Lots and lots of pothead pixies riding around in teapot taxis

I'm having some trouble focusing this evening. Maybe I'm tired. A wild storm rolled through around three thirty this morning and gave zero fucks about waking everyone up. The thunder was mighty loud.

It's nearing the end of the week and my brain has just about had it. I'm listening to Gong, one of the very best progressive bands, particularly their early to mid seventies period. I have iffy plans concerning practicing yoga this evening. I may, but I'm thinking a night of passive intake might be the way to go. As it is, I'm writing a shitty post and am fading fast. Maybe Billy has something that will infuse some clarity in me. Maybe.

V is teaching a class but will be back soon. Should I shower? Perhaps I'll read. Maybe dully surf the internet. Oh, I don't know.

Ok, look, it's been real and all, but I'm fading even faster than I was a couple of paragraphs up. I'm sorry for the lousy content, really I am. Anyway, Gong is so fucking great. Go listen to them or something. Seriously, they've got a bit of old King Crimson, Can, Hawkwind, Frank Zappa, and a whole of their own spices. And maybe a bit of Taylor Swift? Nah.

Anyway

Time to boogie. The weekend approaches. I'm looking forward to it.

I'd say you'd make a perfect angel in the snow

Our office has been a playground for fruit flies. It has been this way for months, preceding my glorious arrival. We've taken just about every measure available to eradicate these cunning fuckers and they've outwitted us every time. I've killed so many, so has everyone else. I'm getting numb to their presence. Well, not quite yet - Fuckers!

After too long a sabbatical, I've returned to reading on a regular basis. I've got a welter of books simmering on the stove (thanks, Kindle!) but the ones I've been paying attention to are:

Passport To Magonia, by Jacques Vallee. This holy grail of ufology had been out of print forever. Over the weekend I discovered there was a Kindle version and bought the fuck out of it. I'm a proponent of Vallee's thoughts about the nature of UFOs. 

Sometimes A Great Notion, by Ken Kesey. V and I recently watched One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and it occurred to me I'd never read any of his books. So far I'm glad I finally did. 

The Cosmic Trigger (I), by Robert Anton Wilson. Like the above-listed PTM, this book, while not being out of print, had not been available on Kindle until recently. I could have purchased a physical copy - it really wouldn't have put me out much - but I never did. Strange, because I've been dying to read the book for a long time. My impatience with snail mail probably influenced why I opted to read his other works released on Kindle first. Anyway, as it happens with RAW, my mind has been stretched to wild proportions and synchronicity has become more of an assertive presence in my life than is typical. 

 Perdurabo:The Life of Aleister Crowley, by Richard Kaczynski. This one I started at the end of the summer, right around the time I met Veronica. It's a hefty work, but I'm working my way through it.

A bunch of books, and there are more in the queue I'm eager to get at, but they all relate. Sometimes I'm unsure of which book I'm reading. 

Bye

He might never have to know anyone

Last night Veronica and I had a choice to make: watch a Ram Dass webcast or the Elliott Smith documentary, Heaven Adores You. We chose the latter because we'd been meaning to watch it for several days. It was good; a bit choppy and inconsistent, but worth our time. Elliott was a gifted songwriter but he didn't coast on his talent. He honed his craft, devoted a lot of time to it. After our viewing I felt inspired and a bit bummed out I didn't go all in, musically speaking, like he did. Different paths,different dharma. Still, I endeavor to evolve as a musician and I have few regrets in life. 

I've been practicing yoga almost daily and Veronica has, here and there, enhanced the experience with her insight as a professional yoga instructor. Sometimes we practice together. I've also been jogging up and down the six flights of stairs in our office building three or four times a day. It all began when I followed the urge to explore the rest of our rather large building. I opted to take the stairs and by the time I reached the top floor, I was breathing heavy. I didn't like that feeling, so for the last several weeks I've been going up and down those stairs. I still get out of breath - that's what happens when you jog up and down six flights of stairs - but my wind is up and I feel lighter and more sure in my footing. 

That's right, son!

So there you go. Alright, I'm out of here, you freaks of nature. 

See the blind man shooting at the world

It's not easy keeping up with this blog, but one tries every now and again to tend the garden. It's President's Day and the only reason I mention it is because it's the first time I've had it off. Not so long ago, I had MLK Day off, too; another first. Among it's other benefits, e.g. working with friends and making more $ than I've ever made, my job's holiday schedule is kick ass. I'm not going to lie to you, it's been swell.

V and I were just talking about the multitude of synchronicities that have appeared in our relationship since its inception. If I had the time, I'd summarize some of the Jungian events that led me to the aforementioned conclusion. But I don't, so you'll just have to take my word on it.

Anyway

We toy with getting a dog sooner than later. It seems a greyhound is the breed we're leaning toward (Missy D's majesty makes it difficult to consider other breeds). They're not so good with stairs and we have steep ones. Maybe we'll wait until we get another place; maybe we won't. Only Billy knows for sure.

Anyway

I've been playing the baritone ukulele V's hair stylist graciously gave us. I've been playing it more like a sitar than a uke and that is a-ok with me.

Well, the night isn't getting any younger and I've got some reading I'd like to do. The Elliott Smith documentary, Heaven Adores You, arrived in the mail the other day; perhaps we'll watch it if time permits.

Alright, you bonnie lads and lasses, I'm out.