Psychic Samurai

This past weekend, friends invited me to go see Olafur Eliasson's exhibit, Take Your Time, at the MOMA's PS1 Annex in Queens. I'd never heard of Eliasson, and they cancelled on me anyway, so I didn't think much about it and forgot the artist's name. Then, today, a work buddy told me about waterfalls being put up around lower Manhattan - on the Brooklyn Bridge, among other key locations. She mentioned the artist's name, and then I said, "Oh, yeah, I was supposed to see his exhibit over the weekend." I checked out the NY Times story briefly, thought it was pretty cool, but again forgot about it. So there I was, on the express bus going down the FDR drive, when suddenly I, and everyone else on the bus, was ooing and aaahhing like a bunch of kindergarten kids on a field trip. There was the first waterfall, near the base of the Manhattan Bridge. The sight of it was indescribably magical. I haven't felt that way since I rode past Marine Park in Brooklyn years ago, and turned to see a herd of elephants (later finding out that the Big Apple Circus shows there every year.) It's amazing how a great big slab of unexpected senseless beauty can leave a bunch of tired, grumpy commuters awestruck. Art is a lot of things, but I especially love it when art is...this. It brought back my sense of...wonder.

Well, it was a pretty rough week for my dad, but he seems to have turned a corner. Tuesday night was the low point - it was touch-and-go for a while - he'd developed pneumonia, and had to go back on a ventilator. The main complication here is his emphysema, which has simply left his lungs in a weaker state than the average person his age. In any event, my youngest sister flew out there on Thursday, and I understand he started doing better almost immediately. He also received the haikus that my mother wrote for him and sent by express mail, and not only did he love them, but that seemed to soften my aunt (his sister) and she started talking to my mom again; she called my mom to tell her that she read them to him and that dad (who with all the tubes has not been able to speak) then took the letter and clutched it to his heart. My aunt said his bp and heart rate went down noticeably as he read them. He's still being ventilated, and they had to do a tracheotomy for longer-term ventilation, since they can't keep that ventilator tube in for more than a week. However, I can't express how much things have shifted for the better; a few days ago they were talking about whether he'd make it through the night, and now they're saying things like "when he moves out of ICU." I've heard the nurses were pretty amazed at how quickly he's been improving. Obviously, things are serious, but the important thing is the positive direction and momentum that seems to have developed.

I ordered a Vermont Teddy Bear super-hero get well bear for him; it seemed like a good healing totem that he'd get a kick out of. I've been honing my healing ritual; I wish I could say I've done it every night, but it's more like every other night...I've felt so drained by all this, and it takes a lot of energy to do all that drumming, singing and chanting. On the other hand, the amazing thing is that when I've completed it, no matter how tired I was before, I feel more energized than I was before, but it's hard to get into it and get started when I'm feeling depleted. I've been flying on instinct, taking a lot of inspiration and guidance from Serge Kahili King's book "Urban Shaman." I agree with King's belief that the specifics of the methodology you use is not important, as long as it resonates personally for you (if you've grown up within a tradition, it may have a lot of personal resonance for you, but if not, you kind of have to go with what moves you here and now). The idea is that the purpose of ritual practices and objects is to serve as a lens to focus and purify your intention; they're not necessary, just extremely useful. Me discussing this with my mom is in fact what led her to write poems. Everyone looks at this stuff differently, but I always feel like I want to have one foot grounded in the world of science, albeit controversial cutting-edge science like "What The Bleep Do We Know?!?" and especially Lynn McTaggart's "The Intention Experiment." I believe that everything in the universe has both a scientific and a spiritual explanation, that there is no conflict, it's just two different ways of looking at the same thing. Yesterday, at East West Books, I got a few items that really seemed to help everything come together. Most importantly was a "traveling altar" to the Medicine Buddha (that's the blue Buddha you often see in Tibetan pictures) as well as a sepharinite crystal (it's reputed to be a powerful healing stone as well as specifically good for the lungs.) And I also got a beautiful handmade Peruvian gourd rattle. This piece has a huge amount of energy; the second I started using it I could feel it. It really helped bring me into a place where I felt I could focus tons of healing energy on my dad. Incidentally, although most people with a spiritual bent probably know this already, scientific studies of healers show that one of the most important common traits in successful healing is the person "doing" the healing fully acknowledging and understand that they are simply serving as a conduit for divine energy; and this is true whether we're talking about Christian faith healers, shamans, hindu holy men - whatever. This all on a spiritual level also dovetails with my belief that God or the divine or whatever fallible descriptive phrase from human language you want to use, is the same force everywhere, and all the differences and discrepancies are based on the fallible, finite capacity of the human mind to interpret and describe what is infinite, perfect, and ineffable. Again, these are my beliefs and I don't mean to push them on any one else, but they have been powerfully inspirational in my life, and more recently, specifically in my approach to my dad's illness.

