Dream fragment from this morning

I was at a conference of some kind with some colleagues and possibly Mary Lou. I decided to leave and drive (or maybe ride a bicycle) to a house that belonged to me on the other side of town. I entered and met two female housekeepers who worked for me. I was planning to return to the conference and was looking for a ticket to the event. Some other male and female servants appeared and jumped in obsequiously to help me look. However, it occurred to me I could return to the event and get in without the ticket.

I started to leave when I saw Stephanie Skinner also walking out of the house wearing a winter coat and pulling a suitcase. "You're leaving!" I called out. "I never see you and I didn't even get to talk to you. Where are you going?" "Nashville," she replied. I approached to give her a friendly hug. Her face was very pretty and turned toward me. Impulsively, I started to kiss her on the mouth but she turned her head away and I felt embarrassed. "Just a kiss on the cheek," I said sheepishly as if that's what I intended all along. I left and started riding a bicycle back to the event. I was gliding along when I saw a multi-story building with a sign on a door on the 3rd floor that said Book Store. I stopped and approached the building, then realized the whole complex was an evangelical church. Although I wasn't interested in visiting a church, I walked up outdoor stairs to a landing on the 3rd floor, then descended rather agilely down the side of the building rather than taking the stairs again.

The downside of teaching Honors 2000

It's raining here and my day is free of structure. I'm listening to The Kick Inside straight through and enjoying it. I've become acclimated to KB and I'm relaxed and tuned in. However, I'm actually writing to ventilate a little about the privileged white boy in my Honors class who submitted a plagiarized paper that was also a POS even if it were original. I gave him a zero and he flunked the course. It's a pain in the ass but I'm turning him in to the appropriate LSU authorities. I'm not interested in his excuses, either. What he submitted is a slap in the face to the idea of an Honors program. In this age of shameless cheating, lying, abuse of women, children and minorities, and naked greed at the top, some of us have to take a stand for the old fashioned values of honesty, accountability, and fair play, right? The End. 💜

The Kick Inside

The closer and title song. It's a wistful, intriguing ballad with piano and voice then, strings. It's not clear what the song is about. "I'm giving it all in a moment or two, I'm giving it all, giving it, giving it." What does that mean? She's singing to a lover but then she calls herself sister. "You must lose me like an arrow shot into....?" They have to part but who is leaving whom? And why?

The song has hymn-like qualities. It's beautiful. I can imagine it being sung in concert by one of the big female stars with big voices but the composition is too personally Kate Bush's, not commercially catchy enough, too creatively brilliant. I listen again reading the lyrics on genius-dot-com, my go-to lyrics site. The notes explain the story. It's based on a Scottish ballad, Lucy Wan, about a woman who becomes pregnant by her brother, who then murders her. In Kate's song, the sister commits suicide, a martyr more than a victim.  She's letting the brother off the hook. Will he be haunted by guilt as he should? We aren't told so it's up to our imagination.

Ending one's debut LP on such a grim note is unconventionally gutsy. Kate Bush doesn't do things the conventional way and, yet, the perception I'm developing is of pure, iconic feminine power, the universal voice of a woman's human experience. A British voice, to be sure, but not just.

I will now go back and listen to the LP the way I used to listen to a new LP, one song at a time all the way through, no more blogging. After I finish grading the final exams in Honors 2000, of course.

Room for the Life

Back from lunch, I'm a little sleepy. I'll close my eyes and listen through the last two songs with headphones.

Am I getting acclimated to Kate's songs? Room for the Life grabs me right away. I hear the lyrics- it's an empowering admonition for women delivered via pleasantly accessible music, first a favorite chord progression I've recently used in one of my songs and then a rousing Afro-Caribbean groove tune that rocks me smilingly along. Kate's voice is pleasant and soothing. Yes.

Them Heavy People (I should be grading tests but oh, well)

I listened to this one (and watched the official video) back when I was going through the songs my friend, the Kate Bush fanatic, posted on her page. And to be perfectly honest, dear reader, I found it annoying. My first impression was "giddy, silly, why does she have to say them heavy people instead of those heavy people?" Today, I want to listen with an open mind. I just blogged that Kate was writing the songs on The Kick Inside as a teenager emerging from the child's world and encountering all sorts of new and intriguing and confusing things. I recall when I was her age listening to songs and reading various books recommended by the hipsters of the day and trying to determine if they made valid sense or were just the trickery of clever hucksters. "Does Bob Dylan really have the answer?" Does Carlos Castenedas offer the secrets of wisdom and power revealed to him by the Yaqui sorcerer, Don Juan (um, nope!)?" So, here's Kate sounding once again like a character in a London reggae musical, half-serious, half-sarcastic, asking herself those sorts of questions, wanting to believe but bringing a healthy dose of skepticism to the table. I make a connection between Kate saying them heavy people and Eliza Doolittle talking Cockney (Then, they'll march you, 'Enry 'Iggins, to the wall! And the Queen will tell me, "Liza, sound the call!"). Besides, I write lyrics and sing songs with language I don't use in Real Life except when I'm being satirical.

I bet Kate Bush listened to a lot of musical soundtracks.

Watched the video again playing sound through PA speakers. Totally, over-the-top satirical! I'm OK with the song now. But I don't know about that outfit she has on.

L'Amour Looks Something Like You

It occurs to me that I'm listening to the songs of a passionate teenager experiencing love and sex and freedom for the first time. Listening to her for the first time at age 66 I'm time traveling, back to 1978 when The Kick Inside was released and back to 1968 when I was experiencing those things as a passionate teenager in tumultuous times.  I've done this sort of thing before when I was much younger, discovering Freddy King and especially Robert Johnson, blues artists pointed to by Eric Clapton, discovering the sublime and joyous John Coltrane. I still have Prince to look forward to, having only scratched the pop culture surface of his immense body of work. Surviving this long is pretty cool, it has its consolations.

Oh to be in love

I like this song. It has many features of conventional pop music- it's catchy in a strange way. The arrangement and instruments are Beatlesesque as if Sir George Martin inspired the production or maybe was the producer. I doubt that, though. The song seems like a continuation of Feel It. The sex was so great, she's walking around humming to herself.  Still, she isn't sure it was anything more than an explosion of lust with a hot partner. But what the hell? It was glorious!

Feel It

Track 8 on The Kick Inside. I listened to the song last night with headphones after I turned out the lights. Today I listen again. The recording is just voice and piano, no overdubs do I hear. KB sings in her higher register. I can understand most but not all the words. "Feel it, feel it. my love. I need it. You are so beautiful and cute. Keep moving in. What you're doing to me." It seems to be about someone she finds very attractive and feels excited about. I will listen a third time looking at the lyrics. OK, it's about sex.

James and the Cold Gun

I listened to part of this back when I began the journey into KB's discography. This, however, feels like and essentially is a first listening.  My first impression- a conventional rock song. Except for the restless structure and transitions and Kate's singing and whooping and using herself as a Greek chorus.

Once again- Intro of standard piano chords followed by strong rock instruments, drums, bass, funky guitar chording, tight, punchy groove, oh, yeah. Minor verse moves into a more upbeat major chorus and then...another section before returning to the original verse structure. As usual, I'm disoriented by the voice and shifting structure and don't hear the words. The second time through I start to hear some of them.  "Oh, James, you're running out on reality." Softer, slow down ending.. or is it? Yes, it is.  I want to get out my guitar and go through again learning the chords so I understand what the song is doing. But I will listen again trying to concentrate on the words this time. It probably doesn't help I'm eating a delicious piece of cake with some vanilla ice cream baked by our accountant and brought over be her little nephew and niece who are our next door neighbors' kids. OK. I'll wait until I'm done with the cake, thank you.

Now, then, here we go. Even concentrating I'm still distracted by the music. Kate's clear but weirdly expressive voice (weird like the stretched images in circus mirrors) is somewhat buried in the mix and I can only make out a few words here and there... "casino... buckskin.  your own power?" (actually "you're a coward" I learn later).  I love her ecstatic lyrical whooping! Kate sounds like a euphoric lunatic giving poor James a friendly and humorous chastisement. I have no choice but to read the transcription on Genius dot com. I'll listen while I read. Now as I do that, most of the lyrics seem perfectly clear. It's the way she sings and the production that kept me off balance and unable to stay tuned to the words. The transcribed lyrics in black and white anchor me the fourth and last time through. James' friends really miss him. Is he a hunter or a soldier or an outlaw or just what? A figment of Kate's vivid imagination? It doesn't matter- the creative adventure of listening is what matters. To me.

I think this is the first one I've heard I could imagine myself performing.

Thoughts about KB

Written Dec 1 and sent via Messenger.

One of the endearing things about Kate Bush is she's very British. The British have a long tradition of eccentric artists as well as pacifists, protestors, and feminists (I don't know if Kate Bush is a feminist or not). The book I mentioned "To end all wars" follows the lives of some notable ones like Bertrand Russell and the Pankhurst ladies.

If someone asked me what it is about KB that makes her appealing, I wouldn't have said she's hot or beautiful. Thinking about this, the first 3 adjectives that came to mind were fascinating,  amazing and quirky. I wouldn't even say KB is hot or beautiful in a conventional sense (think Shakira). Not that she isn't those things but her appeal to me (and I would think to most guys who are drawn to her) is deeper and more... holistic or transcendent and complex than those relatively superficial qualities. It's more like at moments beautiful and sexy flash through the constantly shifting visual and musical images she projects. And the moments of exaggerated movements and expressions and pronunciation and vocal gymnastics aren't the sexy ones, at least to me. They're more comical, more reminiscent of Lucille Ball than Carolyn Jones. It's complicated...

