Getting Old

Getting old (er) is the only chance we have to put into practice what we’ve supposedly learned along the way.  Getting old, in itself, implies that there was an ‘along the way’.   Without an ‘along the way’ there would be no wisdom to have accumulated to help us through today and all the coming tomorrow’s.  And that being the case, the mistakes we make would be for not having had the opportunity to have made them before, so as not to make the same ones again.

Now, as we get older if we continue to make the same mistakes we have to consider that just maybe we’re not nearly as smart as we’ve always thought ourselves to be.  Not nearly as clued in, not nearly as conscious, and not nearly as astute.  Either that, or we just don’t happen to care.  And that, I must admit, is pretty sad if it has become the operating principle in one’s life.

But, as we all know, there is the physical aspect of getting older also, and, concerning that dynamic, I just want to say that mama never told me that virtually everything in, on, or around my body would end up hurting.  Daddy never let on that he was in pain for much of the second half of his life, and the two of them together seemed as if all their secrets were safely locked away beneath an uncommon, but perhaps unhealthy, stoicism.

There’s a fuzzy line between being honest enough about your pain for the information to be informative for those around you, and those coming up behind you, and being vocal about it to the degree that it becomes self-indulgence for the intended purpose of garnering sympathy.  We need to be careful what we do with our pain.  After all, it is our pain, and it should not be foisted upon the general collective.  We’ve all heard about suffering in silence, and we’re all acquainted with someone who cannot stop talking about their own suffering.  Neither dynamic is of particular benefit to the person inflicted, and both can prove to be more damaging to the individual than the actual malady itself, or the pain that it engenders.

Ageing is for the old.  It’s not for the young.  The young have too much to learn, and too much to do to pay attention to all the peripheral setbacks and nagging concerns associated with a perpetually declining body.  The secret to ageing gracefully, I believe, the saving grace, if you will, is to not let your spirit break down along with your body.

It Pays To Make Good Choices

I was just eighteen.  It was 1967.  I was living with a bunch of friends in a big house in Covina, California when I suddenly found myself in a rather disconcerting predicament.  I was arrested for selling marijuana.  A man had befriended me over a period of time.  I liked him, and trusted him.  I got him a job at the place where I was working.  About three months later he asked if I could get him some pot.  I didn’t sell drugs, and he was a friend, so I gave him a little bit of what I had.

A few nights later, at about three o’clock in the morning, eight or ten cops busted down our back door, came barging into the house, shined a flashlight in my eyes, pulled me naked out of bed, handcuffed me and placed me under arrest for the possession and sale of drugs.  My friend turned out to be an undercover narcotics officer assigned to befriend, and elicit, a drug sale from me.  Because I was a dealer?  Because I was a danger to others?  No, because I had long hair in a time when long hair made one a target of the law.  My ‘friend’ set me up, exaggerated the transaction, and he and his associates took me down like an escapee from a Louisiana chain gang.

My roommates and I were the first long-haired kids in our town and the cops wanted to teach us a lesson.

With guns pointed, they rounded us all up and made us squat together in a corner while they emptied every drawer in our house onto the floor, overturned dressers and tables, lamps and stereo equipment.  They tore open the chairs and sofas, and knocked holes in all the walls looking for drugs.  They didn’t find any. 

One of my friends got scared and ran.  They took off after him, shooting at him like he was a rabbit.  He got away, but died shortly thereafter.  Not from being shot, but in an auto accident.

They wouldn’t let me get dressed.  Took me to jail naked, hurling insults and ridicule about my long hair and nubile body, shouting about how I’d be fresh bait for the big boys in the County. They kept me in the City jail for three nights, and then transferred me, manacled, by prison bus to Los Angeles.  I went through heated derision and ridicule during the spraying and cavity search, and was then placed as the fifth person in a 4-man cell.  It was actually a cell for one or two, about 8’ x 12’, but it had two sets of bunk beds, one set on either wall, and I was given a thin mattress to lay on the floor in the narrow space between the bunks.  

My cell mates were seasoned, hardened criminals.  They ranged in age from 35 to 55.  Two of them were awaiting trial on murder charges.  One of the men had beaten a long-haired boy to death at a Love-In in Griffith Park.  I’d been at that same gathering.  The guards made it clear to me that I was put in that particular cell for the pleasure of their company.  These were not nice men.  I laid awake all night, every night, and most of every day.  It was the only defense I had in such a threatening situation.  

I was released about a month later when a judge dismissed my case.  The experience has lasted a lifetime.  I do not, today, revile the police, or those in law enforcement.  I believe I have every reason to, but I chose not to let resentment defile my life.  It was a time of cultural conflict.  Us against them, and them against us, for no particular reason.  The reasons were many,  and the conclusions were few.  I have always recognized that there are good, honest, and thoughtful men and women in law enforcement.  Had I chosen to travel a road of anger and bitterness I may have gone on to become a life-long criminal because of it, rather than the well-intentioned man that I have chosen to be.  

Life is a crapshoot, as the past can indicate, a series of happenstances, unintended, and sometimes unavoidable.  But it is also a choice, a series of choices, really.  It pays to make good choices.  They can be the difference between life taking us for a ride in a rudderless boat, and us having control of the rudder.

The Final Benediction

Here in California the western slope of the Sierra Nevada mountains has been on fire and burning up for about the past ten days.  El Dorado County, below Tahoe, and North east of Placerville.  Thousands of people have been evacuated, including myself.  Several thousand fire fighters have been working hard to try and control the fire.  As of this writing it has burned 95,000 acres, or about 150 square miles.  The fire crews have been doing a heroic job.  And finally the rains, along with thunder and lightning, have come to put a final benediction on their efforts.

I’ve very seldom seen thunder and lightening storms such as these; some of the thunder so violent that it has been shaking my house like a cardboard box sitting on the ground near a jackhammer.  The lightning so powerful that it’s been lighting up the sky, illuminating the dark as if it were a movie-set back lighted for effect in the filming of an old Twilight Zone episode.  Just when we thought it was safe to go back in the woods.

This recent night sky extravaganza puts any man-made 4^th of July celebration to shame, dwarfing and overshadowing it like the Grand Canyon might upstage the nearby American River canyon that the fire traveled so rapidly, and so indiscriminately, through in its quest for more fuel.  It has served to remind me that nature has the power to create and to destroy.  It has the capacity to both comfort and frighten us.  It will turn on us with a change of mood in a minute, and it will settle into a predictable temperament at times to allow us some respite from its mood swings.

The fire destroyed an abundance of wildlife here in the mountains.  Some homes, some hope, and some dreams.  But it will regenerate in time, and it will bring forth new hope with the new growth, new homes where the old ones once stood, and new dreams for new people; for some old timers as well.  Wildlife that escaped the inferno will in time return to their old stomping grounds to find fresh buds and new shoots to munch on.  It will take a season, but the seasons will continue to arrive, and to change, as they always have.  Time does not follow our schedule, but its own.  

Nature has shown that it is stronger and more powerful than we are, more determined to have its own way, and to expresses itself exactly as it pleases.  The  devastating fire of which I speak was supposedly started by a man.  And men and women helped to control it as best they could until nature arrived with a timely downpour to finish the job, and, as I said, to pronounce a final benediction on their efforts.

What was demonstrated to me again, and what I take away from this brutal happenstance, is that people, though easily subjugated to the awesome power of nature, though misplaced, displaced, and threatened by ruin continued to look out for one another, to care about each other.  They truly do care about one another.  And that is a strength not only equal to, or greater than, the power of nature, but also a profound demonstration of power of a different nature.

Call it human nature, if you will. 

Or call it love.

Inspiration

Many of you have been hold up in houses and apartments, trailers and cabins, working or not, but certainly not participating in life, not giving, growing or prospering within yourself; really just letting life pass you by for lack of inspiration.  Many of you have not been inspired in a very long time.  

For some, too long to even remember. 

One of the ways to be inspired, I’ve learned over the years, is to inspire somebody else; a friend, a stranger, a husband or wife, a parent, a son or daughter, a grandchild.

We are all creators. 

We are all blessed with the capacity for creation, whether it be physical, intellectual, or even social.  I want to encourage you to find your muse.

If you’re a musician pick up your instrument and make some new music.

If you’re a singer, raise your voice again.

If you’re a writer, put your pen to paper.

If you’re a painter throw some color on a blank canvas.

If you’re a sculptor wet your clay and dig your fingers in.

If you have a story to tell find somebody to tell it to.

If you just enjoy being outside, plant a garden.

But find your talent once again, or even for the first time.

Find some inspiration.

And inspire someone else along the way.

The Seven Deadly Sins

Pride, lust, anger, gluttony, greed, envy, and sloth.

Deadly, but not necessarily deadly in the literal sense of the word.  Only in that the participation in these behaviors over time erodes the spiritual, psychic, and emotional condition of an individual. 

Death of sorts, without a doubt. 

When is the last time you engaged in any of these mind-sets, or behaviors and felt good about it?  

Or about yourself?  Doesn’t happen, unless your sense of balance has already been severely compromised.

With religion not being a very popular idea these days, we’ve been drifting away from the core principals that enable human beings to live in a place of personal equilibrium, a place free of the encumbrance and entanglement of self-indulgence, and the inevitability of personal deterioration.  

Yes, the soul and spirit of a person deteriorates just the same as the body does when its basic maintenance is overlooked, or deliberately ignored.

