Fortune Cookies

As I sat in the local brew house this evening watching my friends through a haze of pipe smoke, I began to contemplate fortune. Were one to ask me prior to this year, I would have spoken of fortune, luck or prosperity (whichever you prefer) as a cumulative effects of the events of ones life and how they form the person one becomes. If one were to ask me about mine,I likely would have replied that my fortunes were a mixed bag or outright negative. That of course is considering only the events of my own life. But lately I have had reason to rethink that response. It strikes me now as a bit egocentric. Even more so considering the bitter (if tongue-in-cheek) Valentines day rants I like to post. It's worth considering the idea that the good fortune of the people whom are important to you can have an equal effect on you if you let it. Energy spent in celebrating the happiness of others is certainly energy well spent. Seeing friends who love can instill equal measures of love in your own heart. Seeing friends who rejoice in overcoming adversity can make you stronger in meeting adversity of your own. Seeing friends stand against the world makes you stand taller in your own spirit. More than once I've watched this idea play out but was usually too busy with my misfortunes to give it any thought. However, tonight the circumstances were right to see the frayed edge of that thread and give it a tug. Am I a better man for watching the people I love walk an easier path? The answer is a firm and joyful yes. And that answer is enough to take the sting from most blows life can deal me. -B-

Time to rant... So Isaac has passed and we never really got hit. But it's been a full week of checking and re-checking preparations and making sure everyone knew the emergency plans should they be needed. But now that the danger (minor though it may have been) has passed, I can relax and think about how fast things seemed to break down here. In three days our little town was stripped bare of necessary supplies and tensions rose to the point of desperation. And this with almost no disruption in normal infrastructure. We never got anything worse than a stiff thunderstorm. A few hardcore souls were calm but that was the exception not the rule. The general public was an embarrassment to humanity. Had this actually developed into an emergency situation, most of this town would have been destroyed not by the storm, but by the sheer panicked foolishness of people who never plan further than their next night of TV. Living in an area where there is an established "hurricane season" every year should be an indicator that you should prepare for a hurricane... every year. When nobody is prepared then you, the general public, become a mob. Shame on you. We dodged the bullet this time so learn your lesson and figure out how to live without the internet and you electric stove. Those of you who had to work this week know what I'm talking about. I feel fortunate to have been both calm and prepared. For that I have to thank my dear Mom and Step-Dad for putting the effort into instilling common sense, confidence and faith into their wayward son. They also saw my fascination with prepping not as a paranoid phase but as a valuable skill set and supported it with many gifts of gear and reference material. Thanks guys for teaching me that walking in the Valley isn't a pretty verse. It's a mindset, a lifestyle and an act of faith. When the REAL storms come I'm ready baby!

A Friend at the Right Time.

One of the disadvantages of living in the deep south is the constant onslaught of heat and humidity. For a man who has spent the better part of his adult life in a temperate climate, this poses a few challenges. Fortunately, I usually have the option of setting my own hours which allows me to beat the heat by working into the evening. That is how I found myself, on the wrong side of midnight, driving through rural Louisiana on a warm night in July.

I had packed up my gear and was walking across an empty parking lot to work on my machine when a beagle fell into step next to me. No man with a soul can resist scratching a dog behind the ears, so being the soulful man I am, I squatted down to show the pup some love. She immediately retreated with her tail between her legs. I shrugged it off and continued with my task

Once I finished the work I turned to leave and the beagle lept into pursuit and gave a little yelp. Again I tried to give her a scratch and again she shied away from me. I almost left it at that but I couldn't resist one last try so I sat on the sidewalk and waited for a while. Eventually my patience paid off and my shy little K9 acquaintance came close enough for me to pet her. She stepped into the meager light shed by the streetlights rolled over. I knew then why she was so skittish. In the dim light of the parking lot I had missed the scars. Someone had treated her so badly that almost her entire body was covered by one scar on top of another. Burns, cuts and scars which I couldn't even identify. The only part of her that was untouched seemed to be the part I was petting. After a few moments she decided I must be OK and put her head on my lap and we sat like that for an hour or more while I talked to her. In my mind I was trying to weigh the pros and cons of giving this dog a home. How could I, in good conscience, leave her to whatever situation she was in? The world owed this dog a comfortable existence after whatever hell had marked her.

Just when I was starting to convince myself to start looking for a leash, she stood up, gave a bark and a shake, licked my face as if to say thanks for the chat and padded off down the nearest road leading out of town. It seems that she had found her own path out of hell and only stopped because she saw someone who needed a friend just as much as she did.

