More on the Doctors are Priests Business…(Realness Warning)

I know this is the sort of thing, that most people won’t want to really get into. I, in fact, respect that…Maybe. And maybe this means, I should examine that first. Is it a relevant piece of information? This Doctors are the new Priest Class theory.

Is going to the Doctors regularly important? As in saves or improves your life? To be important, wouldn’t it have to be effective too? Has the birth of the modern medical system improved our overall health and wellness? That would have to mean there were less sick people overall? How could my health improve by going more regularly? What are the risks either way?

Read this article, about 5yr old Garret, from Van Meter, Iowa who died of cancer. Obituary ended with a “See you later, suckas” from one rowdy and noble child. Whole thing was about how he outwardly projected NO FEAR of it. No angst ridden, existential crisis, wallowing of the living. Him and his family knew it sucked. Sucked more then the fucking words would ever allow you to say. He didn’t want to go out like a punk though. He wanted a viking funeral (like in the Thor flicks), and five bouncy houses. He wanted his ashes buried in the dirt to make a tree. So he could become a gorilla in the next round and play on it.

Article told how the doctors couldn’t play with the words, with that type of cancer he had. Said you burn it out, you chop it out, or you nuke it friend, that’s what you do. And, I sit and think how far are we really from the witch-doctors and tribal priest of our not so ancient past. Saw the headline yesterday, something like, 2 Million Year Old Tools Found and are Rewriting History. You stop and think, wait a minute, how little do we know!

How did we have tools for two million years, but HISTORY is what maybe a gracious and spotty sixty-thousand years? What the hell was going on that whole time? Why do we not have better records? Oral histories? A better sense of our story and origins? Unity? How with all this loss and confusion, could we not unite and figure out the collective story? Preserve our goddamned selves! Instead, we stay so sure of our world. Assume this is the only way, the best possible way, progress is occurring. We are lucky. And it sits there in all of us, everyone breathing it in and out all the time. This sense that something is off, askew, out of sorts. Why? How is that possible?

AND WHY IS EVERYONE SO SICK AND DYING?!?!

…This is rhetorical. I know there are answers. Always working towards a best conclusions, with available evidence. But with a damned certainty, a certainty that can only come of FAITH. That the truth IS out there, that we just need more time and we will discover it. So listen to the Adepts, the Scientists, the Doctors, and the Priests, they will read the tea leaves and give you your prescriptions, then you will be complete?

Who else, we could wonder, has assumed the Kabuki masks of our subconscious. Who paints the portraits of OUR fears? Who wears the Mask?…Jim Carrey…he wore the mask, literally and metaphoricallllllyy speakingggg……

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Confession (On Catholicism and HealthCare)

The modern medical physical is an updated form of the Catholic sacrament of Confession. I went to a Catholic grade school and High School, with a brief sojourn freshman year at the public school.

That decision to jump schools was multifaceted. Priest, principal, and a guidance counselor attempted to press me about the sacrament of Confirmation, the ritual wherein a Catholic confirms their personal belief in the religion, and is official-official in the cult from then on, in the 8th grade. One of my proudest moments, was telling this gang to kick rocks. My true confirmation of Grace, I know now (and then I guess?).

My Mom was divorcing my step-Dad, and our poverty and her clear Jezebel spirit, I believe marked us with that gang. We’d been marked for a while though, I suppose, so it shouldn’t have been a suprise. And yet, it always is, isn’t it? This divorce was partly why I made the jump to public school too. Some self-inflected wound of immaturity, and commonsense. How would we afford to send me to the private school? I’d end up sneaking my way back to the Catholics (non-confirmed) through a “scholarship”‘ for the debate program Sophomore year. Note, the Catholics are great free-lancers.

Anyway, point is, I’d always sensed a lack of flavor, or should I say culture to the public school system, and really the gentile public in general. It seemed to lack a certain something to me, which I know now understand was its cultic, and occultic systems, and accoutrements. The singing and chanting, costumes, incense, drama, and the freak outs.

I realized today post-physical, while strumming my milestone-like Squire telecaster, that the modern check up really does have it origin in ancient ritual and spiritual/superstitious beliefs, just like them Catholics. The whole thing the pregame rituals, the signing in, the attendants, the silent (except for the background noise of the TV, which in these times is the equivalent of the bubbling brook), which allows reflection and excuse making, space for the coming cognitive dissonance, and morever the pre-pregame ritual, of the night and weeks before, what illnesses and ailments will one declare, or attempt to medigate with good behavior. The anxiety and anticipation of judgement. The inherent power relationship and the salvation that comes with it.

Your Doctor can only treat, what you acknowedge and admit. What you confess. We like this. It’s parental. The Dr. is a subsitute, for you and the thing on high, an intermediary. It’s interesting, because I still got that raging spirit to resist. Basically the only time I will go the Dr. are for these “Wellness”‘ check-ups for our insurance, which saves us 80bucks a month. My Dr. today was nice enough. A colleague of my wife, she had insured I would like his style and I did.