I don't know if what I've been doing has had an effect, but I certainly hope so; at the very least, it enables me to remain positive and optimistic and project that positivity and optimism to my family and to my father. I suspect there's more going on. I know for sure that having his youngest daughter by his side is having a very positive concrete effect, and I'm so thankful that she's out there. I'm thankful that things have improved between my mother and my aunt. And most of all I'm thankful that my dad is doing better, and I hope that positive momentum keeps going.

Incidentally, I had a conversation with my mom last week wherein I heard words I'd never heard, nor ever expected to hear, come out of her mouth "I'll be praying for your father." No, despite their divorce, the fact that she wishes him well is not at all a surprise. The fact that this cynical almost-atheist said "I'll be praying" completely floored me. In the best way possible. Life truly is crazy.

I have not been able to talk to my dad today. He's been in the hospital again for the last 5 days or so, and had a couple of abdominal procedures relating to complications after the burst appendix.  The most recent surgery was performed very early Saturday morning, and he was on a ventilator until around 7 last night.  I spoke with the nurses today, and they say he's doing better, but will remain in ICU today, and, understandably, his voice is weak and he's somewhat out of it, so he can't really talk on the phone.  All of his kids are on various coasts, and Dad's sister is currently acting as the "point person" out there in NM, but she's managed to alienate most of the rest of his family and friends, so getting information has been difficult. 

I've been doing what I can in terms of sending healing energy...I've developed a little routine involving lighting pinon incense (the signature scent of the New Mexico desert), drumming, singing and flute playing, combined with sharply focused positive intention (feel free to call it prayer, it's basically my version of it.)  My mother and I talked about this as well, and how I believe the important thing is that the person sending the intention uses a method that they find personally inspiring and resonant, so she's been writing haikus for him (they're both poets, and he was on a big haiku-writing kick in recent years.)

It's a serious situation, but I'm feeling hopeful and optimistic about my dad's recovery...just bummed we haven't been able to chat today.  But I know he knows I'm thinking about him.

It's been quite a while since I 've covered any new territory during my periodic Manhattan mini-treks, but, today, I again heeded impulse and intuition, with wonderful results. The express bus enters midtown at E. 23rd St., and normally I'll get off at 23rd & Park, grab something to eat, then head to Madison Square Park for a while, before strolling down Broadway, maybe stopping at ABC Carpet to ogle (and occasionally purchase) the various Buddhist and Hindu doodads. This is usually followed by a stop at the Union Square Barnes & Noble, then some more park-sitting time in the always-jumping Union Square (I"ve heard more than one person say it feels like the true heart of the city, which may largely be because of the way all the various subway lines and other modes of transportation from all five boros converge around there.) Perhaps I'll poke my head into Filene's Basement and Whole Foods, before hitting East West Books, which I often view as the central goal of my little journey.