After my last post, the few friends who read this little island in the ocean of cyberspace pointed out that when one has friends, it is hard to chalk up ones existence to the negative. After dusting off this old story and giving it some thought, I have to agree. But there are other points to consider. First, when an unknown soul (be it dog or human) can see the good in you at a glance, no matter how dark it is, there must be enough light in you that everything else you do can be viewed in it's brilliance. And finally, the Powers That Be have an uncanny knack of sending a friend at just the moment you need it most... even when that moment is a long way down the road. All that's required is to see them when they come.

A Talk With a Stranger

Some time ago, while enjoying a friends hospitality I spent some time conversing with another guest whom I had not previously met. He was a musician, a poet and an all round artist with aspirations to an enlightened life. Our conversation had turned, as it often does, to career paths and I was explaining my rather mundane job when our mutual friend chimed in about how the job may be dull but my hobbies weren't. That, of course, turned us to a discussion of all of the out of the way knowledge I had accumulated on locksmithing, bush-craft, survival, homesteading, gunsmithing, self defense and so on. After questioning me a little about all of that he thought for a moment and said "It seems you've accumulated every possible negative skill". At the moment I didn't react. Everyone has a right to an opinion after all and it was clear that it wasn't an invitation to a debate. He had simply stated what he thought without malice... but it did make me think.

As I began to consider that short sentence it started to sound more and more like an accusation. No matter what the belief system, most people seem to be willing to acknowledge the link between positive thinking/acting/energy and positive long term results. Whether you believe as I do that God rewards the state of your heart by making you a conduit for positive events, (otherwise known as being blessed) or that positive energy once exerted mentally and pysically is reflected by the universe and returned to you bearing the good energy of others, one thing is clear. Nothing good can come of exercising negativity.

So as I sat home later that night mulling over the implications of that one little comment I began to compile a list. Sadly, the more I thought it through, the more that guy seemed to have a point. I've learned a great deal about survival in a world void of infrastructure out of a belief that society will eventually fall to its own lack of foresight and compassion despite the fact that mankind has steadily risen for over 1000 years. I have learned to be content with few possessions convinced that once gained, someone will wish to deprive me of them. I have learned self defense and the art of the trigger because lacking material goods, the next step is the deprivation of my life and the lives of those I love. I have learned first aid because my previous suppositions have been proven true throughout our society. And every career choice I have pursued until just recently has been based on covering the same bases for others who have had to live with the same realities.

On the reverse of that coin, I cannot create beautiful images nor compose or perform music. I cannot please anyone's taste-buds or give them goosebumps. I can injure and aid but not heal. I can block ingress and egress but I cannot show anyone the Way. I can think but not teach and I can earn but not enrich. Nothing I do seems to bring anyone around me entertainment, hope, wisdom, peace or wealth. So I am forced now to re-examine every step of my path and decide whether the things I have learned are knowledge, wisdom or distraction. Am I more than the sum of my parts or a case study in desperate irrelevancy?

I have spent a long time trying to find meaning in small things because I always thought that being content with small images without the bigger picture was a good way to avoid that feeling one gets of being insignificant when compared to the workings of the universe. But the longer I follow my feet, the more I miss feeling like I have a purpose... and the more I wonder if that lack of purpose stems from a lifetime of negative pursuit.

A Valentine's Warning

On February 14, 1929, Al Capone ordered the murder of five members of the North Side Gang in Chicago. This bloody event eventually became known as the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. Experts believe that the hit was set in motion by an unsuccessful attempt by Bugs Moran to eliminate Capone’s lieutenant Jack McGurn (along with the successful murders of several other key members of the Capone Organization) and continual power grabs for Capone’s territory. But there is another issue here which deserves contemplation… The fact is, a bloodbath is the perfect complement to this mind-rape travesty of a Holiday.

Every year I have stepped up onto my soapbox and spoken against this unholy institution. Every year I take this opportunity to interject some reason, some resistance, to this ridiculous invasion of heart shaped boxes and disgusting, misspelled candy. Yet, despite my efforts, I watch the sheeple of this great nation once again get herded into a mass of doey eyed, slack jawed Shakespearians who are willing to get wallet raped by their local florist for a dozen-count bundle of hay-fever. All for the sake of doing what they should be doing EVERY DAY. I have watched as the single folks around me are pitied, avoided, ridiculed and given advise until it becomes their dearest ambition to beat senseless the next fool who wishes them a “happy singles awareness day”. Countless single cubicle jockeys dream of drowning couples in a frothy mixture of chocolate syrup and their own arterial spray every time they are forced to watch a flower delivery (or one of those weird singing valentines) come off the elevator on their floor. And God forbid any of us have to go to the store for a gallon of milk lest we be trampled by the scores or self absorbed pricks who forgot the whole thing to begin with and are now forced to make a mad dash for a trinket, card or flower to appease the God of Poor Planning.The result is that, by Valentine’s Day, I am ready to slit my wrist with a Golden Heart Pendent.