The Seven Deadly Sins are different from the Ten Commandments, which, obviously, are also dismissed these days right along with most religious dogma.  The problem with wholesale dismissal of principals is that you end up throwing out the wheat with the chaff, the fruit with the rind.  

The Ten Commandments are not just a list of do’s and dont’s that someone said ‘you better pay attention to’.  They are principals to live by if you want to live well.  To live outside of their influence 

is to live with the certainty of personal corrosion, erosion and decline. 

The Seven Deadly Sins all involve emotions, and are quite likely 
to inflict ugly scars on the lives 

of those who engage with them.  They are potholes in a sense. 

If you avoid potholes on the road, you save a lot of damage
to your cars suspension. 

If you avoid The Seven Deadly Sins you avoid the damage to your own 

psychic/emotional/spiritual suspension.  

Someone was good enough to identify The Seven Deadly Sins 
for us, much like how a road maintenance crew will spray-paint a 
circle on the pavement around a pothole to indicate its need 
for repair, and to warn the driver of its location 
so that it can be avoided. 

No one is required to disengage from them, but it doesn’t make
a lot of sense to inflict unnecessary damage on one’s self, though.  
Does it?

Here are basic definitions, but I won’t expound on each of the seven.  

If you’re interested you can research them for yourself.
Best I not do the work for you.

Pride – A haughty attitude shown by people who believe 
that they are better than others.

Lust -  The strong physical desire to have sex with somebody 
without associated feelings of love or affection.

Anger  -  A feeling of extreme annoyance.

Gluttony -  Eating and drinking to excess.

Greed -  An overwhelming desire to have more of something, 
such as money, than is actually needed.

Envy – The resentful feeling of wanting somebody else’s success, 
good fortune, personal qualities or possessions.­

Sloth -  A disdain of work or of physical exertion.

Appointed, Not Anointed

The government; yes I’m sorry to say, the government, that paragon of virtue, has become nothing more than a curse in the lives of most of the American people these days.  It finds its way into our daily lives most inappropriately, and at the most inopportune time.   New laws, taxes, fees, regulations, requirements of every kind.  Listening in on us, tracking our every keyboard stroke or smart phone transaction.  Millionaires, most of them, they party, and cavort unabashedly, with the Hollywood elite, Hip-hop, rock and pop stars, and CEO’s of the largest corporations on the planet (Facebook, Google, etc.).  They exempt themselves from indignities that common Americans are faced with (drug testing, Obamacare), and crimes that you or I would be imprisoned for.  They pass bills that they have never read which contain laws that threaten our freedom, but not their own.  

We must remind these ‘public servants’ that they have been appointed by the people, and not anointed by some holy one as they would like to believe.  

Besides being way too big (all-encompassing, really), the main problem with government is that the politicians actually believe their own fiction.  They are as deluded as the general population of most mental institutions, and yet hold court as if they were anointed, rather than appointed.  They consider themselves to be loyal, moral and ethical pillars of the country working hard on our behalf, and yet they wallow in their own self-importance stroking themselves, and each other, for gratification, all the while thinking that we see them as they see themselves.

The truth is, we can see them, for who they actually are.

But we don’t care.

And that, my friends, is the real tragedy.

Ideology

 It sickens me how so many have a need to label others as liberal or conservative, right wing or left wing, with the attendant name calling, perpetuating the revulsion of one side for the other.  It is not an intelligent perspective; it is not conducive to any kind of personal dignity, and it does not advance the position of any of us as brothers and sisters, neighbors, and fellow travelers on this planet. It only divides.  It only separates.  It only tears down, and tears away from the good of the whole.  If truth be told, we all have some liberal in us, and we all have some conservative.  That we are afraid to recognize in ourselves the side we wish not to be known as, and only recognize in others the side that we wish to demean says even more about our own inadequacy than it does about our ideology.

Can we stop blaming others for our own unhappiness, and begin to find some common ground for agreement for a change?  There is no honest dialogue anymore because there is no longer a wish for common ground.  There is only the need to be right.  And it has proven to be devastating to the psyche of our families, our communities, and our country.

When is the last time you heard someone say, "Y'know, you may be right?"  When is the last time you said those words to someone else?

Pop Star Strippers

There is a dearth of soul in the music that is being foisted upon us today, and with the female vocalists in particular. 

The highly produced music that is being popularized by the likes of Beyonce, Jennifer Lopez, Lady Gaga, Shakira, and other supposed superstars, simply pretends at being important; it masquerades as original, and presents itself as being from the soul of some iconic goddess.

But there is no soul there.  There is no originality, and there is nothing of importance.  The mega productions strip the songs of their already own faux worthiness.  The computer-programmed digital arrangements and pitch-enhanced vocals ensure that no actual organic sound will ever grace the ears of the listener.  Perfection, rather than authenticity, is the overriding purpose.  Inspiration is subjugated to electronic predictability.  There is no intrinsic musical accountability.  Effect takes precedence over the honesty of intention.  And it is all about the money.