He acknowledged that in my case, it was basically just a hello, but that the point of this check-up was maybe to catch a guy in his mid-thirties (me! that crafty fox!), who veins are starting to chunk up with platelets, and get them on something to help them out, before he’s fifty and dead. I smiled with him, nodded along in agreement. When he was done I said, “well hate to a throw a wrench in your plans there Sir, but I was planning on not doing those labs today. Be honest with ya, just not in the mood to be poked or proded.”

These are the moments that give my spirit an invaluable tingle, the moment when that curtain gets pulled back on Oz, busting those lights on mid-ritiual, sitting there right in the middle of confession, staring that priest in the eye, and saying hey man what about all these other religions, what about all of them that never heard of Christ?

The Dr. smiled said Oh, Ok. I explained it wasn’t I’d never do it. And I’d done it before. Actually had high levels, but then I tightened up diet and stuff, and my levels were fine. And really truth was, nothing in them numbers could make me anymore serious about my own health, body, then I already was. So not today. I’d prefer not.

It was all good. He still hit me with the stethoscope, checked my throat glands, pressed on my stomach, squeezed my ankles. Indignities I endured, with small amounts of discomfort. As usual ritual tricked me into confessing a patch of eczema on my leg, but I recovered with the reflection that it was all good, and that eczema was basically an umbrella term for fuck-all, and if they weren’t going to chop it off, I’d prolly be all right. By the end, he thanked me for an interesting conversation and visit.

6-30-18 On The Rooster,

Kept hearing a cockle-doodle-doo (more like oaoaoaoaaaahhh) from chicken island. I ulimately ordered pre-sexed chicks because it was cheaper without the extra couple roosters, and also because we were attempting to take it step by step so the process ofndealing with brooding and pontential baby chicks all the time seemed a little too much this year. We had to get the electric fences up, build a chicken tractor, move the first twelve out, and later intergrate the two generations.

I chose a heritage breed called the Speckled Sussex. I’m really like how the birds look, like Jackson Pollock spent a weekend being ornery with em. I was thinking a rooster was afoot, so I had started staring at them a bit more. One of their bright, irredescent blue-green oil-sheens, caught my attention. There were other signs of a cock, Gallus Domesticus, an erect and bright red comb, overall size, a classical strut. These noticeable detail were improved and confirmed via the internets.

I discovered that a rooster will have more pointed feathers, while a hens are rounded at the end. The male will also have a bushier neck. And of course sharper and larger back claws, spurs.

To discover if an egg has been fertalized one must take a strong light beside it and determine whether it is clear or opaque. I did, but it was hard to tell what from what. Except for one, where it gone cloudier, and there the primitive first place a single lil red dot of cell swirled.

The rooster offeres a real-world introductory dialogue about love-making with the children. The love touch. Male and Female. Like Mom and Dad. Like You.

I wish you could have seen my sunset last night. Perspective through the bubbling hills of the horizon, it wore a crown as it set. Endless beams to infinity. Champagne hues, oranges and blues, golden-yellow, saucer center, sort of like an egg…

6-20-18 On Chickens, The Rain, 1997 Honda Odyssey, Stephen King Netherworlds

If I don’t get out early enough to feed the chickens, they start coming out of the electric fence. We must be grounding out somewhere, but all the fiddling hasn’t seemed to fix it. They all sneak back in the once the food is out, but having 30-some chickens squawking at ya, chasing you around the yard every morning can be anxiety inducing.

There’s been a bit of civil strife in chicken land. Early in spring, we moved the original dozen chickens out to the field, in a chicken tractor, to let the twenty-or-so teenage birds have the coop. Eventually the new chicks were big enough, and it was hot enough, so it seemed best to bring them together in the coop, which was shadier and easier to do all the chores together at once.

The OG girls were happy to be home, but not happy with what they deemed to be the squatters in their spot. I had to play rooster to the bunch during some early feedings, to discourage pecking. Some general state of equilibrium had set it, I believed. Yet some on both sides, show signs of tussling, nicks in their crops and such.

Routines are interesting, how they build up so much momentum. I realize that every morning, that it’s my unavoidable habit of feeding them, after they’ve run out, that ultimately reinforces the unwanted behavior. And then I’m able to step back and say, what’s really the harm? Rather, could I calm down in the moment? Let go of the absurd resentment of a creature foraging for their food. And just allow myself to let the moment be as it is.

They stop yelling when the food is finally distributed. They’re eating good on kitchen scrapes, cabbage Leaves, and all the weeds and things they can forage, or are tossed into them, so I know the morning swarm is unwarranted anxiety. I’ve developed the ability to identify a number of wild edibles, dandelions (easy one), nettles, lamb’s quartets, purslane, etc, and the chickens tear through all stuff too.