In the interest, therefore, of blowing off some steam let me make a couple of suggestions for all our benefit. First, if you are one of the happily coupled zombies who thrive on this madness, don’t involve the rest of us. Keep your tonsil hockey and “surprise” proposals to yourself. We already have enough to deal with with considering our retinas are burned from all the pink we’re seeing. Trust me, we are at any moment, going to hurl from the smell of those chalky little candies with the misspelled words. If you dare to ignore this suggestion, there are scores of us who would be happy to boil you alive in your own cologne/perfume.
Second, If you know that someone in your life is single, have the good form NOT TO BRING IT UP! Saying “happy singles awareness day” to the wrong someone is a good way to end up as a chalk outline on the 5 O’clock news. Keep your mouth shut and stay safe.
I propose that this should be a segregated holiday, each side keeping to itself for the sake of everyone’s safety. Cross the fluffy red line at your own peril! To all of you who love this day, beware the wrath of the silent minority lest we celebrate the way Capone’s men demonstrated with two Tommy Guns and footlocker full of ammo.

Watching the Moon

Earlier tonight I went to a friend's party to wind down for the weekend. As the rest of the group was winding up, talking or shouting over each other, I found myself wandering into the yard looking for some quiet and staring into the sky. As I stared at the moon, I was thinking of all the people who drifted in and out of my life. So many souls who were the stepping stones over the hectic river that has been my life. The girl in Southern California who stuck up for me when I was bullied as a kid or the goofy guy in North Texas who turned out to know more about the meaning of friendship than anyone else I've ever known. Or the troubled redhead who crashed on my couch when she had nowhere else to go... Where did those people end up? Are they happy? And most importantly, do they look at the night sky when things are a little too hectic and wonder in their peaceful moments where that Bryan guy ended up?

The Zen of Jazz

I read somewhere that the one thing that makes a great Jazz artist is the ability to create one's own world in music. With its own rules, measurements and rhythms.

For years I've been a Blues man. Blues offers endless room for improvisation but it has a comparatively strict set of rules. For example, when two Blues musicians jam together, one usually plays to the others tune. Almost like a polite deferral to the others musical "brushstroke". But rarely do you see a total digression from the original song.

As I've begun to listen to more Jazz I've noticed that when Jazz artist play together neither gives way to the others style of playing. They always seem to find whole new path through the musical territory. What was a standard piece of music becomes a journey and as often as not, totally surprises everyone involved.

The more I think about that pattern, the more I find the life application agreeable. It serves as a microcosm of interpersonal relationships. Do you politely defer to the rhythms of the people in your life? If so, that's OK. Compromise is an admirable and necessary skill in life. But consider the possibilities when you decide to blaze a completely new trail with someone...

The Koan of The Friends

A long time ago in China there were two friends, one who played the harp skillfully and one who listened skillfully.

When the one played or sang about a mountain, the other would say: "I can see the mountain before us."

When the other played about water, the listener would exclaim: "Here is the running stream!"

But the listener fell sick and died. The first friend cut the strings of his harp and never played again. Since that time the cutting of harp strings has always been a sign of intimate friendship.

A letter for my Mother (heavily edited)

In the few months since my epic re-location to the deep south I've managed to find work, find a roof over my head, scramble around the state like an ant on meth, and shake up the lives of the part of my family I had disregarded for so long. One could see these as noteworthy accomplishments or as nothing more than what is expected of one in a new place. However, the one thing I have not managed to do through periodic conversations is to impress upon you what I've been feeling here. Time seems so limited with a phone on your ear and I can never think through my words sufficiently to avoid worrying you or making it seem as if life is destitute in my new surroundings. You've always told me that you knew I was a survivor and that deeply grained instinct has served me well. But as the people around me are more interested in what's on TV than what troubles each others hearts, I have managed to find more time in my own head than I like to admit.