The Man with the Child in his Eyes

Written Nov 25, 2018 and sent via Messenger

Before starting on professional matters. I listened to "The man with the child in his eyes" eyes closed with headphones, then with the video. I recalled reading she wrote this at age 13! Impressions: lush flowing piano chords, a   spontaneous association with the many patients who talked about abusers coming into their rooms at night... quickly dispelled by the uplifting emotional energy. "lost on some horizon" references "The Lost Horizon," the novel and movie about the mythical hidden land of Shangri-La.

Visually, the bodysuit with modest earrings and necklace conveys vulnerability. 💜 her British accent (I'm a sucker for them) and voice leaping up to "child" every time. I'm the millionth person to marvel at her writing this at 13.

Third time. Her face flows through changes that seem like she becomes different people, always feeling familiar as if I know all these people. Miming wings flapping to "child" evoking... you know what it evokes 😘 Reminding me of the quote from Hesse I recently posted. Image of embryo pose melts into Rorschach inkblot. Whew! Maybe I'll listen one more time eyes closed before morphing into responsible professor and psychologist. Life is a bitch and then you retire if you live long enough. 😉

Kite

Side 1, Track 4 from "The Kick Inside." A reggae kite chase as you follow the bouncing voice over the moving target of the chord changes.

Strange Phenomena

Side 1, Track 3. from "The Kick Inside." The recording starts with tinkling piano creating a dreamy ambiance reminiscent of modern show tunes. That feel continues as it segues into a chorus constituting the hook: "Raise your hands to the strange phenomena."  I couldn't understand many of the lyrics listening with headphones. I'll look them up to understand better what Kate is saying. Doing so I learn it's "Raise our hats..." "On mani padme hum (or properly om mani padme hum)" I discover "invokes the embodiment of compassion." This one isn't as strong as the other songs on The Kick Inside I've listened to thus far.  However, I've had so many inexplicable experiences of synchronicity, I'm more than happy to raise my imaginary hat to the strange phenomena.

The Saxophone Song

The second track on The Kick Inside is a serious winner. I should mention I'm a sucker for saxophone. The recording begins once again with what sounds like the cries of wild animals mixed with the sound of some primitive tribal horn. That's just a guess. The song is a flowing pop-rock tune in a minor key with numerous chords changes, often sprung on you by surprise, something Kate is most fond of. So am I. Somehow she is able to pull it all together coherently. The lyrics center around the singer being enthralled with a musician playing the saxophone. Whoo, smokey sexy! Kate does some cool and lovely things with her voice, sounding girlish as always but never shrill on this one. The minor section segues into a happy major key pop chorus. The song finally breaks into a long sinuous saxophone solo intertwined with a rapid 4 beat musical phrase on synthesizer that repeats exactly the same over and over. The two instruments fly around in stereophonic space as if dancing with one another in entirely different styles, one rigid and constricted, the other loose and free. It's creatively unconventional like most of the Kate Bush songs I've heard so far and it works like magic.

Kate Bush starting from her first recordings

Moving is the first song on "The Kick Inside."  There is no video with the recording so I listen in my studio via the PA system. The recording starts with anguished sounds, a mixture of human and animal voices?. Kate sings very high soprano sounding girlish and a little shrill at times but in lovely tune. The song is a minor key slow English ballad, more conventional in form than Wuthering Heights, with drums, bass, and piano prominent in the arrangement, her voice overdubbed in harmony, but the chord changes become more unconventional and interesting, still making musical sense. A recurring line is "please don't let me go." I hear the familiar leaps in the melody and a haunting, Scheherazade-like chord change enters in the middle and again near the end. I got out my guitar. The song is in D minor. The change I noticed goes from D minor to C to D-flat and A, then back to D minor. That's not identical to the 3 and 1/2 tone descent I call the Scheherezade change  (which would be, for example, A to E-flat)  but it has a similar exotic ambiance that shifts the mood from sad to uplifting and back to sad.

Live Blogging Kate Bush songs

My friend, Tracey, posted an article about Kate Bush on Facebook a few day ago. I knew Kate Bush only as a name and had no idea what her music is like. The article and discussion thread was very intriguing, so I decided to listen to some of her songs, starting with the earliest release, Wuthering Heights. My first impression was her voice was strange and child-like. I have notes on the song I sent to Tracey via Messenger that I will copy and post here. I also watched a 2014 BBC documentary about her that was fascinating to me for the numerous musicians who idolized her. Clips of her performing her songs were remarkable for her use of exaggerated mime movements (she studied with a mime master after getting a recording contract) that remind me of silent movie acting. Elton John gave her credit for saving his life and Big Boi was very emotional discussing how much her music meant to him. Kate Bush is clearly a genius-level inspired talent who is not constrained by convention and who is creating music purely because she loves it and aspires to express herself to her fullest potential.

I'm now listening to Army Dreamers, another early recording. I played it twice through my studio PA system without viewing the accompanying official video except for brief glimpses showing Kate in military field gear carrying a rifle. The song has a nostalgic melody in a fast waltz time with what sounds like harpsichord, accordion and guitar accompaniment. The third time I listened with headphones and eyes closed, as recommended by Tracey, and noted a loud and simple bass line. I couldn't hear the words very well other than enough to grasp that the song is about a soldier dying at an early age in war because he had no other options in his life. Listening the fourth time with headphones watching the video was a very different experience. It struck me the songs are intended to be heard while viewing the videos. To illustrate this point, Kate blinks her eyes simultaneously with the sound of a camera clicking (or a gun cocking), something the listener can't get without the video. I could understand the words much better, too, which helped me engage with the song. The loud bass didn't dominate my experience this time. The images and words about wasted lives resonates, of course, with my years of working with combat veterans. I'm going to listen with the video one more time before wrapping up this live blogging session.

About the photos I take with my Samsung Galaxy S8+

Being alive and awake with eyes open, possessing the technology to capture priceless ephemeral moments of the astounding world around us and to share them with kindred spirits is beautiful.

Who is there for me to play with?

I'm constrained 1) by not having people at hand who are on my wavelength and can keep up with me and 2) by my extreme sensitivity and considerateness.

The failure of our leaders

The technological achievements of humanity are impressive. Our failures to make a serious effort at peace or to create cultures of authentic cooperation and compassion are equally impressive. Our communities are held together more by fear, greed, and shame than by love. Despite the entreaties and admonitions of millennia of spiritual teachers, people with temporal power play the game the same old way, assuming there's no other way to play it. Are they right?

So here I still am

Enduring
Whether I want to or not
I want to
I don't want to
I'm sad
I'm grateful
I'm out of Adderall
I have errands to run
Infrastructure to keep up
A body to care for
Midterm exams to grade
Professional letters to write
Social media friends who value my shots of affirmation
Desperate people who need my help
Online blogs I feel the need to censor
A bicycle that needs to be ridden
A vinyl LP project I need to follow to completion
Clouds to gawk at and photograph with my smartphone
Progressive politicians who need my money
 if we're going to slam the brakes on Trump
 and the cynical guardians of the wealthy.
A daughter who's getting married in Mexico
 to an amazingly fine man.
Obviously
I will endure some more
God willing

To Liz Hogan after reading her poetry booklet

Hi, Liz, I don't know why it took me so long to read your poetry booklet. It crossed my mind any number of times but today I remembered. On Friday, I played at an open mic called OMG (Original Music Group) held every Friday at LaDivina Cafe on Perkins at South Acadian in Baton Rouge, very near our house. A very accomplished singer/songwriter/guitarist who often plays was there, a guy I like and admire as a musician; and, I bought a self-published poetry book of his he was offering for whatever anyone wished to pay. He was charmingly gratified. I read a few of his poems yesterday and they were nice, OK, heartfelt but, well, lacking something.. inspiration, a unique perspective, the crack of the verbal whip, something interesting that hasn't already been said...maybe they lacked enough pain. Anyway, today, I read your booklet. You might think I'm prejudiced in your favor but, seriously, your poetry is SO much better. I understood much of what you were saying but even where I didn't, your artful strings of words evoked feeling and meaning, conveyed the quiet ferocity of your personality, broke in unexpected directions that resonated with aesthetic sensibility. I feel like I know you pretty well, I've had substantive conversations with you, listened to and played your songs (and have told you how much I like and admire you as a musician, not to mention as a human being) and I've been through and still go through the kinds of struggles with self and society sensitive, insightful, ethical people like us undergo, things I feel in your words. Writing poetry is scary, intimidating. Your poetry is fiercely beautiful, absolutely authentic, it's you. Thanks so much for sharing it with me. Owen

Feedback to my Honors students on their Critical Essays

I've completed grading your Critical Essays and sent each of you an edited copy with comments. I'm pleased to report the quality of your work on the assignment was very good, making the reading enjoyable and earning a grade ranging from 9.0 and 10.0 for every paper. Areas of improvement were almost entirely in the mechanics of writing and not in the quality of critical thinking. My grading philosophy for writing assignments places the highest weight on 1) the quality of thinking and 2) strength of argument (presenting valid evidence with sound logic to support your assertions and conclusions). The stylist and aesthetic quality of the prose, which is somewhat more subjective to evaluate yet is a powerful factor in the impact of ones writing, is given a lower weight; while, the technical fundamentals (spelling, grammar, efficiency of expression, and word usage), although the elements that may be evaluated most objectively, get the lowest weight. Nevertheless, developing strong fundamental writing skills is essential to having the maximum impact on the target audience, so it is very important to work diligently on improving in any weak areas you may have. Thus, most of the red ink on your papers was devoted to the fundamentals. (Some of you apparently didn't run a spell check before submitting. That's the first thing I did after turning on "Track Changes," so I would urge you to beat me to the punch next time out.)

Homeless in Athens

I flew in Thursday afternoon at the request of old sweetheart Ginger Adams to pitch a music program to the Clarke Central High School Class of 71 Reunion Committee Initial Planning Meeting.  The meeting began at 7pm EST. I managed to drive over from ATL and find the meeting site, arriving at 8pm. Ginger was doing a masterful job of moderating a large group of all white alums including Pat Nunnally, Libby Weaver, Lindy Keane, and several femaleFacebook friends who follow my travel photo posts closely. It all went smoothly after which I went to Bobby Daniel's house and watched the Falcons lose to the Eagles with him.

Yesterday (Friday), Fran and Bobby prepared a huge and delicious breakfast. I killed a little time and then had lunch at the Grit with Roy Bell. We went to Roy and Debbie's house after lunch and Roy showed me the characteristically beautiful renovations he had done to their second floor to accommodate Debbie's mother, who is moving in at the end of the month. I then went by Mike Pruett's office and signed off on the estate settlement. Scottie was supposed to meet me there but she and Steve were late, so I went back to Bobby's. I met Scottie and Steve at Barnes and Noble on the Atlanta Highway, just across the road from Bobby's subdivision. This was followed by Lindy's book signing at Hilltop Grill where I had a long conversation with Rob (formerly Robin) Hein, a friend from elementary school. Lindy, Rob, Ginger and a couple of others stayed for dinner at Hilltop. I capped the evening off at Bobby's with his two first cousins, kicking some music around.

Bobby and Fran left at 8am for a long-planned weekend at Myrtle Beach with David and Kim Woods. David and Bobby were my bandmates in Chain Reaction back in the early 1970s. Oh, my, how the time gets away. Bobby is being treated for cancer, having had a tumor removed from his liver a few months back. He seems fine at present and has been told his prognosis is pretty good, so I'm hopeful he will not die from this one. He's not so sure but grateful to be alive. Bobby and Fran took care of me at the same high standard as Debbie and Roy have in times past. How fortunate I am; how little do I have to complain about.

Today, however, I'm homeless. I don't want to ask anyone in Athens to take me in for the night, so I will have to come up with Plan B. There's always a Plan B. It's very hot today. I spent the morning at Jittery Joes Alps Road and had lunch at Moe's. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do next. I ended up driving to Oconee Hill Cemetery and driving around randomly until I found a place to park across the one lane bridge. The cemetery is rather large, stretching over not one but a number of hills next to the UGA campus. I stopped and took some photos, posting one on Instagram but not Facebook. The heat was daunting. I got back into the car and drove out to Athens Memorial Gardens to visit my parents' graves. I took photos there as well, posting one on both social media sites with the caption "Together Forever," the inscription on the plaque marking the burial plot. I didn't feel the presence of my parents but I thought about the lives they lived and how they would feel about the way I'm living mine. My parents were content to live within the lines, dedicated to one another and the roles they played in society. My Dad was most proud of his military service, as indicated by the words "Colonel, USAF, retired" beneath his name. Under Mom's name it says "Married 65 years."  That sums up their lives, doesn't it? Not really, but they are important bits of information.

I'm trying to come to terms with not getting what I want in certain areas of my life. I'm feeling my mortality, even as I recognize I'm in much better shape than almost all my peers.  I found myself thinking I may not come back to Athens any time soon. What would be the reason? I can't think of a good one right now.

Herman Hesse on the delusion of a unified personality (from "Steppenwolf")

The division into wolf and man, flesh and spirit, by means of which Harry tries to make his destiny more comprehensible to himself is a very great simplification. It is a forcing of the truth to suit a plausible, but erroneous, explanation of that contradiction which this man discovers in himself and which appears to himself to be the source of his by no mea33ns negligible sufferings. Harry finds in himself a human being, that is to say, a world of thoughts and feelings, of culture and tamed or sublimat3ed nature, and besides this he finds within himself also a wolf, that is to say, a dark world of instinct, of savagery and cruelty, of unsublimated or raw nature. In spite of this apparently clear division of his being between two spheres, hostile to one another, he has known happy moments now and then when the man and the wolf for a short while were reconciled with one another. Suppose that Harry tried to ascertain in any single moment of his life, any single act, what oupart the man had in it and what part the wolf, he would find himself at once in a dilemma, and his whole beautiful wolf-theory would go to pieces. For there is not a single human being, not even the primitive Negro, not even the idiot, who is so conveniently simple that his being can be explained as the sum of two or three principal elements; and to explain so complex a man as Harry by the artless division into wolf and man is a hopelessly childish attempt. Harry consists of a hundred or a thousand selves, not of two. His life oscillates, as everyone's does, not merely between two poles, such as the body and the spirit, the saint and the sinner, but between thousand and thousands.

We need not be surprised that even so intelligent and educated a man as Harry should take himself for a Steppenwolf and reduce the rich and complex organism of his life to a formula so simple, so rudimentary and primitive. Man is not capable of thought in any high degree, and even the most spiritual and highly cultivated of men habitually sees the world and himself through the lenses of delusive formulas and artless simplifications—and most of all himself. For it appears to be an inborn and imperative need of all men to regard the self as a unit. However often and however grievously this illusion is shattered, it always mends again. The judge who sits over the murderer and looks into his face, and at one moment recognizes all the emotions and potentialities and possibilities of the murderer in his own soul and hears the murderer's voice as his own, is at the next moment one and indivisible as the judge, and scuttles back into the shell of his cultivated self and does his duty and condemns the murderer to death. And if ever the suspicion of their manifold being dawns upon men of unusual powers and of unusually delicate perceptions, so that, as all genius must, they break through the illusion of the unity of the personality and perceive that the self is made up of a bundle of selves, they have only to say so and at once the majority puts them under lock and key, calls science to aid, establishes schizomania and protects humanity from the necessity of hearing the cry of truth from the lips of these unfortunate persons. Why then waste words, why utter a thing that every thinking man accepts as self-evident, when the mere utterance of it is a breach of taste? A man, therefore, who gets so far as making the supposed unity of the self two-fold is already almost a genius, in any case a most exceptional and interesting person. In reality, however, every ego, so far from being a unity is in the highest degree a manifold world, a constellated heaven, a chaos of forms, of states and stages, of inheritances and potentialities. It appears to be a necessity as imperative as eating and breathing for everyone to be forced to regard this chaos as a unity and to speak of his ego as though it were a one-fold and clearly detached and fixed phenomenon. Even the best of us shares the delusion.

The delusion rests simply upon a false analogy. As a body everyone is single, as a soul never. In literature, too, even in its ultimate achievement, we find this customary concern with apparently whole and single personalities. Of all literature up to our days the drama has been the most highly prized by writers and critics, and rightly, since it offers (or might offer) the greatest possibilities of representing the ego as a manifold entity, but for the optical illusion which makes us believe that the characters of the play are one-fold entities by lodging each one in an undeniable body, singly, separately and once and for all. An artless esthetic criticism, then, keeps its highest praise for this so-called character-drama in which each character makes his appearance unmistakably as a separate and single entity. Only from afar and by degrees the suspicion dawns here and there that all this is perhaps a cheap and superficial esthetic philosophy, and that we make a mistake in attributing to our great dramatists those magnificent conceptions of beauty that come to us from antiquity. These conceptions are not native to us, but are merely picked up at second hand, and it is in them, with their common source in the visible body, that the origin of the fiction of an ego, an individual, is really to be found. There is no trace of such a notion in the poems of ancient India. The heroes of the epics of India are not individuals, but whole reels of individualities in a series of incarnations. And in modern times there are poems, in which, behind the veil of a concern with individuality and character that is scarcely, indeed, in the author's mind, the motive is to present a manifold activity of soul.

Whoever wishes to recognize this must resolve once and for all not to regard the characters of such a poem as separate beings, but as the various facets and aspects of a higher unity, in my opinion, of the poet's soul. If "Faust" is treated in this way, Faust, Mephistopheles, Wagner and the rest form a unity and a supreme individuality; and it is in this higher unity alone, not in the several characters, that something of the true nature of the soul is revealed. When Faust, in a line immortalized among schoolmasters and greeted with a shudder of astonishment by the Philistine, says: "Two souls, alas, do dwell within my breast!" he has forgotten Mephisto and a whole crowd of other souls that he has in his breast likewise.

The Steppenwolf, too, believes that he bears two souls (wolf and man) in his breast and even so finds his breast disagreeably cramped because of them. The breast and the body are indeed one, but the souls that dwell in it are not two, nor five, but countless in number. Man is an onion made up of a hundred integuments, a texture made up of many threads. The ancient Asiatics knew this well enough, and in the Buddhist Yoga an exact technique was devised for unmasking the illusion of the personality. The human merry-go-round sees many changes: the illusion that cost India the efforts of thousands of years to unmask is the same illusion that the West has labored just as hard to maintain and strengthen.

If we consider the Steppenwolf from this standpoint it will be clear to us why he suffered so much under his ludicrous dual personality. He believes, like Faust, that two souls are far too many for a single breast and must tear the breast asunder. They are on the contrary far too few, and Harry does shocking violence to his poor soul when he endeavors to apprehend it by means of so primitive an image. Although he is a most cultivated person, he proceeds like a savage that cannot count further than two. He calls himself part wolf, part man, and with that he thinks he has come to an end and exhausted the matter. With the "man" he packs in everything spiritual and sublimated or even cultivated to be found in himself, and with the wolf all that is instinctive, savage and chaotic. But things are not so simple in life as in our thoughts, nor so rough and ready as in our poor idiotic language; and Harry lies about himself twice over when he employs this niggardly wolf-theory. He assigns, we fear, whole provinces of his soul to the "man" which are a long way from being human, and parts of his being to the wolf that long ago have left the wolf behind.

