Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Sucked.

My own opinion of course. I'm not going to justify myself or write a book review, just sayin'.
I mention it because there is one concept from that book that stuck with me, or more correctly, that I bastardized with my own interpretation because Pirsig's was gibberish.
Pirsig's idea was that things are imbued with 'quality', a vague term for a mystical property that...y'know I don't understand his bullshit concept.
My personal interpretation is that certain things have a mystical property that sets them apart from the majority of like things. It's something undefinable really, and usually when I reference it I'm thinking of creative works, like art or music or film or lit.
For something to have quality as it pertains to my personal lexicon (I can't begin to tell you how much I love the word 'lexicon'), it needs to fit some basic criteria. It has to be transcendent for starters. Not a work about the subject of transcendence, not hallucinatory, just...transcendent. Something that traverses boundaries of genre, image, class to strike a chord within the very spirit. It can be as a simple as a line from a song that gives you a chill or a thrill, a particular twang or vibrato in a vocal, a snippet of brilliant imagery from a poem or story (Walt Whitman for example, rambles on endlessly, almost incoherently and then you'll come across an incredible turn of a phrase that seems to define your very being), it can be as complex as the chaotic cacophanies of a tchaikovsky concerto. The thing is that it must resonate with your universe, if you can dig that. It's catalytic in that the initial sequence of neurons it sets of starts a massive synaptic reaction exploding like fireworks in the base of the brain. From there it becomes a psychic/physic harmonic, a slight buzzing that you can feel from your bone marrow to your split ends and cuticles. I don't think that quality is a homogenous property, easily quantified or measured. It's subjective, with the individual as node resonating in accordance to the frequency of their spirit or soul or chakra, resonating with the essence of their is-ness. And I think that perhaps it has a purpose, like a homing signal of sorts, a beacon towards peace maybe. It's intrinsic, looped into the underlying fabric of time/space/infinite is, a way for the symbiote souls and organisms of the universe to bind. At its utmost it binds binary stars together in a pseudo-eternal cosmic tango. It assembles galaxies and nebulae. At its smallest it's the magic that draws particles together into unbreakable bonds. On the human level it connects kindred spirits through harmonics synchronicity serendipity intuition inhibitions on exhibition neuroses firing interhuman synapses through the unified field. Beyond the illusion of human strivings it connects the the soul to the cosmos and to the infinite, lifts the curtain on the illusion for moments of enlightenment and heightened awareness. You know what's funny?
I can find quality in Stranded at the Drive In by John Travolta. True story.

twenty year old dreamin

I am nearly double the age of my avg employee. It's one of the things that i love about my job. It grants me a sort of immortality. There is a beauty and a strength and a resilience to the 20 year old mindset. They still thrive on their dreams. I'd say that the percentage of my staff that have uncrushable dreams of rock, pop or hipohop stardom easily exceeds fifty.
There's a contagious energy working with young people. People are always commenting on my energy level, consistently making comments like 'You're just a big kid aren't you?'
To be completely honest I have no idea how a person my age should act. I can't relate to people my age. Don't trust anyone over 30 is my mantra still. For twenty years now I have been watching these fiery would-be rockstars coming up. It's sometimes sad to see them grudgingly let go of their dreams, get'serious' about life. Inevitably and irrevocably it"s the giving up on their dreams that does it to them. They lose their joie de vivre when they give up.
It's at about that time that I just can't maintain the friendship. Bitterness and ennui roll off of them in a toxic cloud.
I'm 40 years old. I have dreams that no one can steal. Last week I enjoyed yet another guest spot on a college talk show. This week there is talk of me fronting a Poison cover band. I've written a novel of proportions so epic it will take another century before the global mind can handle it. I've got 2 more novels on the go and aspirations to revisit mad poem writing. I haven't given up and consequently my vitality shows it.
I'm sitting at the airport right now, waiting to fly out on business trip. I'm typing on my phone so forgive any typos. I've got some time on my hands as I came here early anticipating some bullshit. I was right. They gave me a big hassle about trying to bring my skateboard on. Fuck the Man anyway. Skate death!

Ramblin'

I've been all over the place tonight. Scattered and windblown, mind perched on the edge of something, but God knows what.
So, we'll go one at a time.
I've been reading a lot of Jung lately. Tonight I was reading about his early years, and how he came across the idea of a collective unconscious hearing ghost stories from the countryside. It occurred to him that where ever in the world one might find a ghost story, there were elements that were unchanging. He noted that while the afterlife tended to be the domain of the religious, there were no religious texts describing the sorts of experiences the living were having with their hauntings. A few examples were cited, and one of them was the example of clocks in the deceased's house stopping at the moment of death. This gave me chills to read because it's exactly what happened when my mother passed away. There was a clock that had been given to my parents by the Commissionaires for their years of service, and it stopped dead on the time she died. I looked it up on the net and found that this is a pretty common occurrence.
I took some comfort initially from the idea that my mother's spirit had effected a change on some real world item to send us the message that there was something more.
But tonight I looked at it from a different perspective. Perhaps it's selfish of us to view this communication from beyond the grave as some sort of reassurance or message of love from the deceased. What if instead of this, they are trying to pass on information about the fundamental functioning of the universe, of life and death?
What if the constant interference with clocks by the dead is a continuing commentary on the nature of time? Could it be that they're trying to tell us it's all non-linear, insignificant? Rather than waving a simple goodbye, isn't it more likely that the crossing of dimensional barriers might be more of an attempt at mapping the way for us? Or perhaps it's a warning, who knows? I just think that there might be value in digging a little deeper into phenomenon from beyond the grave into what it could mean in another context.
Okay, next thing. I called this post rambling because my thoughts have been jumping tracks bullet trains tonight. So much so that I've got concerns I might be about to go into an elevated state of being. (I don't like the word manic, but this kind of jumping from thought to thought and tying together coincidences is sometimes an indicator of that very thing). There are a lot of things that I don't feel comfortable discussing with just anybody, a lot of things that I would prefer the anonymity of internet forums to discuss. There are things I worry about that would worry other people in my life were I to share them. I decided tonight that I would start a second, anonymous blog to lay down the kind of crap that gets my head spinning without causing anyone any concern. It's like a secret diary that anyone on the internet can read and comment on yet never know that it's me writing it.
There was a lot of other neuro-surfing going on tonight, but that's all I have for now. Peace.