Today, as the bus snaked up the FDR Drive and I admired the long stretch of waterfront park on the east side, realizing I'd never been in that park, I decided to get off at 23rd and 1st and head to the river to check it out. Right decision. What I found, what I've often craved, and which is in such short supply in this town, is open space and solitude. There's a nifty little park right between 23rd and 18th along the East River called Stuyvesant Cove, and it's got a deliciously rustic feel. There are benches angled all along for perfect waterfront views, as well as a bike path between the park and the highway, but what's especially lovely is the little wooded paths alongside the open waterfront path. Small groves of trees hide soft winding paths padded with wood chips, and every so often one comes upon a little covered gazebo with a series of benches arranged in a U shape, well shaded both by the roof and by tree cover, yet allowing a partial view of the water. What a sweet secret summer delight! I just sat there lost in a pleasant reverie, feeling too lazy in the sultry humid June afternoon to even crack my book open, but absolutely saturated in subtle bliss. Stuyvesant Cove was by no means deserted, but interestingly, every one there seemed to have a similar mission to mine - to obtain soul-nourishing solitude and natural beauty in the midst of urban chaos. It's moments like these when I really feel appreciation for urban planning; someone in a government office building sat down at their drafting table (or more likely comptuer, nowadays) and lovingly crafted this soul-enriching spot. Thank you, whoever you are.

As I reached the end of the park, near E. 18th and Ave. C, I noticed that the waterside path continued, though quite bare and stark, and I understand it eventually leads to a very large park with lots of amenities, ball fields and such, which I also plan to check out sooner than later. But, this time, I crossed FDR Drive and walked into the wonderland of Stuyvesant Town, another place I've never been in the 23 years I've lived in New York. What an interesting combination of small-town and big-city living. There was a little bit of a canned feel to it all, but I couldn't help noticing that neighbors said "hi" and stopped each other for long conversations in a way that doesn't happen so much elsewhere in the city. In the middle of the complex is a little park, with lots of residents and others sunbathing, picknicking etc., and a sort of massive sprinkler-system kind of thing for kids to jump around in in the hot weather. I noticed a small stage was set up in the park. A surreal experience, Stuy Town in the pre-summer heat definitely took on the feel of an enchanted oasis, as much a function of my own rich and eccentric inner life as anything else, but nonetheless a very pleasant experience.

I exited Stuy Town at the 14th St. and Ave. A exit, and decided to head down to Tompkins Square Park. After that stint in Faeryland, I had a bit of a craving for the raw grit that still survives in the East Village. As I reached the entrance of Tompkins Square, I heard the enticing sound of congas, and I knew I was once again in the right place at the right time. I hit the public men's room in the park, first, and standing next to me was a full-on punk rocker, all of about 19 years old, but looking like it was 1981 with a blue mohawk, 10 or 12 piercings, authentically ripped (and authentically dirty) clothes; as I stepped out I saw a gang of similarly attired young men waiting for him. I moved along towards the sound of the music, which was vintage Nuyorican salsa; I saw a band on the stage near the south side of the park, but it became clear that they were still setting up and the music was a record (uhhh...mp3 file?!? who knows these days...) being played over the sound system. I found a good seat on a semi-circle of benches facing the stage, and watched as the band started to do sound-check. They were a diverse crew, ages ranging from 20's to 60's, many latino, many not. As the leader of the band, a sixtiesh guy with shades, a long gray pony tail and a muscle shirt with the colors of the Puerto Rican flag, and a Fender Stratocaster around his neck, took the microphone, he introduced the band as Santiago. He name-checked a few long-time neighborhood activists and gave a shout-out to the "all the Loisadas", and dedicated the show to a number of community musicians who have passed on. Santiago's sound was actually a blend of rock and latin music, some with vocals, some instrumentals; quite reminiscent of Santana, in fact. They jammed out quite a bit, and although the crowd was sparse, some people really cut loose and danced in the near-90-degree heat. Just as Santiago's set was ending, thunder started roaring in the distance. I hightailed it over to 1st Avenue and grabbed a taxi back to Brooklyn. Pretty tasty day, all told.

Something is brewing...but what?

As I've generally become more and more open to acting on my intuition without second-guessing it, I looked in my fridge to see that I've been accumulating ingredients, apparently haphazardly, yet with some underlying sense of connectedness that I can "taste," but can't quite articulate...I have had no particular reason to buy any of these things, and I'm not sure what they'll be used for, yet they somehow seem to belong together:

1 jar of papaya chutney
1 jar of pickled ginger
1 jar of Thai green curry paste
2 fresh limes
1 bag of fresh peppermint leaves
1 quart of coconut water

Why do I suddenly feel like the missing ingredient is rum?  Oh, well.

