Note to a Friend


Guten Morgen, Fraulein.

Omg, RW, this is a very nice photo…you’re just such a freakin’ Happy- and kind of peaceful-looking guy 🙂 :). WISE, too!!

Oh jeez, it’s nice to see you here because I feel just the opposite, haaa.

I can’t stop crying and I don’t want to talk to Anyone, can’t trust anyone, having trouble breathing again…

…full of anger, although it’s only latent — such that what it’s all about IF ANYTHING is not clear at all. The whole “idea” of this Me and me-in-the-world desperately wants and needs to be clarified. My relationship with life and everything in it…you know, RW? I don’t trust myself here. And I don’t trust heavy emotionalism, is it mere indulgence, as I’ve been told?

Or is it merely okay, just another beautiful part of life that individuals sometimes express??

Everyone alive pretends they have it all figured out, that this is elementary, childish, naive — “emotional naivete” — they are lying to themselves.

I have my radio show this afternoon and gotta get into a different frame of mind to get through it, ha, yaaaah thiiiiink??

For some reason, I’m listening to “The Tourist” by Radiohead over and over right now. Hmmm.

Alright, that’s lp in a nutshell for you this morning!… [numerous emojis of faces with sunglasses and eyes with hearts in them]

Love and Betrayal

Simple material here, I know…love, betrayal, standard stuff. Everyone deals with it, every day.

Humans hurt each other in attempts to display power. And because it’s false power, everybody suffers.

What is “false” power, you ask. Wrong question —

The only question worth asking is, What is True power??

And who asks the right questions? Most of us don’t ask questions at all, rather we react to the false steps, tripping over them, and then fall down. And in the far field in which we find ourselves, then what happens?….

I don’t know, can’t see it at the moment…. There’s war. There’s separation. There’s incredible pain. There’s death, weakness. When the wind blows, one is much too, far too, weak to stand up in it —

Wind is Real power. That is just real, just raw, power. All of nature is! Yet one makes oneself unable to respond, through the glorious, facile weakness of self-abdication. One is heavy, unable to grab the wind and be blown away by it, to new ground.

All I can see right now is that hurting oneself, and hurting others — either way — is a lose-lose situation.

A Moth to Flame

The Santa Barbara Central Public Library is a house of learning. A very large and exciting one, full of candy for a old child addicted to knowledge. What kind of knowledge? Anything you want, folks, you can get anything you want here, just like Alice’s Restaurant.

Each day, over the many decades I have stepped through the conspicuously heavy glass entryway doors  of the Central Library and crossed the threshold on my way to a particular seat in a particular cubicle in a particular quadrant of the upstairs back corner, my duty has been to eat, to consume, to digest, and perhaps to excrete and reconstitute, worldly knowledge.

One fine day, who knows when, I found myself in my cubicle in the far back, surrounded by the required utensils — backpack, ballpoint pens, .5mm mechanical pencils, yellow pad, a jacket in case of a momentary chill, possibly a discrete water bottle. Certainly I made the trip to this very spot for some scripted reason, as always. Yet I can say with absolute certainty that the itinerary and roadmap I faithfully followed this day in the footsteps of my knowledge-seeking forefathers, appropriate footwear included, led me to an unscripted, unsettled, and unsettling destination.

The chair looked and felt the same. The people, if there were any around me, all seemed the same: quietly reading, writing, wandering, staring into space. The air smelled the same as ever: like dusty paper. But this day, I was cast as a disembodied wanderer. The “knowledge” I sought for lunch, the same sandwich as always, perhaps just a different kind of cheese this day, tasted like foregone knowledge, predigested, devoid of nutrients. I could not eat.

I sat motionless, becoming one with the woodwork, staring into a space separate from that of other library patrons staring into the same space.

The Santa Barbara Central Library is forever fortified against those of us who would burn holes in its walls with our piercing, directionless stare. With all this vast, endless smorgasbord of opportunities to increase, to expand, to grow, to vibrate with ever-brighter pin lights intended to lift our heads out of the darkness of unknowing, some of us must yet persist in starving ourselves even in sight of these sweet, sweet offerings. In the name of —

…In the name of what? The eternal question. Why, why would I, how could I, refuse the luscious fruits on this great tree of wisdom whose towering main branch was right here literally at my fingertips?

I have no answer. My mind, and following it my body, walked on down the hall, randomly or maybe not so randomly, picking off the shelf a biography of Jim Morrison. Long dead, like the predigested knowledge that I sensed has defined my very meager and lifeless existence, his life and memory seemed to signify in me some faraway deeply pure and poetic drum beat, heartbeat. It called and still calls to me now. I sat and disappeared into the scraping of his fingernails across the chalkboard of his mind, his world, his passions.

Hours later, years, decades, lifetimes, millennia, after some timeless period of time, long outside and far off that linear path I dutifully trod to arrive at my self-assigned pew in the hidden back corner of the Central Library’s campanile — I believe it was this day that I finally saw behind the bookshelves, beyond the stated intent of the Public Library’s existence and of my intentional forays to this very nook in this very place in this little town.