My job takes me on a nearly six hundred mile tour of rural Louisiana and some days my windshield is like an old drive-in movie screen where I get to view my thoughts. Other days it's the porthole of a sleek little ship showing me the passing waves of farmland, bayou, forest, and logging roads. And yet other days it's a briefly opened window into the lives of other drivers. Some days I see the same people which I had passed (or had passed me) the week before but they never recognize me. It only takes a short time to begin to feel like a ghost as I drift through the back woods.

For some time I expected the people here to be demonstrably different than back home. The people of the city so often have looks of self importance or dazed indifference to their surroundings. But mostly you see fear and distrust in the eyes of someone you meet on the streets of Denver. But after a few months here I haven't seen as much difference as I'd hoped. As I travel the roads from border to border I see so much anxiety and aggression. People who are hardwired on their daily existence with little thought to spare on anything else. And God help anyone who gets in their way as they scratch the bare necesities out of the earth or turn it out with a wrench. Gone are the leagues of white collar cubicle types who spend their days answering phones and developing brutal cases of carpal tunnel. More often than not any man you see between Monroe and Mansura has a melange of synthetic lubricants covering his clothes. Men and women alike bear the scars of manual labor on their hands and only those who subside on the taxpayers dollar know the meaning of manicure.

My eyes have sifted over more acreage in the last 3 months than in the twenty years previous and in all of that space I have yet to see a place where a person can walk for more than a few hours before trespassing on someone else's home acre. But the bright side is that there are a few places that remind me of the mountains even if only a little. Mile by mile I see more flowers in the field and more green in the trees. The animals which seem to have been hiding since I arrived are starting to appear more frequently and in greater numbers. Sometimes, as I drive, I get a glimpse of huge lakes full of cypress and reeds and hope soon to be able to explore those areas. Rivers run here and there offering the promise of unseen places and new adventure provided only that you have a boat.

Much of what I love of nature is here in unending supply. However, much is also lacking and the balance is precarious. When I look up I don't see the vast depth of a sky full of stars to remind me that I'm under God's eye. The breeze doesn't come to me bearing the scent of distant meadows. I never hear the wind thunder through valleys in the distance while standing in still air. There isn't the relief of a brisk chill at night to balance the heat of the day. I can't hear the call of the falcon or the inquisitive growl of a bear on another peak. I have no sense of communion with the land I live on and the uncontrollable joy which I felt at the coming of past spring seasons is absent here though spring is most definitely sprung.

What I still carry on my travels through the land of bayou, swamp, and mist is the hope of a more successful life, the anticipation of new friends, the goal of eventually returning to my beloved peaks and the intention of returning to the family I've always needed even when I was more needed somewhere else. In all things remember that no matter where God lays my path, it is the right path even when it takes me through places that are hard to tread and beyond that all path eventually lead home.

Your loving Son,

Bryan

A Birthday with Three Sisters

High in the mountains of Colorado near the town of Evergreen is a popular Open Space Park where the locals hike, bike and walk their purebred dogs in the saddle between four rock formations. Given enough motivation and some basic supplies you can find yourself far from the boundaries of the park with miles between you and the next inhabited area. This is precisely where I found myself three hours before my birthday in the summer of 2007.

I had, on a matter of principal, decided to avoid my family on my birthday and was wandering aimlessly about three miles from the nearest supported trail. In the late evening I shook myself from my thoughts and found that I had long passed the opportune time to set up a safe camp. In lou of a more common sense approach I settled for a large campfire and an old wool blanket in an open meadow. As the deeper watches of the night fell over me I stared through the flames and felt sorry for myself for growing older (chuckle) and being alone. Late in the night or early in the morning (I don't know which) I heard the silence break in a warbling howl which reminded me of a weeping child. Not yet afraid but definitely cautious I rose from the fire and stepped a short distance away so that my eyes could adjust to the dark. As the flames faded from my eyes I found that I was surrounded by a herd of Elk which had wandered into the meadow on their way to parts unknown. How I had not heard them I'll never know, but there they were picking their way carefully through the field and taking no notice of a lonely camper in their midst. As I watched their slow progress my senses adjusted to my surroundings I began to notice the rustle of wildlife from the treeline and the dull roar of a stiff breeze through a distant valley. Finally I looked up and was stunned at the depth of the the sky above me. No description, no metaphor no emotional outburst can sum it up when you feel that you can see to the very corners of the universe from your tiny perch in the world.

As I returned to the warm circle of my fire and settled in for the night I decided that no matter what my feelings were to the contrary, I wasn't alone there among the stars and wildlife of the mountains, I wasn't alone as I went about my business in the city, and I certainly wasn't alone with my family in such close proximity.