Well, after finding plastic in my dumplings for the 2nd time about a month or two ago, I stopped getting chinese takeout. Which forced me to explore other options. I really do want to learn to cook; especially fish. I really love fish now, and I'd love to be able to come home and make some fish, rice and vegetables...healthy and delicious. Anyway, in the mean time, I've been bringing home these premade organic/macro/vegan bento boxes, which aren't bad at all; this one has brown rice w/mixed vegetables, spicy dumplings and fake chicken. I bought this really tasty Soy Ginger sauce with Shiitake Mushrooms by Annie Chun, and it's perfect. A Brooklyn Monster Ale (yes, a whopping 10% alcohol, but it's a really warm, mellow brew, almost like brandy; this style of beer is known as "barleywine" and it's great for slow sipping...the buzz is much more like drinking wine, actually. Low-key and pleasant) tops it all off. The sun came out a little while ago, and the temperature is maybe in the low 70's, and it's dry. I have my windows open, and I can hear birds chirping and children playing...pretty relaxing, actually. So different from having that 10th floor window facing Broadway in Manhattan. I like my new home in my old neighborhood. Dessert? Barbara's whole wheat fat free fig bars. I'm a wild man, I know...but I really like this stuff.

Tomorrow, I'm going to pull a big shocker and wear a tie...and a blazer! My mom has been bugging me for months to have dinner with her at this arts club that she's a charter member of, and they actually have a coat and tie rule...in 2008! It sounds sorta nice, in a stuffy kind of way. Heck, it'll be something different, and it's been ages since I've been in any remotely swanky sort of place. Maybe they'll have a piano bar or something. I'm guessing they won't have organic/macro/vegan bento boxes, but, hey...nobody's perfect.

Did you feel that sudden infusion of mojo cascading across the universe? Yup, Bo Diddley, the man who really invented rock-and-roll, has left this dimension, leaving behind him one incredible legacy. His influence is felt to this day across multiple genres and generations...not to mention his fashion sense (can you rock it like this?) The following performance, from an outdoor festival in the 70's is, simply put, un-freakin-believable. I challenge any performer currently living, of any style, to top it:

I've become increasingly fascinated with the ongoing musical conversation between West Africa and the Carribbean. A really tasty example of this is the Senegalese band Orchestra Baobab. The foundation of their sound is a combination of current and traditional Senegalese melodies and harmonies, but they are heavily influenced by Cuban musical forms such as salsa* and rumba, as well as by reggae and ska. The resultant music makes perfect sense; most of the percussion is conga and other hand drums, and many of the tracks have a distinct latin flavor, but with a refreshing skew to it, while a few veer more towards a Jamaican sound. Most of the vocals on their aptly titled album Specialist in All Styles are in their native language, but Orchestra Baobab even recorded the classic Cuban track "El son te llama" (you'll know it when you hear it, with that refrain of "Guajira...") in Spanish. Their accents are pretty good, too, if a bit overly precise. I find this kind of cross-pollination really exciting and inspiring. You hear the term "world music" an awful lot, but I think it best applies to highly successful and enjoyable experiments in the cross-cultural blending of musical forms such as this one.

* [EDIT: I have been, not entirely accurately, referring to salsa as a "Cuban" music.  In fact, although largely based on musical and rhythmic structures created in Cuba, the origin of salsa music is highly complex and involved both immigrants (and the children of immigrants) from and residents of several latin american regions.  Most notably, following the Cuban revolution and subsequent reduction of cultural contact back and forth with the U.S., musicians from New York City's Puerto Rican community played a pivotal role in the 60's and 70's in creating what is probably the most widely recognized variety of salsa sound.  NY's Fania Records, founded by a Dominican immigrant, was central in this process.  A fascinating article by Jaime Andrés Pretell on the subject can be found here.]

I just bought Mahatma Gandhi: The Essential Writings. Recently, I realized that, while I had, in my teens and twenties, been very political and barely spiritual at all, in the last decade or so, I've transitioned to being very spiritual and barely political. I had a bit of an epiphany that either way feels overly compartmentalized for me, and so I began feeling a pull towards something that encompasses both. The writings, philosophy, life and actions of Mahatma Gandhi very much fit the bill, and are totally in line with many of the political and spiritual ideals I aspire to (of course I'm a long way off from attaining them, but pointing yourself in the right direction is the first step.) 

I feel it's important for me to embrace a personal hero who lived and died by the principles of non-violent resistance. Non-violence has nothing to do with cowardice; in fact, in acts like lying down in front of a tank, or refusing to end a protest after soldiers fire on the crowd, non-violence often provides an opportunity to show far greater courage than violence ever does. Conversely, many acts of violence are perpetrated by utter cowards. This is not to say that I'm not a fearful person; my courage or lack thereof is essentially irrelevant in terms of my choice to embrace non-violence; I certainly would like to be more courageous than I am, and I've been taking steps in that direction for a while now, whereas I don't aspire to ever be one iota more violent than I am. In fact, on the non-physical (i.e. emotional, verbal and social) level, I'm sure I could stand to be considerably less violent. 

Aside from the fact that Gandhi synthesized deeply held spiritual beliefs into concrete practical actions which made a positive difference in the lives of millions of people, I also am inspired by his deeply held belief in egalitarianism; within his ashrams, he threw off the strict societal limitations based on caste, religion, gender, and many other factors, encouraging communication and connection between all individuals, as well as active participation by all in acts of non-violent resistance. Gandhi fervently and consistently espoused the ideal that all human beings are worthy of dignity, respect, compassion and basic human rights. He also rejected the dominance of any one particular brand of religious dogma, instead embracing the idea of pure, raw truth, as the ultimate spiritual expression of humanity's relationship with God. I'm only on the introduction, but I'm really looking forward to sinking my teeth into this book. 

Weather's been truly crazy all day...sun then rain then sun then rain...but now it's stabilized. The evening sun is crisp and lovely, the light is startlingly clear and pure...almost autumnal. Pretty cool, all around. So, what the hell...since Jimmy Cliff is in the air, here he is:


[EDIT:  I decided to take a nice 30 minute walk around my neighborhood, realizing that, since I've moved to Brooklyn, I've been doing a lot less walking.  It was indeed a very pleasant walk, at a brisk pace, and for me, for now, very much qualifies as exercise.  I stopped off at the local organic market, and guess what song was playing there just now?  Yup, this very one.  High five, Universe]

Oh no...it's every frat boy's worst nightmare -- P.J. Harvey and Bjork murdering and resurrecting the Rolling Stones' uber-classic "Satisfaction." I haven't heard such a cool feminist reworking of a 60's testosterone-laden anthem since Patti Smith's earth-shattering cover of "Gloria."



Many thanks to DMJ2012 for sending me this link!

Don't ever tell anybody anything.  If you do, you start missing everybody.
- J.D. Salinger

I wrote about Iron & Wine last fall. I went through my phase of discovering indie bands years ago, and my tastes have shifted over time. But Iron & Wine transcend the stifling limitation of musical pigeonholing. What this is, ultimately, is modern folk music, of great richness and depth. Poetry of the finest quality set to music that easily does it justice. As various individuals (my songwriting instructor years ago, writer Nick Hornby) have pointed out, a great song is more than the sum of its parts; there's a synergy to it, a powerful chemistry created between the words and the music that defies logical analysis. Iron & Wine's "Resurrection Fern" - a song that has absolutely no personal associations or meanings for me, and which lyrically speaks of a way of life I find unfamiliar (and yet, on some deeper, archetypal level, utterly familiar) - has haunted me for a long time now. About a week ago, I awoke in the middle of the night with the song running through my mind (I believe I'd fallen asleep with their album playing on my headphones), and I absolutely had to get my guitar out and figure out how to play it. I've been tempted to record it, but, quite honestly, I don't think I could do Sam Beam's subtle, understated vocals anything resembling justice. In any event, listening to this song somehow, some way, brings me to my knees. I find myself weeping, neither tears of joy nor tears of sorrow, but simply tears of being.

I'm posting two videos. The first is the studio recording (very clearly audible and well recorded) accompanied by a very nicely crafted user-created video of simple images designed to look like grainy silent film. The second is a live performance in a tiny church in Brighton, England, a venue I find entirely appropriate as "Resurrection Fern" is, to my mind, very much a hymn. I've also posted the highly poetic lyrics, which stand on their own beautifully, although it's the music that truly gives them life.







