Time to put down the guitar and take up the pen.

It’s no secret that I haven’t been posting. That’s because I haven’t been writing. Even when I was writing on most days over the past year, I didn’t post much of it. Most of those were exercises in narcissism aanyway. But it was something I needed to do; writing well is no different than playing a musical instrument: it takes practice to first develop, and more importantly, maintain proficiency.

The good news is that in neglecting my writing I’ve managed to recover much of my musical competency. ‘Round about October or so, I put Scout away for the winter. That wasn’t my intention; but the result of my reaction to our lovely Northwest winter weather. I’m almost ashamed to admit that I went back to commuting in my “cage,” as the real bikers refer to cars. But there was an upside to that: I have a rule that any time I take my car to work, I take an instrument with me to play on the ferry ride home.

I had to table this rule for the first half of last year; I had suffered a serious, multi-faceted back injury that left my hands capable nothing more than the crudest of functionality. It almost cost me my job (and certainly ruined my sex life!). I had nearly given up hope of having a normal life again when I discovered the miracle of the NUCCA school of chiropractic. (That’s a subject I’ll leave for a future post; it certainly deserves the attention.) By the end of July, I was able to start playing again, even if for only ten or fifteen minutes at first. Come Thanksgiving, I was pickin’ an’ a grinnin’ for the entire hour-long crossing. I’m still a long way from my peak of musical prowess, but by the time I woke Scout from her hibernation two weeks ago, I was to the point I could step up on a stage without embarrassing myself.

At any rate, this past winter was cooler and wetter than usual. And grayer. A lot grayer. Gray to the point of Darkness. In the past, I thrived on our moody Northwest winters. I’d revel in the “thousand shades of gray” that painted the skies, the waters, and the landscape. It served to get my creative juices flowing. But not his year. These last two winters I hibernated. Last year I blamed it on the back injuries. Undoubtedly a contributing factor, but this year I had to recognize it for what it was.

In the past, I still spent a lot of time outdoors in the winter, regardless of the weather. But it wasn’t the weather that kept me from Gaia and Ulr this year. It was my mind. For the first time, I realized I'd fallen victim to that insidious Northwest curse known as SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder).

I can’t say I felt sad. The sordid truth is I didn’t feel much of anything at all. And I was okay with that, as long as I convinced myself that it was only a temporary detour from a life well-lived. Numbness, physical, mental, and emotional, was a welcome relief over the pains of the previous year. But enough is enough.

Spring was late showing up this year. A case can be made that it still hasn’t: high temperatures this week have been in the fifties; which we see occasionally in January and February. The Sunday before last it hit seventy degrees (barely) for the first and so far only time this year. But the clouds are thinner, and the lengthening hours of daylight provide a welcome illumination to rouse me from my spiritual slumber. Scout is saddled up and rarin’ to ride into the sunrise…

…and so am I.

Mineral Creek Watershed, Washington State
Copyright DPG

My favorite subscription is to the little monthly Funny Times. Hands down my favorite contributor goes by the pen and stage name of Swami Beyondananda. He has some genuinely brilliant ideas, a hilarious way of presenting them, and a wonderfully acrobatic style of toying with words, juggling them in thoroughly amusing interplay. Unfortunately, the magazine only runs his column a few times a year. Fortunately, for the first time in many months, he appeared in the most recent issue.

After reading his column, I fulfilled a promise I made the first time I read one of his essays years ago and looked up his website. It didn’t take long until I decided to join his effort to save the world by waking up laughing (and encouraging all others to do the same.) To that end, check out the Swami at Wake Up Laughing.

It’s a beautiful day in Pugetropolis; it’s the worst day I’ve had in (?). Nothing to do with events or occurrences. Just my brain. My brain hurts.

I cannot remember the last time that grand whore Violence seemed so seductive. Thank the gods I maintained composure and common sense. That it seemed so palpable scares me. That the folly became transparent before thought could become action is reassuring.

In the aftermath but before the adrenaline ebbed, I raised both middle fingers to the sky and shouted “F**K YOU GOD!!” God with a capital “G.” Then the absurdity of it all hit me. In a true Harry Haller moment, I just had to laugh.

I feel an intense need to re-read John Kennedy O’Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces and Tom Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume. And Steppenwolf, of couse.

I was enjoying a quiet Sabbath morning with Uncle Vanya when two men in white dress shirts, dark ties, and polyester pants appeared on my doorstep. This was a week or two before the threatened Rapture promised to free us from the more delirious and annoying of the Whacko Wing of Christianity. This being a Sunday, I was clad in one of my spiritual tee shirts of course, as is my wont and habit…

 
 
… although this wasn’t immediately obvious to my visitors from behind the screen of my storm door. After a minimal exchange of pleasantries, one began to ask: “Wouldn’t you agree…”

Now the best way to raise my hackles (and my guard), short of insulting my mother or calling me a Republican, is to start off a sentence with “Wouldn’t you agree…” It immediately puts words in my mouth that are not mine, and tacitly and implicitly attempts to put thoughts in my head that may or may not belong there. It’s one of the first things they teach you in any seminar on negotiating. (Funny how our culture takes such a Machiavellian attitude towards negotiating...)

Of course, the statement that followed was a platitude that was impossible to disagree with; which, to these people, only encouraged them. It wasn’t long before they were attempting to foist a copy of The Watchtower on me for my “enlightenment”.

“I’m quite familiar with The Watchtower,” I declined. “I find it extremely offensive to my religion.” (Wait for it… wait for it…)

They both screwed their faces into quizzical knots of incomprehension. “What religion would that be, sir?” they asked dumbfounded. (Yessss! They took the bait!)

“I’m a Born-Again Pagan”, I replied with a totally straight face.

At this point they noticed my sweatshirt for the first time. I thought their eyebrows would arch right off their foreheads. Usually upon hearing this, the proselytizers will bless me and excuse themselves politely. These two: they looked at each other, then my sweatshirt, then each other, then my sweatshirt again. They didn’t say a word as they turned in lock-step and hustled off down the walk.

Under the circumstances, it would have been more fortuitous had I been wearing this one: