Answer #210 - Smoke the Rod

Dave, my partner, is an active guy. He loves 'the beautiful game..' (Soccer. Futbol to those of you NOT currently residing on U.S. turf).

The beautiful game is grisly sometimes. Like the time he got hit by some idiot who thought that a cleats-up, flying slide tackle known as a 'leg breaker' was a good idea for a friendly Thursday night on the turf. Compound fracture. Yep, the kind where the bones shoot out the front of your shin and your foot flops sideways.

                                     What a tool. The 'leg breaker' guy.

I'm not sure what anyone expected of a chap whose FB likes include the wretched incongruity of 'Fight Club' 

and 'Jesus..'

Which could bring me to a rant, it really could, because all too often Jesus' (the Prince of Peace) name is invoked in the name of blood sport (don't get me started on the Crusades... and their eventual lead-in to Dubya's reproachable declaration of 'holy war,' as he invaded the Iraqi oil fields - and well, here we sit: In a quagmire of endless war, a military-industrial complex that has the country, quite literally, on its knees (ouch), and Black Ops3

        to make the whole thing more palatable and exhilarating..)


See. I almost ranted.

So what do you do when life hands you titanium and a long recovery?

Here's Dave, post-surgery, still at the hospital on Tuesday. A little woozy from the anesthesia.. and in great spirits.

The thing he's 'smoking' is the titanium rod they had to pull out of his leg to fix the ACL tear, a hold-over from the leg-breaker.

Thing is.. he loves the beautiful game, despite the occasional idiot and/or body count.

And the thing is, I wouldn't have it any other way.*

*(I would maybe have the leg breaker smacked around a bit by my cousin Vincenzo, but that's not very 'folk' of me.. and is a story for another time.. to the tune of 'That's Amore..')

Answer #209 - Yes, Hyperspace is real

Nah. I don't know if hyperspace is real. I'd like it to be. I saw this great documentary on NOVA some time ago - a study in perception science, wherein, at odds of 400 billion to one there being coincidence, subjects were able to predict the future. 

They were subjected to randomly emotionally arousing images, hooked up to all manner of diode and battery cable.   Scientists could measure physiological response to the disturbing imagery at 2-10 seconds PRIOR to the image actually appearing on the subject's screen. As if the subject could physically anticipate the disturbing imagery, in a series of random benign images.

Crazy. I know. Gives one pause, however.
                
If you're me, and don't even pretend to play a scientist on TV, you think to yourself, 'Huh. Maybe this wacky hyperspace notion has some merit. Sure, it's set fort by a bunch of those Quantum guys that the Age of Aquarians have really glommed on to because even THEY don't understand the mathematics and the whole thing sounds awesome.. but... Einstein was looking for it, right? Hyperspace, I mean?

What if the unseen 'hyperspace' is the stuff of premonition, gut feeling, 'I can't explain how I  know I just know,' and the realm where all manner of communication and stringy forces ravel and unravel. 

And maybe, when the corporeal body turns back to the dust from whence it burst forth that warm summer night in the backseat of that car - we're still hanging out. Unseen.

Whispering to dolphins while they sleep.

Answer #208 - Draw the line

How do we continue to believe in the intrinsic good of human beings, despite corporately-fueled evidence to the contrary?

I just re-read the first line 10 times. Because I want to believe in the intrinsic good of human beings. I draw the line.

I want to believe that we are, in fact, at our best when things are at their worst.

I want to believe that we're at the apex of the nutty and hysterically blithering swing of the pendulum, and that I can actually feel the tug of the slow fall back toward center.

I'd like to live long enough to see the full apex at the other side of the swing - the one where your credibility as a Congressperson is upped by your ability to design this

and your proclivity to actually READ the works of art within the work of art;

where Monsanto and their horror-show contemporaries are reduced from this

to this

and where this

is the road that everyone travels.

I draw the line at this, however:

Because I also want to believe that the earth is flat and rides on the backs of four elephants, atop a giant sky turtle who swims, endlessly, through the vast expanse of space.

Let's not quibble. I've drawn the line. Just go with it.