Herman Hesse on the false unity of personality (from Steppenwolf)

He held a glass up to me and again I saw the unity of my personality broken up into many selves whose number seemed even to have increased. The pieces were now, however, very small, about the size of chessmen. The player took a dozen or so of them in his sure and quiet fingers and placed them on the ground near the board. As he did so he began to speak in the monotonous way of one who goes through a recitation or reading that he has often gone through before.

"The mistaken and unhappy notion that a man is an enduring unity is known to you. It is also known to you that man consists of a multitude of souls, of numerous selves. The separation of the unity of the personality into these numerous pieces passes for madness. Science has invented the name schizomania for it. Science is in this so far right as no multiplicity may be dealt with unless there be a series, a certain order and grouping. It is wrong insofar as it holds that one only and binding and lifelong order is possible for the multiplicity of subordinate selves. This error of science has many unpleasant consequences, and the single advantage of simplifying the work of the state-appointed pastors and masters and saving them the labors of original thought. In consequence of this error many persons pass for normal, and indeed for highly valuable members of society, who are incurably mad; and many, on the other hand, are looked upon as mad who are geniuses. Hence it is that we supplement the imperfect psychology of science by the conception that we call the art of building up the soul. We demonstrate to anyone whose soul has fallen to pieces that he can rearrange these pieces of a previous self in what order he pleases, and so attain to an endless multiplicity of moves in the game of life. As the playwright shapes a drama from a handful of characters, so do we from the pieces of the disintegrated self build up ever new groups, with ever new interplay and suspense, and new situations that are eternally inexhaustible.

The overall risk of men my age dying of cancer in the next 20 years is

15.8% or about 1 in 6. Not bad odds!

Money vs. Carl Jung

When I was about 20 or 21 years old and had dropped out of college to play with the Zambo Flirts full-time, I happened to go into the University of Georgia bookstore where I noticed a paperback copy of Man and his Symbols by Carl Jung. It looked interesting and I bought it. That casual decision turned out to be a life changing act that led me to read The Portable Jung (edited by Joseph Campbell) followed by a large chunk of Jung’s Collected Works which occupied a long shelf in the main UGA Library. When I read Jung, I could literally hear his wise voice speaking the long Germanic sentences, something that never happened before or since. I'll never forget the opening line of the English translation of Memories, Dreams, Reflections: "My life is a story of the self-realization of the unconscious."

Eventually I became disenchanted with the band and decided to go back to school, where I ended up changing my major from Film Making to Psychology. I was in the Honors Program and I was assigned the Honors advisor, Dr. Hazen. I went in to meet him and before I told him anything about me, one of the first things he said was “Psychology is not about interpreting dreams and such things. It’s an experimental science. And if you want to make money, go into Industrial Organizational Psychology.” But, I didn’t want to make money- I wanted to be like Carl Jung.

So, in spite of what he said about the Science of Psychology, I did model my career on Jung’s, integrating the science into my approach while making extensive use of Jung’s technique of active imagination, even though I wasn’t formally trained in how to do it. My guiding principles were “Keep an open mind and do what works.”

Ironically, in private practice I was able to make more money than I ever imagined I would, even though I saw numerous patients free or at reduced rates and haven’t raised my basic outpatient therapy rate in the last 10 years or so.

July 26, 2018 (Faithful Moon)

Here I am, Faithful Moon.
and there you are again, too.
How lovely you were last night
floating above the roof of our house
here in Baton Rouge,
just as the day before
you graced my sky
above a sublime
and tranquil meditation spot
on the side of the tall hill
beside the ancient bastide
of Tournon d'Aganais.

A mortal being of my kind
might well think
that after 4.5 billion years
of circling, circling, circling,
floating, floating, floating,
gazing down unceasingly
by night and by day, too,
watching over every part 
of this charming garden of an island,
watching the lightning strikes
galvanize the foaming soup
to form seething protein puddles
wherein clumps of cells
 glopped into bundles
and after a few more hundreds of millions
of orbits
spewed forth improbable plants
followed a few million more
by a genius's mad parade
of every imaginable permutation
of fantastic creatures
swimming in the warm seas,
crawling up onto the bare land,
devouring one another,
being devoured,
coming and going,
coming and going,
appearing and disappearing,
until just a whisper in time ago
my eccentric little kind
 emerged from the forest
and spread inexorably
in desperately surviving bands
like a blanket of water
all the way
to each and every corner
of all those imperceptibly drifting land masses,
on the path to becoming their rulers.

(I saw the immortal work they left
in the dark cavern of Pech Merle
I saw the mammoths,
the horses, the bears,
I saw those hands...
their hands...
the hands of an artist)

Yes, after all those hundreds
of thousands
of millions
of transits,
one might well think
a Moon would become a little weary.

But, someone who looks
a little longer
and a little deeper
knows better,
someone like
me.
 Foolish men insult you
and falsely call you "pale"
and "weak"
and "the lesser celestial ruler;"
but, I know who you are,
my wise
and patient
Queen of the Heart.

National Lampoon French Vacation: First day of Week 2

The original title of the previous post was Outdone. It was going to be about how rude and disruptive my oldest child has been to us, especially me, on this vacation. I don't want to write about it at this moment but it's been pretty astounding how ugly she's been.

Part of the fast developing story lines

Quite a bit has been happening since my last entry. I may or may not have written that we flew to Barcelona on July 3 and arrived on the morning of July 4 at 830am local time without incident.

All night meditation at 40,000 feet

I opted not to take trazadone on the flight last evening and consequently did not sleep at all. I thought and I thought and I meditated and I thought and I thought some more. I didn't want to stop thinking. So many ideas ran through my mind, circled around and ran through it again. I'm so tired now I don't want to write them all down. I can say a recurring thought was I just need to trust her.

Should I do it?

Message as we take off for Spain:

"Hi, hope things are still going great. Mistah Boux asked me to see if you would mind monitoring the Northern Hemisphere while I'm in Europe? If it's too much trouble, no problem, but there isn't much to it- you just have to keep an eye on things. It's pretty entertaining to watch the monitor when the staff of the White House are hiding under their desks while Asshole runs around waving his little hands and screaming with his fly unzipped and nothing flopping out. I also find it amusing watching them making shit up instead of reading what's on the daily CIA briefing papers like, for example, just today the headline said 'North Koreans brazenly flaunting agreement to denuke.' "OK, Pence, what's it say on that piece of paper?" "Well, sir, the CIA did a stealth poll and found your popularity has reached a new high- 93%. You're in first place way ahead of let's see... Jesus Christ." "Yeah? Where's Obama?" "In last place, sir, at 0.01%. Two Americans still like him." Fuck you Pence, I want to see my rating at 99.9% within a week, is that clear you pissant? And have Obama and his two fans taken out behind the Washington Monument and shot. Didn't I tell you to do that yesterday! You're fired, you sorry hypocritical ass kissing dumbfuck!" "Yessir, boss!" Snivel, snivel.

The only part I find a bit challenging is resisting the urge to transport the whole degenerate bunch by UFO to the Deep Personality Reconstruction Center on Uranus for 6 years of intensive rearrangement under the direction of Mistress Svetlana. While she's certainly a deadly badass with a whip, I'm not even sure THAT would be sufficient; but, Mistah Boux assures me it won't be necessary as he has a ingenious secret plan underway to take care of the entire problem. Unfortunately, it's too sensitive for anyone below the rank of Harpy to be in on it, so I'm having to wait until it goes down to find out. Anyway, I'm going on radio silence, so if you have questions, you can message Mistah Boux via his home page, which, of course, is just a front for the Benevolent Intergalactic Conspiracy of which he's Supreme Cosmic Mastermind. Ole!

Regards,

Will (my current alias, fyi).

PS Prince and Jimi said hi."

I don't know if this is a good idea, probably not.... but I did it anyway.

Being an introvert (comment on a Facebook post)

The thing is, we live "in here." Occasionally we feel the need to spend a little time "out there." It's kind of like climbing a ladder from our secret world into the one other people hang out in. It's great for awhile until a buzzer sounds saying time to climb back down the ladder and chill for a bit. A bit may last several days during which we entertain ourselves just fine, thank you. People who thrive living "out there" may not even realize there's an "in here" that's more real to us than "our there." (How'd I do describing it?) 💜💜💜

Of empires and grief

July is here,

the month of Caesar,
Julius Caesar that is.

Julius Caesar, as you know, was assassinated

by supposed friends of his.

They thought he had gotten too big
for his flowing white toga

and that he was destroying the republic,

the kind of case the haters made

when they went after Obama.

Those deluded fools would have stabbed Obama

if they'd gotten the chance.

I love Obama,

best President I'm likely ever to have.

And Michelle was incredible, as well,

a First Lady like we'll never see again.

The country has lost its mind.

At least Julius got his name on a month,

a very hot month way down here

in the Land of Dreams.

After they killed him,

Julius's friends and enemies all scrambled

to be the top Roman dog.

Arf, arf.

When the dust of war settled on the bloodshed,

the result was Augustus Caesar,

an authoritarian wunderkind.

Augustus declared himself a god!

and people bought in

(people can be so absurdly willing to go along
with obvious lunacy),

so Augustus commandeered the next month

way back when Rome was the world's bully.

August is also very damn hot.

But it's only July 1st

and the summer heat in Baton Rouge is brutal today,

relentless, like the Roman Legions

when they wanted to expand the Empire

or put down one of the endless revolts

by those who didn't wish to be in on the honor;

or like the Assyrians, Hittites, Babylonians,

Mongols, Crusaders;

or any of the European countries that sliced up Africa

and everywhere else they could manage to slice

or just plain swallow up,

in order to exploit the people and resources

in the name of civilization and culture.