Two days of rain have it way cooled down, an ideal late stage spring day. And instead of watering, I got to weed one of two large raspberry patches, 50 new plants total, that we just started this spring. I collected and spread compost for those and some pepper plants, while Britney and the kids burned our papers. There was a moment there, with the orange fire coming out the side of the barrel and the setting blue sky, I thought to myself, this is paradise. I couldn’t ask for anything else. I don’t deserve this. Grace made this.

Stayed cloudy til dark. All those blues and whites. Dark spots of the storm. Swirling whites cloud, thick lines of the painter’s brush.

The skies went that ominous grey-green last Thursday. Got caught out in it, picking the boys up from reading group at the library. Our 1997 Honda Odyssey, is an archeological phenomena. Mostly Mechanically reliable, yet defrost remains one of its greatest flaws. The rain, hail and four anxious breathers had us in a thick, Stephen King-like netherworld, at sixty out on the deep country highway. Had to demand the oldest boys shirt, which he struggled with in the thick milieu. Making it to our turn somehow, we found our gravel road deteriorating with thick rivers in the ditches, rolling with glorious and destructive tan water. This rain is everything. Even in the danger zone, we were grateful.

6-16-18 On Hearing Animals

It was about six months ago I began hearing people’s animals. Happened out of nowhere, at the grocery store, I believe. It sounded like a squirrel was right behind me, chittering from a tree. I looked around awkwardly, and tried to recover with a smile at the cashier. When she smiled back, the crackle took a slight uptick in pitch and stopped. As I walked away, she went back to staring around the store absentmindedly, churring all the while.

There’s an uncomfortable amount of mosquitoes. It makes large places like the mall impossible. Zet. Zet. Zeeeeeee. Lil choirs of families, buzzing down the cold geometric floors. Talking to them it can be innocuous at the surface, but the whole time you can feel their teeth on you chewing. Zet. Zip. Zee. Off for the next thing.

A lot of bears. They live in the throat to the belly zone. Heavy breathing, and loud steps give them away.. Lots of these bears seem off though. Like old deranged bears, on a farewell, narcotic induced walk to hibernation. Generally harmless, unless startled, then there could be trouble. One layered mass of a lady bear half grunted to my kids today as their floaty wandered by. Some mushy attempt of help? I lay belly down in questionable 3feet lake water appraising the situation for alarm. The invisible bear of her true self right behind her, breathing heavy in the heat.

Plenty of dogs and cats, as expected. They make up a reassuring majority, but frankly a good chunk of them are prone to the common failure of their respective spirit animal. Impulsive, thrill seeking dogs types, aggressive breeds of pit bulls and St. Bernards, rabid hungry street mutts. Always working, always problems, but determination all the same.

With cats, the majority are calm and isolated, a pleasure if willing, purring. Stand off-ish if a request is ill received. Some cat-shit crazy, hyper focused on an confusing task, like finding the right bottle of bathroom cleaner. Bigger wild varieties of wolves, lions, tigers, occur rarely, and are obvious to everyone, unless they hunting. Then, you’re in trouble…

Operation Coyote’s Chortle

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Their chortles come to me at night, through my window.

Telling me of the way forward. What needs to be done.

Honing signals of the State of the Union.

The plan has become clear.

Greater then the sum of our individual parts, a pack.

Two cats, one black, one tabby. Alerted by a soft meow of communication. Busted by a primate’s flashlight, but quickly fled into the night.

Sunday. There was a beagle, or some other especially nasally bread, assaulting the world with its cries of outrage and injury. It was impossible to ignore, as I handled the planting of the elderberries cane.

My hands grew cold, and the mud caked on like chilled frosting. Winter won’t get out of the bed.

I said fuck it, tried to find them in the truck. Lure them to me with whistles, and doggy-os.

I hear and see him later as I build the frame to the greenhouse, running like a bullet on a mound to the south-east. His screams had lost their potency. There was only one of them now.

We go on in the blood, the spit and the semen, until we don’t. And then they can build us into mounds, and then dirt. And then it starts again, world without end, amen.

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2.1.18 (Finding the Third Eye, The Great Mystery, Tom Robbins, The Great Chain of Being, The Nuemenon, Atheism, Gnosticism, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young)

 

Strange days. I feel like February came with a bit of a sigh, a pleasant sigh. A gentle exhale. Okay, we’re here. Listened to Finding The Third Eye, by Vera Alder, read by Jimbo’s Info Depot on YOUTUBE. It a gentleman reading the book, with some commentary and context added. I’ve sort of lost the super magic ability of superhuman reading. I don’t know if I just if I wore the power out, or if other factors are at play, say homestead, and possibly worse general disinterest. Been picking my way through Tom Roobins skinny legs and all, a book at full prowess I would eat in a week, but now just stays about a quarter finished. Anyway, I’m finding I like someone reading a book to me like that. I’m finding the Vera Alder listen. It’s the exact sort of whoo-whoo that I’m attracted too, the Big Mystery, the occult history of mankind and self.