It Takes a Willage

As the music industry came undone, I came up with a notion to step out of my comfort zone and see if I could get fans and friends involved in collaborating on funding a project. It's the new world order. It's the new way. It's.. amazing. It's made me have a couple of personal Sally Field moments, not this Sally Field

This one

Actually, a little of both. But I kept them to myself, regardless.

You know, more or less.

I might be able to fund not only the new album, but projects I've long wanted to embark upon:
A visit to Africa, to visit Nyaka and write songs/record stories with the students there.. collaborative projects in Ireland and the U.S. It's given me a ton of confidence in the possibilities, let me tell you.

THANK YOU, COLLABORATORS. A world of joy is the gift you've given me.

(And I didn't even need to buy an Oscar De La Renta knock-off at TJ Maxx to celebrate the occasion)

Bollyblog, Chapter 11 - Alanaan

Bollyblog Day 11, September 11, 2012

I'm going to need a 12-step group to let go of my compulsion to consume Naan. This Indian bread marvel magic amazement is too much. It's too much. I can't not eat it. And wheat really messes with me, having decided to jump on the gluten-free bandwagon with the rest of my hippie friends.

            No. There's not a song in it. There's just magic bread and all the varying chutneys, pickles, raitas (yogurt sauces) and all manner of everything creamy and holy to slather on it. I could be talked into being an Indian food critic. No, I have no background to draw on, no sophisticated palate in this realm, and I'm not sure I'd even enjoy the critique even if the Indian people would offer anything other than mildly annoyed amusement at my attempt. Nope. I would just really love to get paid to eat Naan.

           Meanwhile, here's a picture of Dave at the Red Fort. It was astounding. But I used all my good adjectives on the Taj Mahal and the Naan. So you'll have to settle for a visual and imagine accompanying flowery language. (It was spectacular, though. It really was)

Bollyblog, Chapter 10 - It can't be made of marble

Bollyblog, Day 10, September 10, 2012

Whatever you think about the Taj Mahal - whatever cliche', over-exposed, iconic, yes, among the 7 wonders of the world, yes, but come on, how different could it be than the countless pictures we've all seen from childhood on - thing you think you know.  You don't.

So the point in even putting this picture in this chapter is, well, 'monumentally' stupid. But Great Ganesh almighty, the Taj Mahal is maybe the single most glorious structure I'll ever see. A thing of such concentrated beauty that it almost pulses like a quasar, emanating light for eons..
                  Finished in 1653, it was built over 20+ years by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Granted, she was his favorite wife, among many, which of course left me wondering exactly how many food tasters were in her employ in the day.. but oh, he must have loved her fiercely, because love actually seems to be a living component in this structure. It is made of solid marble.

"How can that be?," Dave the engineer asks.  "The sheer weight of this thing..." followed by his jaw dropping as we both slowly walked the perimeter, gaping like thirsty bird dogs on a Mississippi dirt road in the middle of July.

Of course we couldn't be in Mississippi because our car engine was a camel.

Bollyblog, Chapter 9 - Send in the Cows

Bollyblog, Day 9, September 9, 2012

It's all true. On the long road to the Taj Mahal, there are at least 750,000 cows... lying leisurely in the medians, on the sides of the roads, in the road, on the grass, in the heartbreaking miles of dirt and mud that make up what would be sidewalks, or houses, or beds elsewhere... and they walk down the middle of the road, against traffic even, while cars whizz by unbearably quickly, dodging children, street dogs, motorcycles, tuk tuks (that green & yellow 3-wheeler behind the cow up there) and yes, cows... they're like dogs, tied to trees, walking down the road on thin pieces of rope, led by small children. Cows... Women in beautiful, bright saris and wraps adorn the cacophonous streets.. and the backs of motorcycles. Shoulders must be covered, but not midriffs.  Yesterday, a man wanted money for us to take a picture of a monkey which he led around on a thin rope.

I won't settle in here before I leave in the next few days. How could I? So much sound, smell, color... floating like dust on the rumor that Delhi is a city full of djinns, forever protecting it from permanent ruin...

I want to believe in something today. But the djinns don't belong to me, though I wish I'd found a lamp to rub at Dilly Haat.