As a side note to the story I decided that morning to spend that birthday with the family (as I always do) but I continued that day with a better perspective brought to me courtesy of a herd or elk near Three Sisters Park.

Homesickness and the Second Moon

As I trudge through my second month in the Deep South I find the opportunities to enjoy the fragrant smoke of my pipe becoming less frequent. The only happiness I've had recently was the offhand wish for a good Valentines day from a friend who does not now nor will ever know what she means to me. At the same time my mind keeps wandering back to the Rocky Mountains. Though I was not born in the peaks of the Great Divide I still consider them my most fundamental home. The foothills outside of Denver were the place where I found my first social niche, my first love, my first trade, and the natural solitude which I learned to love and depend on in hard times.

The vast contrast between here and there continues to be the worst kind of culture shock for me. In several conversations I've mentioned the more drastic differences to a friend and driven her to the point of distraction over what she perceives as habitat snobbery. SO in the interest of better Zen I'm going to focus on some memories of my home and see if I can impart the poetry of those little moments which, when experienced, seemed to mean so little...

The Zen of Throat Cutting (Repost)

Tonight as I feel my face and smoke my pipe I'm counting the new injuries on my ugly mug. There are six right now and every one of them came from the keen edge of my straight razor. Understandably not many (smart) men attempt to test their skill at the traditional method of hair removal these days. So, feeling that I am indeed a smart man, I'll have to review my reasons for doing so. Especially in light of the freshly plowed furrows on my face. However, as with all things I tend to see a deeper meaning in the blood letting.

I woke up late this morning (as I do most days when my work no longer excites me) and decided that, despite the late hour, I had time for a shave. I should have quit after the first nick. After three I was too far along to quit. Sure that I had not honed the blade properly, I gave my steel a thorough stropping after which I promptly nicked myself again... and again. So off I stormed to work and fell into a bitter complaint session with one of my co-workers. He pointed out (with a bemused look) that if he were as high strung as I looked at the moment, it would take an act of God to get an open blade near his face. Needless to say I denied being wound up and went on to stampede through my day.

This evening I began to think that maybe my good buddy the Shop Guy had a point. I got to thinking a little about something I had written on the first incarnation of my MySpace blog. It was about how I could always tell when my life was falling apart by the state of my pipe smoke (yet another long drawn out theory which I may re-post here). That led me to the further conclusion that I've filled my life with little procedures which I can't perform unless I'm on an even keel. This includes the long process of stropping, mugging, and drawing a sharp piece of steel across my face. Or the time consuming act of winding and setting an antique pocket watch. Or even the fill, tamp, puff, tamp, light, tamp, puff pattern of smoking my pipe. All these things make it impossible to be in a hurry. At one time I made these choices in a concerted effort to slow myself down and keep from stressing out while showing a healthy respect for tradition and style. While these little rituals accomplish this quite well under ordinary circumstances, they also serve as a fool-proof gauge of my mental state... which I have found out to the detriment of my face, my wallet, and my badly burnt tongue (at different times).

SO where can we apply this in our new philosophy... in what niche can we place this rather mundane story? Today we will call this a lesson in trimming the excess. My advice today is this; If you add ritual, drama and complexity where none is needed. If you over engineer your emotional walls, over analyze your relationships, or wear one mask over another... well just be prepared to deal with the scars (both physical and emotional) of a needlessly complex existence.

Watch out for those nicks,
-B-

Intro to my Zen

To date, I have scrawled my thoughts across the pages of Myspace, Facebook and 360 with no particular structure. As I change social networking sites I find that I loose some decent material when those accounts die. So I'm going to try to centralize some of those post here and build a structure for future post. I only do this because there are a few people who have shown some interest in my ideas... and some who I hope will in the future.

I found myself talking to someone today and we discussed the usefulness of posting this kind of thing. after a while I found myself explaining that I had written just such tripe and had stopped because I didn't think that someone who really knew the important things in life could find Zen in his pocket watch, or gauge his mental state by his morning shave, or see meaning in the wisp of smoke streaming fro his pipe. She responded simply that she liked it. SO if it gives me something to do in the long watches of the night... then who am I to refuse.

I'm calling this back corner of the web "The Zen of Throat Cutting" (a tip of the hat to straight razors which are also call cutthroat razors) and it's going to be my continuing attempt to add weighty meaning to the small things in life for anyone who, like me, lacks the big things enjoyed by so much of the world. The following couple of post will be repost of old material just to get me started...
-B-