing in the wind, blowing smoke up a ghost’s ass; we gotta start somewhere. Telephone’s are no longer ubiquitous, they are enforced. Why is that¿ For your convenience, or like the bell of some modern goat - a convenience for those who herd for a living to keep track of you?

People don’t even question the premise any longer. Some years back i remember Oliver Stone exhorting mankind to ditch their phones - easy enough for someone surrounded by PA’s, but more taxing if you are a solitary wanderer at the mercy of corporate criteria for conducting business of any kind. It’s the hoax of facilitating communication i take exception to - those i encounter are very rarely capable or willing to discourse on much more than what is current within their telephonic tribe. FB has more than demonstrated its conceit about picking who, and what you favor with it’s incestuous interest in “pushed content” and addiction to “click bait” to goose its bottom line and fill its data coffers using ideas and concepts you develop, all the while denuding your autonomy and undermining your individuation, e.g., why did FB add an additional layer of keystrokes for you to comment on something you share?

“The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and overturned the order of the soul.” - Leonard Cohen · 

jts 15/12/2020,16/12/2020,17/12/2020

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141220 - Extinction Chronicles ·

It is raining, like it hasn’t stopped for 4 months - people are tired and hoping for the business of open borders · my presence only seems to exacerbate the obnoxious fact of closed borders; ain’t life grand. The long slow cooked chicken noodle soup a la ‘Nowhere in Particular is sumptuous and i have no one to eat with - the long suffering, but circumstantially greedy landlords want me to stay, even reducing the rent, but have yet to connect the fact that until they repair the roof, anyone who lives here will suffer the same mold that has reduced the walls of my “foreigner villa” to abstract murals of shades of green and white only somewhat more natural than the cosseted efforts of local “art aficionados” under the careful tutelage of imported “art industrialists” which pales in cultural impact to the  deluge and its economic threat to ancient agriculturally-based food sovereignty. The cognoscenti ignore my cautions that the corporate food paradigm is not their friend and so open restaurant after 

“hip” restaurant to satisfy the finicky palettes of the hopefully soon to arrive tourist hordes coming to the rescue that Mssr _rump promised in his veiled threats against the “boogey man” to the North; the Ngoui Viet have been repelling the boogey men for well over 2,000 years and need no help from a non-potty trained, rumpled suit con from Scarsdale - apparently no one told the Politburo.

I’ve never been under cloud cover this long, 4 months and counting, and have begun to understand the deleterious effects of shade. Yet there is a dread about the obscene heat which follows the short window of a temperate winter in this remarkable country of contrasts. When i say deleterious effects from a lack of sun, i’m referring to the malaise that insinuates itself into one’s soul. And when i say contrasts, there were days during the hottest part of the summer i had to contract a cab to get from where i’d walked to after i’d left my bicycle for servicing; the heat from the sun was beyond my physical endurance to retrace my steps. Now a scant 7 months later i’m whinging about shade - go figure · It is easy to imagine why the population here is quite so susceptible to the siren song of capitalism and how with just the right location and proper “concept” anyone will be able to command bezosesque villas anywhere in the world - Ad copy from “Trump University.” Disclaimer: Trump=Lie

And herein lies the rub, no one is coming to rescue us (humanity) - if the steps you take are not born of concrete self awareness from “bitter searching of heart,” you will be thrall to each and every prompt dictated by your +/- 5v shackle on which you may even be reading this cautionary tale. We as a species cannot ascribe our misery to such an empty spirit as the former leader of the free world #45; just look at how his friends are fleeing the sinking ship while attempting to abscond with the tattered remnants of perceived power of his 4th Reich, each clutching a fist full of hate they’d conceived of as born within the genius generous heart of Mr. “empty suit” himself shimmering with virulence, rather than virility. The premise that someone is going to protect you by using their fear as your shield is just fucking stupid.

I know i’ve tried, not consciously but by imagining that if i aligned myself with scary people it would rub off on me and i could frighten into submission those who bully me - a long road to nowhere. It is myself that i fear - the painful process of peering into that shadow part of me that does not believe i am worth affection, respect and regard. And there is no easy path out of such misconception except to hold the gaze of one’s self - to mercilessly examine each act of love against each act of aggression and try to honestly determine which is which. What has saved me is the conviction that regardless of any heinous deeds i may have committed in my life, it was done by the same person sitting here now exploring my nakedness as honestly and lovingly as i have learned i can be - that and strengthening those aspects of my self i love most in others · compassion, generosity, kindness .  ..  ···

There is no expert solution that is bandied about in popular DIY enlightenment programs; there is no messiah worthy of her allure that would declare, “I know what you need.” The answers are only contained within each of our salty hearts cured in the crucible of strife and failure. That is not to say we cannot be aided by others, because the delusion of solitude melts continually into the shoreline of awareness - anytime you look at the misery of a mother’s face witness the pain of her child, no matter how full up you are with delusion, there has been such an expression somewhere in your own life - that is your salvation. If you can dwell for even a moment on the face of someone you recognize is suffering, you are on your way to your own salvation.  

jts 14/12/2020

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111220/121220/131220 - Extinction Chronicles ·

A seminal film in my early years was “The Lost Weekend” with Ray Milland, not because it foretold my life story, but for having informed me at a young age about the dangers of heedless drunkenness - like you don’t get that the morning of your first hangover. My first and most memorable hangover of many some over my lifetime occurred after an Arcadian Spring Night in the city of Pasadena - i was 15 or so and being warehoused in the basement of one of my 1st cousins and her then, or soon to be husband, a rakish Villonesque hero whom i owe much; this event occurred while my parents matriculated their dissolution in the quiet of ______fill in the blank. Physically i was coming into my own and had the privilege of schlepping soft water tanks up the steep driveways found in the havens of the, then modestly rich of ‘old money Pasadena’. You’d have to have been there, but imagine, i had my first domicile replete with madras bedspreads on the ceiling of the basement in an old craftsman duplex and a too fine porch of those better days; it was a spring afternoon after 6 hours of toting torpedo size canisters of soft water rock salt and being faced with a bohemian sized gallon of “Red Mountain” wine that had no parental supervision associated with it.

What could go wrong besides plenty - (the Rhesus Monkey as i recall, was out of its cage that night) · Joe was mythical and had lived in Chicago as a teenager, however well-heeled a teenager of what was then my age. By the time he became fiancee to my cousin, he’d beaten Heroin and knew the rock group “Strawberry Alarm Clock” well enough for them to play at their wedding in Altadena · heady days. But that day i’d carried much weight but knew in my quiet heart i was really facing a Sea Change which by the end of the summer would include the absence of my father, my oldest brother and my dog. I learned later it had been decided that the two oldest siblings knew of these changes which i would gather only as surprise upon my return - but back to that Arcadian Spring Night · Joe liked to laugh at me as i hoisted his job on my back trying to be a grownup about things i only sensed but felt like the ground swells one learns from growing up in “earthquake country” along the San Andreas fault lines of California. 

Joe’s pride and joy was his Austin Healy, not me - however much i vyed · my thinking was that if i earned his respect, my eldest brother - the wounded one, would open to my adoration and deliver me from his sullen rancor; wasn’t gonna happen, not then not now. My responsibility as i now know is to love him to the end regardless of any benefit to me. None of this entered into the equation that night as i relentlessly matched Joe glass for glass - a man 8 years my senior, and 100 lbs my better but whom i loved as though i knew what love was. Somehow it was determined that i might get “laid” if we got to Sunset Blvd in Hollywood - a short spin down the Arroyo Seco Freeway which along with being the 1st freeway in the country was presided over, however indirectly by my Maiden Aunt, Anno - the executive secretary to the Chief Engineer of that project, and so goes my “15 minutes of fame” for those keeping count.

I was so certain that the drive we were embarking on regardless of the Red Mountain haze which made more confident than sober, and then more so, even through the blur of 50 more years of hard living remembering that night, i was out of my depth; i can still feel the physical swell of riding in that dark spruce green sports car and having good looking women ogle back - that was all she wrote · My next recollection was of a gray morning out of doors; i was bitterly cold; my face hurt, but i wasn’t sure where or why and my handsome overlarge sweater stank of vomit which also reeked within every nook and cranny of Joe’s Austin Healy. My morning did not end there, for i learned from my very angry hero-Joe there was no place for me to sleep until every speck of vomit had been cleaned from the cockpit of that conveyance which had hours earlier been a chariot of love, but became little more than a Herculean stable to be swamped, then swamped again.

