I woke up this morning in a funk. I didn’t feel like doing my morning Zen sit, because it would have sucked and the twenty-five minutes would have flattened out to an endless life time. I didn’t have a single thing I was required to do today. By the way, if you think that is easy to pull off, you try it. Days like this are tailored for mental mischief and it didn’t take long for me to fall prey.
My idle mind, guaranteed to take me where I’m not always welcome, got going. I thought about the dance between mind and soul. I think of the brain as the bank, this large brick building, which somehow keeps moving along our own path. It is where all of our thoughts are housed, some we can retrieve and others get lost during one of the moves. Our feelings are kind of like the soul, invislble, but ever present. They are like the skin of the chameleon, with every transformative coloration, equally vibrant.
I think it was during my yoga practice, when I usually give my mind the option to go on vacation. I thought about how to visually present this intrusion into my morning ablutions, right in the damn middle of my unscheduled Saturday. Feelings are broad strokes on the canvas. They tend to burst or ooze, depending upon your disposition, like a forest fire, burning everything in front of them. Now, you begin once again, using a smaller brush and a variety of colors, to paint your new stories over this freshly covered canvas.
Feelings are an incredibly potent seasoning and no matter what you put in the pot, you will always taste that distinctive spice, whatever it is. These days, I am much more interested in the color of my canvas, because everything that happens in my life begins with the primary hues of my humanity. In a way, it is like creating the life you want for yourself, making your life happen for you, based on your feelings, because they always win anyway.
I am not sure what lessons we learn when everything is humming along perfectly. I was in a lousy mood this morning. There, I’ve said it. I can’t possibly say I am thrilled about my age and its increasing proximity to the land of Thelma and Louise, assuming I even have their choice. I think a teenager would cover his/her canvas in the hue of the hormone. Maybe millennials are going green for the coin, but I’d say we always find ourselves in the midst of fairly strong colors, depending upon where life comes upon us.
Then, I was thinking about the way I need to be writing if I want to be read. By the way, you show me someone putting themselves out there and not claiming to give a shit and I will show you someone who is looking at their own canvas from the ass end of their vision. I think famous people easily get away with sharing their views as pronouncments, because of the sweetness of their credibility. I don’t stand a chance in that world, because the thought competition is way too intense.
I don’t like Barbara Streisand, because she was very unkind to me. The year was probably around ’66 and I was a page(usher) at NBC in NYC. The Emmy Awards took place in the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria and everyone in show business was there. We pages were asked by the producer to go over to certain stars and ask them if they would do an opening shot, entering the ballroom. I went to her table, knelt on one knee, and politely conveyed the producer’s request. Well, she looked at me with the disdain of a seriously, hateful diva-in-the making and that was it for me. I thought of that ancient moment, because I was on the verge of breaking into my show-stopping renditon of Feelings.
If I could be serious for a minute. The Darwins of the world and probably many global warming conspirators as well, would likely say that it is our intellect, our minds that put us rungs above all others on the ladder of evolution. Barbara issues aside, I know it is our feelings, our emotions, our silent souls that truly put us above and make us responsible for all other sentient beings on the damn ladder. We better include the earth that ladder teeters upon, too.
So, here I am, with nothing of any importance to do and I’ve got all this handcuffing me into immobility. I don’t think there was a single cloud in the sky this morning. Like any good mouse, I do have my maze, which inevitably takes me to the KCC market for some coffee, an insulin- antidote, chocolate croissant and conversation with a good friend. I had to ride my motorcycle today, because of the magical weather and wanting to put some road between myself and these ideas.
I know I have mentioned Pavorati before, but he’s not the first musician you’d think about for the soundtrack of Easy Rider. I was on Flaming Lips, leaning into Tree Tunnel, heading to Poipu and O Sole Mio trumpeted forth from my handle bar speakers. I was kind of riding into the sun’s gentle light and I started crying, I mean cotton-in-the throat kind. I remember being a little boy and seeing my father in the living room, completely enthralled by opera, nationally broadcast on radio. I am understanding the value of feelings more than ever. I will keep looking for ways to express my feelings to you, because that’s what regular, not-famous folks like me do.
While I may write about all this stuff, I would never get the idea that I have more feelings than anyone else. I just happen to be a guy, who wakes up on a Saturday morning, with nothing of any importance to do. Then I think about this kind of stuff and for some reason, have the notion I ought to share it with people I don’t know.