It's what groups of humans tend to do.

The UK taking over India was an impressive example,

divide and conquer,

a time-tested method;
Cortez used it to vanquish the Aztecs
who vastly outnumbered his tiny band of Spanish centaurs,

like the Republicans who've hijacked my country

despite being a decided minority

dominated by old white guys

backed by other white guys,

shadowy white guys

with profoundly deep pockets

that get ever deeper.

Officially it's 93 Fahrenheit outside

because us United States of Americans
still want to be exceptional.

We can't let the world think it's kicking us around

by getting us to adopt Celsius

or the damn Metric System,

much less by our submitting
to the judgment of the World Court.

I mean, we just quit the UN Human Rights Council.
Fuck human rights, Pedro.

Actually, however, we're the ones who've done most of the kicking;

and our exalted President,

(exalted primarily by himself

and by those who like the boorish way he talks)

is still trying to bully the rest of the world.

Seriously, he's trying to bully Europe, Canada, Mexico,

Japan, South Korea

and probably some others I'm leaving out,
all at the same time!

basically, all of our allies
who don't have ruthless strongmen

running authoritarian governments

and/or kleptocracies,

plus China,
which does have a strongman in charge.

Our self-exalted President likes dictators,

obviously, he would love to be one,
better, yet, an Emperor!

He'd like to declare himself a god
if he hasn't already, in effect, done so.

I'm not worried about that part.

I believe he'll be locked up before it ever happens.

The question is, how much damage will be done

before "the fall" follows his pride

down the drain of history?

OMG

is the Original Music Group, an open mike for singer-songwriters to perform their own compositions held every Friday from 6-8pm and later at La Divina, a cool little Italian cafe at the corner of Perkins and South Acadian. I participate several times monthly and am the scheduled host every first Friday. I'll have to miss my hosting next Friday as we'll be out of the country, but I played last night accompanied by my dear friend, Larry Bradford, a black Vietnam veteran who plays djembe. We did three songs, my newest "I'm All Right" which is basically directed toward X, who may never hear it, "Runaway Train Wreck" which I wrote and recorded at least 2 years ago but had never played for an audience, and "Free Man Running Around on Planet Earth," my 2nd newest complete song. I played my Martin acoustic tuned to Open D (D-A-D-A-A-D)  for the first two and my Swan acoustic with built in mic on "Free Man" tuned to Open G (D-G-D-G-G-D). Jane Kelley held my Galaxy S8+ so I could Go Live on Facebook and the recording came out pretty nicely. No sign of her listening but I'm motivated to keep working on solo and duet performances until I can get an electric group going, another thing that may never happen again.

Imaginary conversations

I caught myself having one a short while ago.

Her: So how are things going?

Me: The easiest way to find out would be to look at the posts on my Facebook page for the past few days. It's a little awkward making discreet "likes" and "loves" on significant things you post when I know you're not doing the same on mine, even though I've posted some things that are very meaningful to me during this time. I'm not jumping to conclusions about why you don't seem to be looking at anything I post but naturally I wonder what's going on with you.

Of course, this conversation isn't going to happen because she is not going to initiate it. I've pretty much decided I will not comment on anything she posts and I will avoid even seeing what she posts by not visiting her page, as I've been doing. I may never hear anything from her again, who knows? But I'm going to suck it up and wait until such time as she acknowledges I still exist.

Am I angry? Maybe a little, my feelings are certainly hurt. But I have no right to expect her to pay attention to what I'm doing, she's got plenty going on in her life and she takes care of her friends via social media, the way I take care of mine. If I'm not a total hypocrite, I will still practice unconditional love and acceptance of her to the best of my ability. And I'm not a total hypocrite- I'm doing my best to live according to my standards of love and ethics. Because that's how I want to live and I still think she's the best.

Reasons to be glad

I have many, one of which is driving a beautiful Porsche Macan. It's weird to feel sad while flying down the Interstate feeling cool at the same time.

Implants

I'm sitting in the patient chair at Richard Appleton's office looking at an xray photo of my 15 implants interacting with the world through my Galaxy S8+. Looking forward to going home and practicing for OMG tonight. Funeral for the murder-suicide son is tomorrow.

Thoughts about the polarization of American voters

You and I, Paige, have been friends through Pet Sounds for quite awhile now and I've always liked you and considered you to be an interesting, well educated, passionate, literate woman with good musical taste. I browsed past this post the other day and afterwards thought about it, then decided I would offer a different viewpoint. For the record, I am a progressive leaning moderate. Many of you who think the President is doing a great job would call me a "snowflake" or maybe a "libtard." I don't care what anyone calls me, I laugh about the insults.

But I don't consider people who support Trump to be stupid (of course there are some stupid people on all sides). I don't yell at, insult, or get into pointless Facebook arguments with supporters of the Pres. Like other liberals I respect, it's important to me to understand the issues that drive people on the other side of the fence. It's not hard to see that people who voted for and support Trump have some very legitimate complaints about both Democrats and Republicans of the mainstream.

Additionally, Hillary was the worst possible candidate the Democrats could have shoved on their loyal party followers. She really is an arrogant elitist. I wish she'd shut up. Her people were absolutely convinced they were going to win and they didn't listen to anyone who raised concerns about her or her campaign.

Now, me and my snowflake friends are patriotic and believe the USA must have a strong military and defend itself against foreign threats. We don't believe in "open borders," that idea is ridiculous. My ancestors were Confederate slave holders and I don't believe it's right to call Robert E. Lee a traitor. I was brought up to admire him.

But the main thing I want to say is, it's sad to me that there isn't a true dialogue between supporters of Trump and reasonable people on the left and center-left (if you would humor me that it's possible there are some). My next door neighbor is a very intelligent and good person. Our families are very close and would do pretty much anything for one another. He believes Trump is doing a fine job and doesn't see anything seriously wrong with his personality or adjustment. We have friendly discussions about our views and, though I disagree with many of his perceptions, I still love the guy and his family.

It's too bad so much money is being made by media and commercial interests that don't want the severe polarization of the citizens of the USA to stop. They are working to keep both sides hating one another. Finally, I will add that not one liberal I know, even the ones who do what I don't do- yell, insult, post demeaning cartoons, post fraudulent "news" pieces etc- not one of them thinks the government should take away the guns from responsible adults or prevent same from buying them. I have 3 adult daughters one of whom carries. I'd be happy for the other two to pack, as well. It's a jungle out there if you're female. I've thought about buying a gun but so far am not convinced I really need one. There are other ways to protect oneself that are less dangerous to the owner and his people. But that's just my opinion. I'm happy for any sane adult with a clean record to own as many as they want.

So, if anyone wants to make fun of me or other snowflakes, have at it. I don't take stuff like that personally. That's all, folks. Except I may post this on my own page to make a statement in favor of civil dialogue and mutual respect.

Personal growth

The emotional episode I'm in the midst of is an opportunity to reach a deeper level of surrender and acceptance. I feel more alive and I'm mindful of being mindful. I wrote this to her and myself: Nothing has changed significantly except the understanding we exchanged and the effects of digesting it. I'm all right. It's all good. And I'm still feeling very sad.

Update on my Facebook post about the tragic murder-suicide case

Twenty hours and counting with no response. I hope I stop obsessing before too long but what will be, will be. I believe X has enough going on in her life that she doesn't need to be tracking mine. I will continue to stay clear on social media except if one of her Instagram posts comes up in my newsfeed. I may even let that go by without a response. I sent her one purple heart when I went to bed last night. That's the last communication I'll send until such time as she communicates with me.

Neediness and the tragedy of a murder-suicide

There's a woman I know through Facebook I will call Person X. This is not someone I knew growing up- it's someone I met some years ago through Facebook at the suggestion of an old friend. She accepted my friend request and I checked out her page. This was during the time I was still struggling with whether I could stay in my marriage (which I did and is now much improved in many ways).

I was immediately struck by what a cool person X is. She lived in a city I've only visited once a very long time ago and she was married with a child and a career, so there was little likelihood we could ever meet much less engage in a relationship, should either of us ever wish to. That idea seemed quite far-fetched, of course. She posted on many interesting subject, music, sex, politics, pop culture and facilitated high quality discussions of a sort seldom seen on Facebook. X wasn't devastatingly beautiful in the few photos she posted but her intelligence and personality came through and I found her very attractive.As I got to know her via Facebook, it became more and more evident that she was even more than I thought initially- very intelligent, remarkably intuitive and insightful, caring and loyal to her friends, an awesome mother, a fierce advocate for oppressed people of every type. She was a survivor of abuse and, like me, a therapist who worked with PTSD. It turned out she was quite  a bit older than I perceived her to be, maybe 10 years younger than I am.

I'm going to make a long story short here and skip over a lot of specifics. The gist is, I'm a perennially needy heart when it comes to women and X is the best, the superlative woman of the women I've ever met according to my own personal, subjective standards and my perception of her.

Amazingly, X and I had a short and meaningful Facebook affair that ended because it was clearly impossible for it to go anywhere. We live a thousand miles apart and we were both committed to our marriages.  The precipitating break up factor was I couldn't deal with all of this emotionally at the time, so that was that. But I held onto an unlikely hope that somehow we could end up having a chance at a real relationship.

I've known many, many women in my life and a number of them were outstanding in the ways I love women to be. I've had my chances with several fabulous ladies and I'm still on very good terms with all of them. I know other remarkable women who find me attractive and have let me in to their worlds in every way except physically, which is a line I don't care to cross because it eventually leads to sadness.

Continuing the story, I maintained what was by all appearances a friendly Facebook relationship with X. Our relationship was to me, ambiguous, because that's the way we left it all those years back. A week or so ago I had a series of conversations and emails with X. I opened up to her about the place she still held in my heart and I hoped she held those feelings for me. But she didn't. She said she cared and that I'm an important person to her, which I believe based on everything I know about her.

I took it in and wrote her a long tribute that ended by saying I was good with being "just friends." I acknowledged being sad about it but downplayed how sad I truly feel. The impact this had on me is surprisingly intense. I'm in grief about it. And, although X said she wanted to maintain our friendship, it's become clear to me over the past few days she has withdrawn from me further than before I forced the issue with her. I know this because she has not responded overtly to a series of very meaningful posts over the last four days, most notably, the Note I published on the anniversary of Anne's death. And there have been quite a few others. On the day I posted about Anne, X commented on a very cute profile photo I put up, me around age 6 from a school photo. I did have a Messenger conversation with her in which she said things were great with her. I lied a bit and said they were also great with me. They are but I'm suffering right now over X. I posted discreet responses to a few of her posts during this time as I would have the whole time since the end of our whatever it was. So something's going on with X. She's ignoring my social media presence.

I can take this like a man. I've gotten the hint and withdrawn from her the way she's withdrawn from me. I'm not going to stalk her online. I'm not going to whine or complain. Well, maybe a little inside of myself. I'm not going to jump to conclusions about what's going on with X. I'm going to respect her and keep her in my heart as always. I know I've put her up on a pedestal in my imagination as an ideal love object and that she has no responsibility or obligation for that. But I can't help but having my feelings hurt somewhat. Rational or not, moral or not, ridiculous or not, I'm grieving the loss of my wish to be close to her.

Maybe sometime in the future things will change and she'll want to be closer, probably not much closer, though, if any. (Sorry, but I never give up hope when there's any possibility left alive.) I know I'm one of life's winners, I'm incredibly fortunate in more ways than I'll attempt to list here. I can accept the situation with her and keep on going. It's OK. But right now I'm very sad about it.

Oh, yes, the suicide part. I got a call from a very successful attorney who has consulted me over many years about a host of problems in his family and close relationships. One of his sons, a brilliant adult who once had a promising career that feel apart due to amphetamine abuse and psychosis, committed suicide after killing his wife, both by gunshot. The couple were both very dysfunctional people. The Dad texted me and I offered my immediate support. He called and we talked. He expressed his appreciation and told me he loved me. After I composed myself, I told him I love him, too. I posted about this on Facebook in a dignified, caring, and courageous manner. Many dear friends have expressed their support and concern. But three hours later, not X. Has she seen my post? If not, will it pass beneath her radar. I'm fairly certain she has "unfollowed" me.  But it's OK. Humility is the beginning of wisdom and I seek to be wise. Let me still love X and not take offense.  Let me forgive her and everyone, as I want to be forgiven. Selah.

The World's conflicts endure because we're all acting selfishly on oversimplifications.

The nature of emotion, perception and language is to simplify complex sensory input and process it so we can make decisions critical to survival. To oversimplify here, over the course of evolution, we've developed the powerful tendency to identify with our social group and see it as 'good' and non-members as 'bad.' (See opening of 2001: A space odyssey). All this is necessary and unavoidable. Yet, we also developed the amazing ability to step back and reflect consciously, allowing us to be aware of the oversimplification and to override it when it's wise and appropriate.

Listening to "Eat my cloud" after all this time.

After the fairly horrible experience I had recording up in Maryland with Jon Brayton (aka Mystr Treefrog) and having him trash me brutally afterwards, he and I have made amends. I even decided, despite my dissatisfaction with how he produced my original songs, I would finance the manufacture of a limited edition vinyl LP. He has done some legwork on how to do this and I sent him $600 by PayPal to spend as needed getting the project going.

Today, I got around to the task of listening to the original CD to give my input on how the songs could be ordered within the parameters of a standard 33 1/3 vinyl album. I took notes as I listened. My notes and the Messenger text I sent Jon follow below:

 Me: Heading to my car CD in hand

 Me: I didn't like the sound in my car so I moved into my studio and played the CD through the PA speakers. That was a lot better. I made notes on the songs as I played through. A lot of memories came up. Prior to this, I've only listened to the songs on the CD including my own a relatively few times since we recorded it. I enjoyed it this time. I'm going to paste my raw notes (no pun intended but my brain likes to do that) into this message, then go back and think about the order of songs. Whatever I think, I will be happy for you to have the last word. Any disappointment I've had about the way the CD came out are resolved for me. The quality of the music is extremely good, even if I would have gone for a different effect on some things. Everyone can't always get their way. You've always said we could be proud of it and I agree.

Teeth of the Wind Vocal is pretty good. Don't hear any glaring bad notes. Background harmony is nice. Bass is not as prominent or clear as I would have liked it.

Put U Thru Mandolin intro. Hilarious raunchy assed vocal. Deanna is the shit. I'm not on the track. Pretty strong. Funny laugh at end.

Biscuit in the Jesus Room. Jon wants to cut it. It has a similar flow as Goddess. A very fine song, well done. I don't play on it. Almost sound likes "fucking up a storm" on one chorus. I like the discordant last notes.

The Goddess Who Dances. Strong intro that sounds like "Roam." Groove is pretty strong. I don't hear the signature open guitar chords that define the song for me. Vocal is actually OK, I don't hear any horrible notes, although it sounds a bit thin. I hear my anxiety in the shaky spots. I can't hear any subtleties in my voice. Oh, well. I like my vocal at the end pretty well: "Madly, madly..."

Time to Go Home. Music starts pretty strong. Vocal has pretty good expression. Deanna does a good job of following my melodic journey and we sound in tune to me. Wah-wah licks are pretty fair.

I Got Frenz I like this song a lot. The vocal is very good. Keep it rockin', bro. Guitar and bass have plenty of power. Quote from Lucy in the Sky cuts it. Some nice double stop bends in there. I remember having trouble getting right with the guitar solo. But it came out nicely. Definitely one of our best tracks for my ears. Should have been big on underground radio. Maybe it's not too late. I seem to have gotten warmed up after the guitar solo. ABS rating is 99.

Ubiquitous ID (pronounced "id.") Intro will be cut. It's almost like a separate song. It is a separate song. This was always my very favorite track. I have to admit I play the shit out of it. Deanna is the shit, did I already mention that? Love MTF's vocal- yes, that's you alright. Riffs are Cream-like except funkier. Great composition, James. Lyrics are really, really good. Brutally so. World class. This should also have been a hit on the dark web.

Bed of Hot Coals Sultry Latin groovy intro. Another very good composition. Tres cool bass line. Did I mention... I believe I did. Sexaphone is saxy. Guitar solo is OK except a little bit stiff, despite some crazy bends. It's that anxiety again. I was fighting it every second and never actually relaxed and just cut it loose except on Ubiq ID.

Impress Me. This is my kind of song. Punk Power Pop like a sophisticated version of the Ramones. Couldn't relax playing it, either. Did I even end up on it? Does it matter? The song sounds great. OK, there I am at the end. Not bad actually. I must have been drunk and on speed.

Mystr Treefrog Roadtrip. Hot rock & roll usually works pretty well. Listen to that, my voice is expressive here. I think I was actually having fun until I got in trouble for acting crazy around Deanna. I sure did like her, though. I hope I didn't come across as a sexual harasser or something. I thought silly was kind of the way people acted around there but I must have read the signals wrong or something. My best vocal by several kilometers. No complaints about this track.
I'll check back later this evening on song order.  Don't fret over anything I said. I'm just being honest.

Me: Here's one way it could be done. Check my figures.

SIDE 1

 Mystr Treefrog Road Trip 3:25
 Bed of Hot Coals 4:10
 Time To Go Home 2:29
 Impress Me 3:45
 Goddess Who Dances 3:28

 =15m + 137s = 17:17 of music

 Side 2

I Got Frenz 5:12
Ubiquitous Id (minus I disagree) 5:29
Put U thru 3:16
Teeth of the Wind 3:43

 =16m + 100s = 17:40 of music

My most incredible true story of losing track of things

Mary Lou and I went to the Salad Shop today for lunch as we often do. One of the sweet ladies who works there and waits on us regularly came to our table with the wallet I lost last Monday and had no idea what had happened to it. Many years ago, I went to visit a patient of mine at Orleans Parish Prison who had been arrested for attempting to assassinate the Sheriff of LaFourche Parish with a remotely detonated bomb. I parked my red Honda Prelude on the street in front of the prison and walked into the building to the security portal. Reaching for ID, I realized with dread my wallet wasn't in my pocket. In a flash, I remembered where it was- sitting on top of my car in plain view (black wallet/red paint) of anyone passing by. I ran back to the car. About 10-minutes had passed and there was my wallet, just waiting to be snatched. Needless to say, I snatched it while saying a prayer of thanks to the protector of my charmed life.

My charmed life

If something unexpected should happen and I die, no matter how bad it was, I hope people who care about me will not lose sight of how fortunate and meaningful everything up to that point was. Dying is just one moment in the long thread of a life.

Final version

Announcement: I am going to attempt a short break from Facebook and Instagram... ...my two social media vices of choice, so I can focus on getting some important things done having to do with our upcoming vacation, major retirement decisions etc. I say attempt because I really am addicted to the positive reinforcement of social media. I can only go a very short before I feel a strong compulsion to open the apps and see what's going on. When I look up, big chunks of time have gone "poof!" Even one day without checking Facebook is an iffy proposition. In addition, I'm distractible and I don't multitask very well (that may be the same thing).