"Resurrection Fern"
(c) 2007 by Iron & Wine

In our days we will live like our ghosts will live
pitching glass at the cornfield crows and folding clothes
like stubborn boys across the road, we’ll keep everything
Grandma’s gun and the black bear claw that took her dog

And when Sister Lowery says “Amen,” we won’t hear anything
The ten-car train will take that word, that fledgling bird
and the fallen house across the way, it’ll keep everything
the baby’s breath, our bravery wasted and our shame

And we’ll undress beside the ashes of the fire
Both our tender bellies wound in baling wire
All the more a pair of underwater pearls
Than the oak tree and its resurrection fern

In our days, we will say what our ghosts will say
“We gave the world what it saw fit, and what’d we get?”
Like stubborn boys with big green eyes, we’ll see everything
in the timid shade of the autumn leaves and the buzzard’s wing

Then we’ll undress beside the ashes of the fire
Our tender bellies all wound around in baling wire
All the more a pair of underwater pearls
Than the oak tree and its resurrection fern

Standing in line in front of me at the organic market today was a rather nondescript woman wearing a tank top. Between her shoulder blades was a huge, vivid, beautiful tattoo of three pomegranates, one of them sliced open to reveal hundreds of seeds shimmering like rubies. People throw around the term "body art"...but this really was art...it clearly was painstakingly and lovingly created by someone who is indeed an artist. I stood there silently imagining what the pomegranates might mean to her, why she felt compelled to have this lovely but puzzling mural permanently etched into her flesh, and what the tatoo must mean to random passersby. This little brief incident infused my otherwise drab day with magic and mystery.

There's still time to secure your spot on Psychic Samurai's friends list...but you must act now!

Hi, I'm Troy McClure. You may remember me from such films as Gladys the Groovy Mule and The President's Neck is Missing. Now, if you enjoy reading Psychic Samurai as much as I do, I know you'll want to take advantage of this very special offer. As a current member of Psychic Samurai's friends list, you are in a very exclusive club...and, as we all know, membership has its privileges. The coolness-by-association factor alone is staggering...but let's get practical. If you're anything like me, reading Psychic Samurai is your primary means of staying on top of world events, entertainment news, alternative philosophy and, of course, vegetarian fast food.

But time is running out, dear friends. In just four short days, Psychic Samurai will cut every person on his friends list...that's right...every person on his friends list...except for those savvy individuals, like yourself, who reply to this entry (comments will remain screened) asking to be spared from the dreaded mouse-click.

So, don't delay, act now...just one simple comment and you will be assured of continued membership in one of the world's most elite and exclusive organizations...Psychic Samurai's friends list. And, as a thank you gift to his LJ friends, after the cut, Psychic Samurai will put up a very special friends-only post - a high quality audio recording of a song chosen by you, the friends of Psychic Samurai, performed by the Psychic one himself! Start thinking of songs now, because voting begins on Monday!

Now if, despite all the scientific evidence and general hoopla, you have decided that being a "Psychic friend" is no longer the cup of tea that floats your boat, you don't have to lift a finger. Simply refrain from commenting on this entry, and your membership won't be renewed...but the pen and the keychain are yours to keep! Hey...it takes all kinds, I s'pose! But if you're anything like me, Troy McClure, I know you'll want to jump on this very special offer like a polecat on a possum's papoose. So...ready...set...reply!

I want to wish all the mothers reading this a very happy Mother's Day!

And to the children (of all ages), the grandchildren, nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters, and the husbands and boyfriends (and girlfriends) - remember to treat the mothers in your life (whether it's your mother, the mother of your children, or just someone who's been "like a mother" to you), with kindness, love, dignity and respect...not just today, but every day. They deserve no less.

For all the mothers and all the others, here's a lovely clip from 1970 of Dionne Warwick giving a stellar performance of "What The World Needs Now". As a bonus, at the end of the video, Dionne & Burt Bacharach reminisce about the many hits he wrote and she recorded, even doing a little medley of them.

