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. 


Trumpism At Your Service

Donald Trump….hmmmm, you say. Your new U.S. president has provided a rather incredible service to humanity…some big finger came down from the sky, pointed at his face and said, “YOU, sir.”…. Indignant, you ask, “Trump provided a service to humanity??” … shocked, aspirating with difficulty, and then acting disgusted that your failure to breathe was my fault..or his fault, of course.

Yes is the answer. How? By allowing people to hate (“him”) so much that they must look at themselves, finally. People’s denigration of and aggression toward Donald Trump, toward the country in which they have the privilege of living is to the bizarre extreme at this moment. And I personally don’t believe that moment is going to pass on its own real soon. Could require kidney stone surgery. And we all know what that means — you’re going to be in some pretty freaking unbelievably untenably and unsustainably breathless pain prior to someone who loves you taking your body to the hospital for heavy narcotics and perhaps a laser — that is, if you’re lucky.

It appears to be perfectly unclear to the folks perpetrating all this negativity, anger, hate, resentment, that a simple physical, impersonal concept is at the base of this whole circle of B.S. since the first townhall meetings began for the 2016 election (well, more truly since the dawn of man). This is sometimes called the law of attraction. If that’s too New Agey and easy to rail against as disingenuous, nonexistent B.S., please give this entertaining piece a read, just for instance (there are others, look around). 

So here’s how it looks — and how it is looking right now: You attack him, he’s going to attack back. And Duhhhh? Did you expect the man to, what, “turn the other cheek” like “a good Christian”? To necessarily be bigger than you? Yes. You do. You expect him to be your god, and then you resent the hell out of him and everyone else for being subjected to hell, or at least purgatory, with a god you “didn’t pick,” who doesn’t act like your god is supposed to act. Or to look.

Some part of each and every one of us is completely aware of his or her surroundings — both internally and externally — and how you are necessarily affected by whatever happens. Do you resent this, too, the fact that you are part of everything? Meaning that you cannot get away from your responsibility as an individual???

And interestingly, what happens is something humans perhaps 10 million years ago did — the very same instinctual response: conflict, hate, anger — in a word, darkness. Like Leonard Cohen said in some of his last writings just before his death: “You Want It Darker.”

You do want it darker, don’t you? And you call yourself bigger thanbetter than

Wake up, kids.

So Humans Are Unique, eh?

Yes yes, without Wikipedia, there is so much I could have known!…but don’t. Why? I would rather ask a question that might give me the moniker of “deeply inquisitive.” I know — how utterly immature, how needy, how egotistical, what strange focus… All that said, here’s the question, because I do love inquisition.

Fundamentally — Why do humans think they’re a unique species? Are they?

And am I oversimplifying? For example, I’m thinking of the predatorial cat species compared to the great apes, perhaps also the Neanderthals…Easily enough, when I watch a Nat Geo Wild program, for instance, headlined “Cute to Killer,” you can imagine why the query, right? When they’re cute, they Are cute. When they grow up into their fully functioning natural state, they Are killers. Now — are we? Only some of us. And most of that is due to emotional illness, not actual predatorial nature. Again, though: Am I correct here? Am I oversimplifying?

The superfamily Hominoidea, your basic world of primates, includes the human, you know. However, we don’t climb trees with the rest…hmm. Yet neither do the gorillas. Plus we are not known as a predatorial species, although we — that is, the Hominidae — are indeed omnivorous. Meaning I’m not certain how the primates that are not humans acquire their flesh protein.

Because it’s only a few days away from Christmas, I don’t want to get too into this subject, no interest in studying it, no use analyzing it. But it is a good question, isn’t it? And…honestly? The major reason I post blogs with simpleton questions like this at all is in hopes of hearing someone else’s explanation or erudite (hopefully) analysis.

Been waiting a long, long time here for the spam to get under control and some real answers to come through. I mean this existentially, too.

I am looking for relationship here, not for the opportunity to spew my half-baked cognitions into the face of humanity — that is assuming any of our species happens to look at my blog. Problem is, there are just way too many of us bipeds writing and writing and writing — and then publishing for mass consumption — material like this that either asks or answers, or both, all of the major and minor questions of all time. I have no idea why. I have no idea why we would own — and pay the premium we do for — a website with a blog to spew out these streams of warm peanut butter that, as soon as they come crashing into our conscious senses, excite us as possibly the most sophisticated perceptions (or apperceptions) ever, ever extracted anywhere in any historical epoch.

Good God. Here’s what I’d really, really like to do: Some midnight hour or other, an insight flashes through my entire body, filling me with something typically called “knowledge” that feels more like liquid sky than an actual thought. It is not mine. I don’t make an opinion about it. I don’t attempt to narrate it with my cache of big and interesting terms and create a story from it.

Rather, it itself becomes me in my entirety — the words form in the same way as the structure of my physical body first formed, and they await refinement by the neurons that engineer formless ideas into phonemes, morphemes, subjects, nouns, verbs, prepositions, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, books, volumes, theses, dissertations, waking hours, sleepful and sleepless hours, lives, generations, millennia, tribes,communities, societies, cultures, worlds, universes, and of course gods.

And for those whose constructed thoughts include the idea that there is only one god, then fine, there is actually only one complete thought, extending out the reasoning. Period. However, this is totally irrelevant, despite how interesting you must admit it is.

So: After I am consumed by this fully formed, complete in every way, constructed thoughtform that by its nature is the power that moves my fingers and the waveforms in my mind, I arise with my feet on the ground and in a very few minutes of activity, I write a question, I answer the question, I empty myself — once again — of ideas, those ideas that describe the “me” that is sitting at the computer flowing with its peanut butter consistency from every cell in my physical, mental, emotional construct into the midnight blue light of this strange transcribing machine whose own intelligence I cannot either deny.

But there are just so endlessly many bits of information that concretize this Mac- or PC-type intelligence! So here is my second and last question of this blogpost:

Is the AI (artificial intelligence) represented by a high-powered appliance made largely of metals and plastic ultimately the same type of intelligence that is represented by our increasingly complex brain structure? And so is this brain structure — whether Hominoidea or Felidae or something else entirely — really only artificial intelligence with a CV that gives it continuity, form, and legitimacy?

That’s it, I need to get to work or go for a walk perhaps. This meaninglessness is really giving me a familiar headache.

Reality — hmmm

Has it ever seemed to you that your dreams just don’t cut it in “real life” and real life just doesn’t cut it in your dreams?

Well then, reality needs to take the back seat, because this apparent discrepancy just isn’t acceptable. My dreams are waaaaay, waaaay stronger than my extant reality — which may not be that anyway.

I mean, it’s the age-old question (hate to say), what is reality?? Anything? Is it wooden?

I’m not one bit impressed with what I see. And the closer I get to there being no reality or dreams, I have decided to go with the latter only.

This means jumping off a cliff. How fun. Fuck reality. Fuck reality. Fuck reality.

Sorry to offend my many, numerous readers — i.e., the various versions of myself — but this is how it feels and how it is. THAT is my reality. Today.