No, i did not get laid - on the return trip, fortunately for me and my next day’s schlepping chores, the instant i began my technicolor yawn on the wiggling Arroyo Seco, Joe cold-cocked me with a right backhand to the jaw which i did not wake up from until the next morning. I know . .. some guys have all the luck. While you may be repulsed to the core to read of my dissipated youth, it is galvanizing to peer back into my own abyss in the midst of today's sorrow gnashing of the teeth, to know just how tender and fragile i am - very. One would think with a lesson like that, it would be over · not even close. Though today, i can say i am master of my ship and if i so choose to get sick as a dog and remember very little about how it happened, i am very nearly a fucking authority. Who search for still, is that young open-hearted youth freely giving his love and admiration to worthy leaders, however fewer and farther in-between they have become. Oddly, it looks more and more that if i am in need of leadership, it is i, myself who is left to show me the way - go ahead say again how GOD is not a broad with a wicked sense of humor · i might even believe you.

jts 11/12/2020;12/12/2020;13/12/2020  

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101220 - Extinction Chronicles ·

I think i’m beginning to remember the fun of being alive - nor can i say exactly why, for there is so much, and so many arguing today to the contrary · I grew up in a contentious family that mostly argued about love: lack of, wrong kind, too much, wrong person, place or thing - you get the idea. It was all very confusing to this wall-eyed cyclops given two eyes by the goddess Gaia for flavor in her existential stew in which we all seem to be steaming. And i am thankful, because the closer i draw to my next transition - the more humor i find in the act of breathing in pain and breathing out simplicity, patience and compassion. 

5 paragraphs a day anymore is a lot for me, but i am mindful of how much emptiness our world feels from not having daily occupation in service of the ruling class - so i try to keep my daily appointment with the “tabula rasa” which has beckoned our species from the time of the first bare cave wall in anticipation of an important hunt for game that might mean the difference between protein and starvation for our ancient brethren, as evidenced in Lascaux and elsewhere there were personalities goading the hungry hunters to superior skill using whatever imagery or stories that could be conjured in smoke filled caverns to yield food for the collective tribe.

These collections of impressions and exhortations last to this day demonstrating mostly how powerful love for others can be. Those within the tribe who murdered the weak and aged to keep more for themselves are found nowhere in history of our species except for a slightly higher pile of bones a little closer to the fire that selfish brutes to this day claim. And i am willing to wager that when the silicon charge has expired and the conceit of AI has evaporated like the Edsel on the ash heap of history - there will be some loving evidence of the creative hand loving all of us closer to each other rather than dividing what will be left of our rapidly dwindling DNA potential.  

My humble hope is to have some phrase left in the memory of a shared story that was made useful to the most vulnerable of our kind - a cupped cheek, a tender touch or even quiet whisper at the nape of a loving neck which helped to yield one more safely protected from the rapidly extinguishing flame of hate inspired by greed and delusion: 12 Dec 2020 “Blowout for my expedition to My Lai, it dredges up so much confusing emotion · like what am i doing here in Viet Nam¿ What are my motivations if not to woo Diem Hong? There is no doubt it has been a learning growth experience, but do i belong where i am? if not, where to, and why. I found just what it took, which along with blowing my nose after eating chili, i possess a strong urge to express or to develop my expressive skills depending on your orientation for understanding. I feel most clear perceiving others and my world when i do so creatively and no longer wish to question that prerogative, rather to see more deeply what i can with what faculties i have left to me.”

My intended mission of atonement to My Lai was based on a false premise - that i could exculpate my sins by praying for forgiveness for the actions of others. My sins are different, they are mine alone for not wholly embracing the miracle of the moment allotted to me - by not expressing myself with every inclination that comes to me, be it a flirtatious smile with a comely woman or the follow-up to a solid commitment toward a joined loving life; all those inclinations i turn from believing myself unworthy · that is my sin. I am not a murderous sort unless it is in the service of liberating my brothers and sisters from yokes of greed they assume will enrich them, which i understand differently to be comprised of empty gestures for affection that are rooted in the self-interest of the proffering agent. “If it sounds to good to be true, it probably is.” We will survive as a species based on self sacrifice in service of other; anyone or any influence to the contrary is suspect if you take the time to peer into their agenda. “Enlightened Self-Interest” is the greatest universe worthy of exploration - believe me or not - i could give a fuck · a loving fuck, but a fuck nonetheless . ..  ···

jts 10/12/2020 

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