So, wish me luck and you very close friends who follow my stuff closely, don't fret, I'm fine. Seriously, I may not even be able to stay away for an entire day; but, if you don't see my usual outpouring of posts and comments for a day or two, it's all good.

 PS. Be good while I'm away. I'm leaving the fluffy gray cat in charge and he's a badass.

 PPS. If I don't reply to the kind messages of support some of you sweet people will leave as comments, I will when I check back.

Time for a break (first draft)

Some of my friends find they have to take breaks from social media or quit completely because the posts and comments of other people distress and offend them. I see what they see but I'm able to avoid and ignore most of that stuff. Others of us find ourselves spending inordinate amounts of time staring at and typing into our phones or devices, whether we are enjoying the activity or not. I do enjoy social media most of the time. However, the little doses of positive reinforcement we get are addictive; and. the truth is, I'm hooked. The problem is, even though much good comes from it, difficulty keeping the amount of time spent on it contained often keeps me from engaging productively in other important aspects of my life. I bet you're surprised I'm saying that. But it's true. Without going into a long explanation, I am going to attempt a short break from Facebook and Instagram, my two vices of choice, so I can focus on getting some things done. I say attempt because I really am addicted to these things. I can only go a short time before I have a compulsion, i.e., a strong urge to open the apps and see what's going on. Poof- I'm drawn in and the when I look up, chunks of time have been consumed. Going one day without checking Facebook is an iffy proposition. Why not just check and post on some sort of schedule? Because that's a lot of trouble and I don't do things halfway very well. So, don't worry. I'm perfectly fine and this is a positive idea. I may not even be able to do it but; if you don't see my usual outpouring of posts and comments for a day or two, it's all good. And if you need to get in touch, message me. Later, my friends, be good while I'm away.

Facebook post 6.17.2018 on my Dad's politeness and comment by a sweet lady

Polite goes a long way with me. My Dad was polite and respectful to everyone, not just my Mom, whom he adored. During my last visit when he was fatally ill, I assisted Dad shaving. I can hear his voice now, "Please hand me the shaving cream, Owen. Please, hand me the razor, Owen..." Comment by Martha Rarig I will always treasure the memory of the first time we visited your parents. Bob and I took them to the restaurant of their choice - some steak house. We enjoyed the food, conversation and most of all the visit with your parents. Who knew it would soon be tragedy for your Dad. He fell soon after we were there. So glad we saw them at their best - and they were the best not withstanding their age. Your Mom's memory was fantastic, better then than mine today!!

June 17, 2018

Every so often Father's Day falls on my Mom's birthday. June 17, 1984, my oldest daughter's first day in our world, was one of those times. So today when Father's Day and Mom's and Jenny's birthday all converge is pretty special to me. Every child deserves to have great parents but not every child gets them. I'm one of the fortunate ones who had great parents. Mom and Dad were modest people. They were devoted to one another and to their children. Their love for me and my two older sisters was never in doubt. Unlike me, they always stayed between the lines of responsibility and morality. I'm fortunate my excursions outside the lines didn't do me in but that's another story for another time and place.

I have friends whose parents were the opposite of mine, selfish, irresponsible, mean-spirited, abusive, or absent altogether by choice, and yet they somehow developed and navigate life with a moral compass embodying values like those of my parents. I'm in awe of you who've succeeded in spite of your parents. I think about you on Father's Day and Mother's Day and am inspired to persevere and carry on the struggle for good in this difficult world.

Any success I may have had owes more to Dad and Mom than I can calculate. The daughter who is named after Mom is, along with her two younger sisters, the greatest reward of all my good fortune. She's proud to carry her grandmother's name, Virginia, a name that has been passed down in my Mom's family through generations of strong, caring women, and I could not be more proud of her. Happy Birthday, Bunny Rabbit! I love you so much!

Today has more personal meaning than I could ever express. I miss you, Dad and Mom. Remembering you makes me smile with affection and gratitude. You're in my heart every day of my life. How fortunate I am to be your son.

So, love and best wishes to you men out there who do justice to the word father, to my friends who, like me, miss your good father, to my friends whose partner is a good father, and especially to my friends for whom Father's Day has a different meaning because you had a father who fell so far short of the mark.  To each one of you-

Happy Father's Day

The pain (comments about the Rolling Stones' "Tell me")

Back in the dim past, even the Rolling Stones wrote sincere sounding songs about being dumped and begging for another chance. In their case, that phase didn't last for long.

I forgot to mention, I really like listening to this song, it's right up my alley, the one behind Heartbreak Hotel... The truth, though, is I might have had those thoughts but, I've never begged someone to take me back. I just took the pain while realizing I didn't want to be with someone who didn't want to be with me. I was never vindictive, either. And my respect and affection didn't change. If I care, I'm not going to stop caring because we went separate ways. I'm sure it would have been different had any of them seriously mistreated me, or if I discovered in time they weren't who I thought they were; but, it was never like that.

On love

In response to a friend's question, "What's the best thing you can do for someone you love," I came up with these thoughts.

"Most of us realize loving someone is not about possessing that person, or finding them irresistibly attractive, or desperately wanting them in your life, or needing them in some other way. To love someone, your friend, your lover, your child, anyone, is to perceive the person as valuable beyond price. As an attitude, you simply want the best for the person who is the object of your love and you respect their choices of what's best, whether or not that lines up with what you would want for yourself or what you think the person should do. In practice, your actions reflect and affirm your love, encouraging the person to bring out their best and to strive for what they believe is best; and, you always hope this brings them the good life they deserve."

"I see it as an ideal we can strive for. No one, certainly not me, can do it "perfectly" but we can be mindful and do our best, if one believes in the ideal."

Mission to Kansas (written June 1, 2018, completed June 11)

I've spent the past week (Sunday, May 27 through Friday, June 1) in Overland Park, Kansas assisting Mary Lou's older half-brother, Dan Manion, a 72 year old, divorced, retired ER physician who was in a rehabilitation hospital due to falling at home and injuring his left leg. Dan is childless and has residual impairment from a scuba diving accident 25 yers ago when he suffered decompression sickness (aka "the bends") and was hospitalized in Coral Gables, Florida for treatment. Dan has only one close friend, Sue, an 80-year old nurse and great-grandmother who still works 30 hours weekly. When Dan was being treated in Florida after the accident, Mary Lou, Jane Kelley, Sue and I each spent a week or more visiting Dan in the hospital.

When Mary Lou got a call from Patty about Dan's hospitalization, the news alarmed me greatly. Dan's treatment following the fall at his condominium had gone poorly due to diagnostic errors, a bad reaction to Buspar, and his pre-existing major medical conditions including diabetes and mild to moderate congestive heart failure. Sue was doing her best to be a support for Dan but was stressed by concern on top of her work and family responsibilities. Dan's difficulties coincided with one of Mary Lou's sisters and another sister's daughter having mental illness episodes requiring family intervention. Under the circumstances, I was the family member best qualified and most available to fly up and help.

I always liked Dan and felt compassion for him and I'd wanted to visit him before I heard about his current plight.  He was stable when I arrived but with a host of serious medical problems including a severe bed sore, major swelling of his right leg (the left leg was the one he injured in the tall), severe anxiety that impeded his ability to cooperate with treatment, congestive heart failure, and borderline kidney failure. He had made only slight progress in rehab regaining the ability to stand and walk.  I spent a great deal of time talking to him and getting to know Sue, who was very grounded and clearly doing everything she could to facilitate his treatment and recovery.

While there, my talents and skills proved useful in several ways. I brought Dan's notebook computer from his condo so he could pay bills and have access to email. I looked into the medication reaction and discovered Dan had been given a combination of 3 drugs, Ultram (tramadol), doxepin and Buspar (buspirone), all potent serotonin agonists. Given his symptoms, I concluded he experienced serotonin toxicity. I discussed this with Dan, who agreed, and passed the hypothesis along to his physicians. Sue and I visited two skilled nursing facilities and selected one, Tallgrass Creek, due to its overall high ratings and our favorable observations during the visit. Dan concurred and was moved there successfully the last full day of my visit (Friday, June 1).  I left Overland Park with a sense of accomplishment and flew home.

Sadly, as I write this on June 11, Dan is no longer with us in this life. Thursday night, Mary Lou called Dan and they had a long and meaningful conversation. I spoke to him and his last words to me were, "It will be a long haul." The next day, his body reached a tipping point and began to crash. Patty flew up immediately and Kayte went the next day. Dan was alive but at death's door by this time. Kayte sat with him that night and, after some harrowing agitation and discomfort, he became calm and died at 2:30am CST. The post prior to this one is the obituary I was asked to write.

Daniel Joseph Manion, MD

Dr. Dan Manion of Overland Park, physician, Vietnam veteran, loving son, big brother, and uncle, and caring friend, died June 10, 2018 due to complications of an injury he recently suffered in a fall at his home.

Dan was born in Norfolk, Nebraska March 22, 1946, the only child of his mother, Jodine's first marriage. Jodine remarried to James "Jim" Kelley and Dan was adopted by Jim, whom Dan thereafter considered to be his father. Four beautiful sisters came along and Dan was warmly devoted to and fiercely protective of each one.

 After graduating from high school and college, Dan served in the US Army including a tour of duty stationed in Danang, Republic of Vietnam. After receiving his honorable discharge and several military awards including a Bronze Star Medal, Dan completed his degree in Medicine from University of Kansas School of Medicine, Kansas City on May 19, 1975. Dan went on to serve as an emergency room physician at hospitals and clinics in the Kansas City area for many years prior to his retirement.