What I saw was the pinhole through which I might crawl, thin and undernourished, out of knowledge and into inspiration. The dream of following what the biographer Stephen Davis called Jim Morrison’s searing poetic vision and voracious appetite for spiritual and psychedelic experience – if just for a moment.

And for this clandestine opportunity to peer through its walls, I am deeply grateful to the Santa Barbara Central Public Library. Deeply grateful, to this imposing, authoritatively solid and alluring structure to which I am instinctually drawn, just as uncertain and just as real as a moth to flame.

Cosmic Jokes

How Women and Men Record in Their Diaries

Wife’s Diary:

Dear Diary – Tonight, I thought my husband was acting weird. We had made plans to meet at a nice restaurant for dinner. I was shopping with my friends all day long, so I thought he was upset at the fact that I was a bit late, but he made no comment on it.

Conversation wasn’t flowing, so I suggested that we go somewhere quiet so we could
talk. He agreed, but he didn’t say much. I asked him what was wrong; He said,   ‘Nothing.’ I asked him if it was my fault that he was upset.. He said he wasn’t upset, that it had nothing to do with me, and not to worry about it.

On the way home, I told him that I loved him. He smiled slightly, and kept driving. I can’t explain his behaviour. I don’t know why he didn’t say, ‘I love you, too.’

When we got home, I felt as if I had lost him completely, as if he wanted nothing to do with me any more. He just sat there quietly watching TV. He continued to seem     distant and absent. Finally, with silence all around us, I decided to go to bed. About 15 minutes later, he came to bed. But I still felt that he was distracted, and his thoughts were somewhere else. He fell asleep; I cried. I don’t know what to do. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. My life is a disaster.

Husband’s Diary:

A two-foot putt .. who the hell misses a two-foot putt?


Hmmm. Okay.

Yeah, that’s good. Those things are always fun.

But here’s my comment, which I have to assume you knew was coming.

That’s all fine and fun, in the name of “opposites attract” and “you can’t live with ’em, you can’t live without ’em,” “women are from Mars, men are from Venus or the other way around,” and a million other aphrodisiacs that serve to make us laugh at this pain for a moment. The facts behind this are that it Is very painful when the man cannot/will not learn to simply embrace his emotions and think with his heart and the woman refuses to let go of her victimized child status and think with her mind — they cancel each other out and some long-accepted idea about reality is safe, pheww.

With such perpetuation of these opposing forces, guess what the fuck happens? Same ol’, same ol’. Divorces, illusions about the nature of relationship, distorted emotions, deadly conflict, ad nauseam.

To laugh at and enjoy these quips is only the very beginning — every single person alive knows the pain of this sense of separate reality, so it’s good to see the humor. It’s Not good to refuse to look into the roots of this cosmic joke.

Aren’t you glad you don’t like to look at these things…what a burden it is.


Personal Thoughtforms #4 2017

The fear of loss is a path to the dark side…

Let go of everything you fear losing.

That’s all…


After that, however: You may want to see where your religious upbringing —

even if you never personally had a religious upbringing that you know of —

is itself “the Original Sin,” that which is, in essence, YOU.

Very simply, you were taught, from Day One, that there is something “incomplete” or “wrong” with you, that you require so much of this hazy concept of “help.”

Who taught you this? Your parents, your grandparents, your guardians? Sure, but NO.

Religious doctrine taught you ALL of this — it taught your parents, grandparents, and guardians as well. Here is the precept:

You are a child of God and God is the one that you pray and pay to, asking for help because you are just a weak lamb. Give your money and your life to the Church and it will HELP you find your HELP and get yourself HEALED because you were born SICK. And the Church will remain forever sequestered behind walls of secrecy, in the name of God’s Silent Voice, the Pope behind his Popemobile’s clear bulletproof walls of protection, in the very spurious name of Protection for the Weak Little Lambs.

…And so, of course, if you don’t have this God, or some surrogate “helper” to turn to, you are LOST, sister and brother. And this will surely fill you with fear of taking any other path than that of eternally trying to be FOUND, HEALED, COMPLETED. Of turning away from the walls that in actuality keep you AWAY FROM YOUR GOD — don’t forget, God is unknowable, and the Church will continue to remind you through its strange laws of “access.”

What the Hell????

No more need be said, you get it immediately. But — but but but —

It’s up to You to decide whether you will let go of your fear of loss, even though you know you were never in deficit of a single thing from that glorious Day One of your existence.



I want to live among the stars.

Sometimes, often actually, I feel that’s where home is.


Up “there,” among all my neighbors shining just as brightly,

Nothing but Life, turning in upon itself continuously,

Creating light through the activity of creating itself,

Continuously, outside of time,

Just the continuous



Machinery of Life.

Light. Only light.

My boss is the Sun,

My lover is the Moon.

My neighborhood is lit up like a Christmas tree.

But no holiday, only Life.

One endless activity.

No seasons.

Silent movement.