I have to stop this bad habit of doing one load of laundry every 2-3 days. Instead of buckling down and doing a week's worth on Sunday night, I did just enough to get me through to Tuesday, when, I thought, I'd have the time and energy to do the rest. I didn't count on coming down with a cold on Monday night, and laying in bed all day Tuesday! I totally forgot about the laundry until I got home today, at which point my energy was below sea level, so I just threw in enough stuff to get me through to Saturday morning. I also apparently threw in a dollar bill, which is now crisp and clean as a whistle...giving new meaning to the term money laundering! Sadly, this is hardly the first time. At least it wasn't hand-written notes or a letter or something...as I've learned the hard way, while the U.S. Treasury Dept. uses waterproof ink, your garden variety ballpoint pens do not!

Along with bed rest, my cold self-treatment involved my own special recipe, one which prompted a coworker to make a snarky comment about "eye of newt." This works best if you live alone, or at least have very understanding family/spouse/housemates:

Psychic Samurai's Cold-Kicking Brew:

1 clove of garlic, freshly grated or crushed
1 tbsp. honey
1 tsp. ginger
1 tsp. thyme

Mix ingredients vigorously, then consume. Go back to bed and repeat in four hours. Today, however, I mixed it up and made a kind of a mediterranean yogurt sauce. The ingredients are the same as above, but with 2tbsp nonfat greek yogurt substituted for the honey. That actually made a pretty tasty...errr...dish. I still ate it straight, but I think it would be pretty good over rice...although the real deal is usually made with dill and no ginger, I believe. Of course, honey is a natural antiobiotic and healing agent, so I'm still going to make sure to down some before I sleep...which will hopefully be in about 15 minutes!

Great art speaks to you personally. I think one of the marks of its greatness is if it feels like a direct line of communication between its creator and its audience. Of course, it feels that way because it is, but part of the brilliance is that 50 people can experience the same work and be totally moved by it, but in different ways, receiving different messages. In that way, I kind of see it in a similar light to spiritual experience; there's an overarchingly universal element to it, and also an ineffable, achingly personal side to it. This is a function largely of the person appreciating the work, of their hopes, dreams, loves, hates, of the filter through which they look at the world -- all that does a great to deal to shape their unique experience -- but that experience is created by the author of the work, and in its creation also speaks of that person's hopes, dreams, loves, hates, of the filter through which they see things. Great art isn't necessarily always easy...sometimes it can be quite a difficult experience, both for the artist during its creation, as well as for the audience.

I've been reading a bit of poetry lately. One poem I recently read hit me like a tornado, turned me upside-down and inside-out, for a little while. It was so unsettling, in the moment, that it was hard for me to even see just how good it was. But I knew it was, and I knew that, on some level, the universality of its greatness was more important than my personal experience of its turbulence. These thoughts kept plaguing me, into my dreams, until I found myself in a lecture hall, where that poet was about to read the poem in question. I walked up to her, touched her arm, and looked her straight in the eye. For a moment, we simply connected nonverbally, in an open, trusting and sincere manner. Then I said "I have to tell you...it's really, really good."

Due to popular demand, here is a "mysterious" photo of me in my new hat. I'll have to get a pair of suspenders and wear them over a white A-shirt for full effect. While I'm at it, can anyone lend me a trumpet? You hafta admit, I am one hell of a quixotic mofo. I mean, I'm even more quixotic than the wild parrots of Brooklyn, and that's saying something.



Now, as you might suspect, a quixotic fella like me often gets the blues. Sometimes even the indigoes. So, to fully set the mood, here's a little Duke Ellington, with, yes, Mood Indigo (and a rare rendition, played at a faster tempo...call the Duke quixotic if you will, but in fact it works beautifully):

...quixotic.   I love the word, and I love the quality in myself.  Sometimes it makes life needlessly difficult, but it always makes life more interesting.  To more practical folks, it perhaps has rather negative connotations, but for me, the word sparkles and shimmers, brimming with life.

I just bought a new hat, one which looks remarkably like a hat my grandfather might have had in 1947 or so...checked tweed fedora (I think?) with a small feather on one side.  I wear it well.