 Dan was an avid photographer and traveler and a skilled scuba diver. In 1994, he set the world record for a deep ocean dive breathing compressed air, descending to 155 meters (509 feet) near Nassau, Bahamas, a record that stood until 1999. Although Dan was a careful diver who consulted with leading experts to plan his record dive, he later suffered severe decompression sickness ascending from a dive and underwent extended hospital care and rehabilitation. Dan recovered significantly but experienced residual spinal cord injury that limited his physical activity. However, he returned to work in the ER successfully through his retirement. Dan also took joy each Spring in assisting many older people in the community with income tax preparation, free of charge.

Dan was preceded in death by his mother and father, and by his biological father. He is survived by his four sisters and their spouses, Mary Lou Kelley (Owen Scott), Jane Kelley, Patty Ken (Jim), and Kayte Soldner (Woody), nephews, Jack and Kevin Ken, nieces Virginia, Lauren and Maureen Scott, Samantha and Alexandra Soldner, and Katherine Ken, and his devoted friend of many years, Sue Funk, who was there with Dan throughout his hospitalization and subsequent treatment after his recent accident.

Dan was a man of sterling moral character, of great courage and generosity, and of deep compassion. He sought and achieved excellence in every area of his endeavors, setting an example of true caritas and making a difference for many others in many ways. Those of us who had the privilege to know Dan will cherish his memory and hold him in our hearts always.

My most natural inclination

is to observe things and think about them.

A really weird dream

I had the dream, as usual, after being up for awhile and going back to sleep after eating a bowl of cereal.

I was at a high school, I think I was teaching. I can't recall how the dream began and feel that I've forgotten some scenes; but, at some point I left the classroom and students to go look for a bathroom. It seems that all the bathrooms were out of commission or under repair. The first one I went to was occupied by a male. To get to the toilet, one had to climb on some boards, that also functioned as an obstacle, to get to a raised level where there was one toilet. I decided it would be too difficult to do all of this, so I continued looking. Another bathroom had stalls that were not private and also required the user to put some kind of chemical underneath  a toilet contraption in order for it to work. I opted out of that one, too. Then, I was walking around in my underwear looking for my clothes, another recurring anxiety theme. I  don't think I ever found a toilet I could use or my clothes, but the dream transitioned into a science fiction/horror story where none of that mattered. Machines with AI were now running amok and threatening to take over the world, as has been predicted and depicted in films like "The Matrix." I decided to flee to a remote area where there would be temporary safety. I saw images of some young men in a boat with a big tool shaped somewhat like a squid. They were chasing a woman in the water, almost like a mermaid who could swim very fast. I was thinking the tool was dangerous to the boys in the boat; but, it looked like they would catch the mermaid and assault her with the strange tool. However, she outwitted them by making a sudden turn, leading the boat crashed into a cliff wall that rose from the sea and sink. Other mechanical catastrophes were happening all around. Then, I was at the school with a group of male students. I had the familiar experience of an LSD "freakout" where it suddenly became evident everything was an illusion that was melting away to reveal... what? On LSD, I thought I was in Hell. In this dream, however, I thought to myself 'I'll just have to wait and see what happens.' I felt like it could all end and I would be ok. At that point, I awoke and immediately realize it was a dream. I was a little relieved but not really frightened or disoriented as sometimes is the case after a nightmarish dream of this sort.

Remembering Andy Johnson

"For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required." Luke 12:48 (King James Version) Those who didn't know Andy personally will remember him as one of the greatest athletes to emerge from Athens, Georgia and go on to star at the collegiate and professional levels. Andy was given much in the way of athleticism and intelligence and much was expected of him on the baseball diamond and football gridiron from a very early age.

Those of us who had a personal connection knew another Andy, someone whose virtuous humanity shone just as brightly as his achievements in sports. Andy was an Old School hero, the kind who always smiled and always wore a letterman's jacket. He and I graduated from Athens High School with the Class of 1970. By that time, he was already a celebrity. Everyone knew he would go on to sports stardom. We had both attended the YMCA in elementary and middle school. Andy was by far the best athlete at the Y, while I was a 3rd or 4th stringer in all the sports. In football, Andy was, of course, the QB, while I played tackle, for which I was undersized. I did enjoy playing defense and, if I'm not imagining things, I remember managing to tackle Andy in the backfield one of the few times I played against him. In my mind, I see and hear him laughing and congratulating me. If true, my sporting career went downhill from there.

Be that as it may, my clearest early recollection is watching Andy play shortstop in a Little League game. In the field, he had the grace and confidence and quickness of a cat, a big intimidating one, like, say, a jaguar. He hit a towering home run in the same game, well over the centerfield fence. Andy was like Achilles or LeBron, a superhuman matching up against mere mortals.

As time went on, I watched his football heroics from the stands on many occasions at high school and UGA games. I've heard it said Andy would have preferred a career in baseball but respected his father's wish for him to favor football. This would be typical of the Andy Johnson I knew, always polite and respectful of others, the epitome of the good son. Not that we were at all close in our young days- our lives were on very different tracks and I only observed Andy from a distance. Andy was the innest of the in crowd while I gravitated toward the disreputable kids with long hair who hung out next to the auditorium before the first bell rang.

As everyone expected, Andy starred in football at UGA and later with the New England Patriots; and, I followed his career as a fan. I recall reading some years back that he had been inducted into the Patriots Hall of Fame. I had moved away from Athens by the time Andy retired from the pros and came back to our hometown. I like to attend our Class of '70 reunions, usually held every 5 years, and those were the only times I ran into Andy for a long stretch of time. What I remember about that is, times Andy approached me and initiated a conversation in which he actually seemed to like and take an interest in me. To be honest, it was almost shocking, even in recent encounters, because Andy had always been a larger-than-life celebrity to me. I scarcely thought he had any reason to remember me at all.

I last saw Andy at an informal Medicare seminar Tom Hodgson, a mutual friend, hosted in 2017 as our classmates were turning 65. I could see Andy was not in good health but I wouldn't have known from his demeanor. The conversation we had there was our last and best. I finally took it in that he was not someone out of a comic book or feel-good movie: Andy was, like me, a real person and his interest was sincere. But it's still stunning.

Reflecting on all of this, I can't help but view Andy in a Christian perspective. He spoke to me as if I were the most important person in the world, the way the Gospels show Jesus speaking to each person, from the lowest to the highest. I don't know about Andy's personal faith but I have to believe it ran as deep as the still waters. In spite of his immense talent, his lifelong celebrity, his great success, his universal popularity, Andy was a humble and kind man who treated every person he encountered with sincere interest and respect. From my experience, Andy deserves the highest praise for the example he gave in the way he lived his life. I will hold on to my dubious image of him laughing and congratulating me on tackling him for a loss, and I'll reply with this:

"Well done, Andy, thou good and faithful servant."

Owen Scott, III
Baton Rouge
May 16, 2018

I woke from a dream at 4:45am

I was at our old home in Athens. I had gone downstairs to go to sleep. Mom was upstairs. I was thinking how she was doing so much better than when she was near death awhile back. I heard her making noise upstairs, probably having gotten up to use the bathroom, and I had the desire to go up and tell her Good night, Mom, I love you. But somehow it was a struggle to get all the way up the stairs. I was stuck trying to pull myself up holding onto the top stair (this scene, which is difficult to visualize now that I'm awake, is reminiscent thematically of perhaps the earliest dream I can remember, one in which a tornado was pulling me up into it and I was holding onto the stairs trying not to be swept away). I finally made it and walked toward Mom's bedroom at the end of the hall. Instead of Mom, a saw a young white couple in the bathroom. The young woman, who might have been one of Mary Lou's grad students, was using the toilet and the young man was standing near the door. They looked surprised and embarrassed. You really needed to go? I asked rhetorically. Yes, she nodded.

It took me a minute to remember the dream after I awoke.

The dream is the latest in a series where Mom or Dad or in one case, Grandpapa, are precariously old but still alive. In another recent dream, Dad was alive and in the dream I knew he had died. I realized it made no sense that he was living but he was. What's with this recurring theme? I often say people live on in our hearts. That's certainly true for Mom and Dad... and Grandpapa and everyone else who has played a meaningful role in my life and is no longer with us.

It is now one hour later, 5:45am. Today is Lauren Scott's birthday- she's 31 years old. Before I wrote down the dream I sent her an ecard from Blue Mountain.

I'm not keeping up with this blog very well!

I continue to have interesting and surprising dreams; I've been writing and recording songs again; I've had a lovely conversation going on Facebook with old girlfriend and current friend, GA; and, Maureen and Cody became engaged on Friday when Cody arranged a surprise proposal party at our house attended by numerous significant people in both of their lives.

One dream involved going to a high school to teach and being informed when I arrived I would be teaching a seminar about China with six students and a co-teacher. I was comfortable with the idea. A teacher at the school helped me find the seminar room at the end of a hall and we began the first meeting. However, another group of students wearing Oklahoma sweatshirts was looking down from a sort of balcony overlooking our classroom. These people disrupted our meeting by talking and laughing. I became angry and told them they were being rude. They refused to stop making noise and I left the class to find an administrator who would support me in reprimanding them.

Another dream involved climbing a precarious ladder to get to the top of a very tall tower in Chicago that had a small radio station on top. This exercise was intended to be an exposure treatment for people with fear of heights. I made it to the top and was talking to the staff of the station (which resembled a fire tower). The tower was swaying in the wind causing me to feel very uneasy and to fear the tower would collapse. At some point, I dropped my last Adderall capsule and it fell through the grating on the floor and continued to, I suppose, the ground. It occurred to me I was unlikely to find it when I got back to ground level.