 

 

 

The Great Mystery is the theme of that Tom Robbins book in fact. General plot is an Arab and a Jew open a restaurant in the front of the UN. And it keeps being attacked by extremist on both sides. The pillars and mounds are symbolized by a stick and a sea shell. There’s a couple silly, humping artist types that make it interesting.

It’s funny how we all keep retelling the same story. I’ve read a couple other Robbins books, Even Cowgirls Get The Blues I think was one I also liked. That was the one with girl with giant thumbs? No? Anyway same sort of flavor, and I love it. Big truths, gurus, idols, sex, humor, history. Seeing yourself in the text. And what is that? When we find ourselves in the text, in the Art, in the other person? Somehow it feels like we’re all the same somehow? Copies of copies. The Great Mystery is about that, the Force, how it runs up and down a great chain of being, pillars and mounds, 1s and 0s, being and nothingness, rolling in circles, eating its own tail, a roller coaster ride through eternity.

But that’s the poetry of it, the word salad of the thing. The issue, the central engine of the theater, is  the vast majority of human beings have a critical level of unwillingness to discuss it. The have not a sense to see how the sausage is made. Yet they completely aware and reactive to the white elephant in the room, them phenomenal and limited aspect of life. Phenomenal meaning sensory, and transitory the world, apparently consisting of multiple planes, dimensions and deities, sentient things. The deep game that the Gods, the Great NouMenon (where’d I pull that one from I have no idea, but a double check in the dictionary tells me it’s the exact word I mean, the thing beyond sense experience) that sits on top of this plane of existence, feeding on our spirits, energy and ideas. The thing beyond that permeates and copulates with this thing, our thing. Because that’s the important point, it’s not like there are different planes or layers in a massive cosmic lasagna. No, it’s all poured together and swirling in an ever great organism (organization), onward and upwards, turtles stacked to the sky.

 

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World Turtle

 

I like that. You can talk it down in ways. But I’m at the point where the talk down doesn’t make much sense. Seems too unconsciously authoritarian to argue purely “material” explanations for humanity and the world. That the concept of a “spirit” is a made-up word and thing. And everything we think and care about is just a passing phenomena in the great vacuum of space. I wouldn’t choose to believe that. Atheism is based on the straw-man argument that there is no empirical evidence for God. Yet the Mystery Tradition, which is really to say all religious traditions were never claiming an individuated sense of the God, but that God meant that which is in everything. Begging the question, faith based, non-negating nonsense, of course but that was the rap. Not angry Santa Claus waiting to talk in the cloud space about jerking off (that may happen though, remember MYSTERY).

It’s always been one great chain of being. It wouldn’t have made sense other wise. No, for the more outrageous bits there are intricate explanations, meanings, and interpretations, which anyone is right to be cautious of, but to stand at this point in history and just say we will ignore the Christians, the Muslims, the Jews, the Hindus, and Buddhist, and the every other cultural tradition that had ever existed, is inherently invalid, and we know the truth. Which is that there’s no you, no God, no eternal life, but we have got a  giant, possibly conscious, phantom zone full of energy, and spooky behavior at the quantum level, and we will build super-computers, that will be artificially intelligent,  made in our image, so we can copulate…wait a second…

 

 

It’s probably no time to be a smart-ass about it. I’m trying to slow it down a bit. Everything. It’s difficult. Controlling yourself. Just breath. That’s about all you can do. Breath and enjoy it, I mean, of course. There’s a more important point in the mystical ramblings. About the consciousness elevation, the upgrading of self that can go on, if that’s what you want. It also appears you can sit in the surf,  coast through reincarnation. Get an existential suntan.  Stay a Virgo forever. Or Cancer. Or whatever you are.

 

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A New Sacred Space

1.15.18 (a brief sketch of self, across the space time continuum, two paragraphs, mittens) 


Woke up from the strangest dream. My family and I, are on an adventure, through some unknown city, a walk back to our vehicle, a familiar, yet different, older van. Chay and I are in the middle seats, and we drive for a mundane moment. Until, we pull into a building and a dream becomes a dream. 

We’re in a tunnel, and before I know it we’ve blasted off, through some worm-hole time tunnel thing. I open my eyes for a second, and it’s a glittering kaleidoscopic other world, seen in yesteryear, too beautiful to stare at. I close my eyes, losing my breath, and reach for my boy’s hand. It’s there I can feel it through the mitten, so real, how soft the loose material is, how it slides on his little fingers in my grip, so real.