Days to Remember

I really don't get much happier than I am right now. As I write this I'm parked in a busy mall parking lot waiting for the family to finish their shopping. The sun is shining ski resort bright and bouncing blinding white off of the screaming snow. It's above zero today and the chill is gone and I'm free free from your spell old winter and all I can do is wish you well.
I've parked Black Thunder paralell to the sun, taking all the photons she can give me broadside. The side door is propped open and I'm sitting in my old teak surfboard chair. Eased back, jacket off, soaking up rays while typing this out on my phone.
My T-shirt's cooking and the graphic is melting and I know my hard winter squint is being baked into new old man lines on my face but I don't care. This is where it's at. I'm getting eyeballed by all the passing drivers and they're looking at ME like I'M the crazy one. I'm savoring each solariffic moment of this with a relish and a cosmic satisfaction known only to junkies and die hard pony players. Admittedly my choice of location might be a little whacked, but I am where I am in a big absolute superseding conventional physics kind of way. You know?

Mexican Vacation.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow. According to the forecast it's going to 'feel like' -37 in the morning. I prefer the feel like temperature as opposed to the actual temperature. I have a difficult time being objective at the best of time, but the weather is one area that I view with skewed perception more so than others.
So why so happy about a normally hideous weather outlook? I have the day off tomorrow, and I discovered Saskatoon's best kept secret a few weeks ago. The Lakewood Civic Center swimming pool bills itself as housing a 'spacious tropical pool'. What it keeps on the D.L. however is the fact that it has a wall of windows along it's entire Southern exposure. Poolside there are big sun loungers, all facing the pool for relaxing parents. I discovered a few weeks ago that you can turn the chairs towards the windows in the afternoon and lay back in the sun for hours in the middle of winter, eyes closed, brain basking in the hot red glow of sun on eyelids. My first time there a man about my age pulled up a seat beside me and said "Feels great doesn't it?" He then proceeded to tell me that it was possible to get a sunburn in the space of an hour if you weren't careful. It was a ritual of his to make it there once or twice a week.
So ever since booking this day off I've been praying that tomorrow will be sunny and freezing, and now it looks like I'll get my wish.
I've been joking with the guys at work that I'll sneak in half a dozen Coronas with me.
When the lifeguard comes up to harass me I'll ask what the hell a Saskatoon Leisure Services employee is doing in Puerto Vallarta? Then I will demand 'mas cervezas' and when they protest I'll snap a quick "Vamos, andale!" at them.
The plan is this: shades, Jimmy Buffet, headphones and a slurpee.

Goodbye Blue Mondays

and Tuesdays and Wednesdays etc ad nauseum.
It's been a long time since I've blogged. Here's the reason. I couldn't really give 2 shits about anything.
I have this little mood disorder thing, where I lose my will to live in the winter time, and consequently I lash out at everyone and everything in my life for several months of winter. This year I took some prescribed anti-depressant type drugs so that I wouldn't jeopardize my job, marriage, house family, etc. ad nauseum.
They worked I suppose. The usual paranoia, exhaustion, irrepressible urge to move somewhere, loathing of all demands on my time as subversive attempts to infringe upon my freedoms were absent. So were all of the fun parts of being a whack job however.
The racing thoughts, the all-consuming creative obsessions, the desire to work out and stay fit, the urge to write and sex drive etc. ad nauseum all vanished.
With the onset of spring I've decided to wean off of the Soma. I think I'm out of the woods now until next winter. The days are getting longer, I'm driving home in the soothing orange glow of returning sunsets and I've heard runoff in the storm drains a few times this year already. I'm counting the days until the vernal equinox, gearing up for the first days of dry pavement, days off in the warm sun and asphalt surfing once again.
And with the decreasing amounts of neuro-toxins in my bloodstream I'm feeling human sensations again. Crazy little rushes of awe and wonder punctuated by syrupy sentimental sessions of joyful blubbery. I'm talking to myself in the car more and the work week doesn't stretch out in front of me like Mont Ventoux from the wrong end of the peloton. I'm also making obscure references to sports I don't give a rat's ass about :)
I'm looking forward to summer. And before I poison the minds of anyone considering treatment for mood disorders, I have to confess; this was the easiest winter I've ever had. But that could easily have been the long johns and the toque doing that too, haven't dressed for the weather since I was about 11.