Have you noticed how most of the popular female singers have also become little more than celebrity strippers performing to those bloated arrangements, and, more often than not, lip-syncing to their own recordings?  Back-up vocals are thickly layered over the lead vocal like multiple frostings on a packaged, stale, and then frozen cake.  With trite lyrics, shallow motivation, and overblown staging is it any wonder that the public performances reduce themselves to the stadium equivalent of private strip clubs?  When money and fame are the primary motivation, would you really expect any other eventuality?

I have no problem with strip clubs, except, of course, that the dancers exploit already attention-starved men.  I know, you probably think the men are exploiting the dancers, but hey, if you’re an adult you pay your money and get what you get.  And, if I’m not mistaken, they don’t yet let kids into those kinds of clubs.  Not so with these concerts.  All the male horn-dogs, adult goddess-wannabe’s, and star-struck little adolescent girls trip over themselves to be at the shows, dreaming of becoming pop-star strippers themselves.

Even entertainers who do not need to become strippers have jumped willingly, and enthusiastically, into these personally demeaning performances.  Pink (Alicia Beth Moore), one of the most supremely talented artists on the world stage today, still takes her concerts to the depths of self-loathing, as well as reverse misogyny, as if stripping is the pinnacle of success.  As if the exploitation of one’s own body and psyche is the measure by which a woman can consider herself to be liberated.  Troubling to be sure.

Taylor Swift, the anorexic country-pop star, who, by the way, should keep her clothes on, if for no other reason than to not frighten the children, has stooped to the same level of exhibitionism as well.  But, as just another shill for the entertainment business puppet masters, she sells records, and she sells out shows.  Now Hannah Montana, I mean Miley Cyrus, has become what former mousketeer Brittany Spears had once become, who had become what Madonna had become before her.  And now even the young Justin Bieber has become the male-child-stripper equivalent of all of these forgettable females.

Support authentic music folks; music with purpose, music with artistry, music with soul.

           

I dream of Janis Joplin. 

I Chewed Through My Own Tongue

I know that many of you have been wondering why I haven't posted any new Coyote Tracks lately.

Well, to explain things the best I can, the PC police came to my house in the mountains and tortured me for thirty days and thirty-five nights.  Without my permission, I might add.  They strapped me to a mauve lawn chair in the basement and force-fed me cream of wheat with sprinkles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and for midnight snack, washed down with a mix of Red Bull and Mountain Dew.  They also made me watch reruns of Oprah, Ellen, Pierce, and The View until I screamed for mercy, begged them for relief, and promised that I would never criticize these sacred intellectuals again; even if it meant chewing through my own tongue.

Well, I did chew through my own tongue while I was busy biting it.

And, as a result of my compromised condition I've recently been going through stem-cell therapy at a secret Oregon location in hopes of regenerating a new tongue, and reclaiming the courage to use it.

Oh, and I’ve also been busy working on a couple of other projects which have been taking the lions share of my time.  But I hope to be finished with them in two or three weeks, and back to giving you more of the kind of oblivious illumination you’ve come to depend on me for.

Hang with me.

It Matters Who You Are

It doesn’t matter who you were.  It matters who you are.

Likewise, it doesn’t matter what you did.  It matters what you’re doing.

And it doesn’t matter where you’ve been.  It matters where you’re going.

Some people are crippled by their past, the mistakes they made, and the failures they’ve been unable to come to grips with.  It leaves them frozen in place, restricted in their development as people.  Others live the same dynamic, but because of past success, a success that causes them to feel as if they’ve arrived, as if they’ve reached the top of the mountain.  They become as paralyzed, and as stunted in their growth, as those whose failure has caused their own inhibition.

Each day can be an opportunity to move away from the paralysis, to inch forward, if even with unremarkable effect.  Effort is something each one of us can engage in, and experience as progress, no matter the degree; like the sensation one might have when trying to walk across the room after one’s legs have gone to sleep from lack of circulation.  It’s not easy, but the effort alone will help to bring the legs back to life.  Effort cannot disguise itself as apathy.  It is the antithesis of that.  One can feel honest effort within one’s self.  And one can take heart in knowing that movement comes with that effort, whether the movement is easily measured or not.  Results are sometimes very difficult to see, but can often be illuminated by looking back, by observing the tracks connecting where we are with where we’ve been, not unlike the trail a snail leaves on the ground behind its own advancement.  And, lets face it, sometimes our personal movement, our progress if you will, is little more than a snails pace; but at least it’s movement.

And that’s what counts.  

It doesn’t matter who you were.  It matters who you are.

Likewise, it doesn’t matter what you did.  It matters what you’re doing.

And it doesn’t matter where you’ve been.  It matters where you’re going.