Sol's Inner Vault

It's unfortunate, and probably a bit humorous, that there is a common term like "devil's advocate", when an opposite view is examined. At least, I don't feel devil-influenced when I explore different ideas. My friends of faith might say yes, but the devil is sly, friendly, normal; but I'll leave that for others to cite.  To me, an opposite view is just an opposite view, where my mind might naturally wander, to consider perspectives around any subject. Faith itself- belief with no proof- may be considered and examined, as everything else under the sun. What does it mean to "believe"? What is said, not said by accepting as fact what is recorded in a book like the Bible, clearly the most enduring and influential work in civilization's million year journey. Faith means facts proven aren't considered crucial to credibility. Faith has no need whatsoever of evidence, arguments, and debate. Faith means a distinct decision, a choice to assume what is

Days can drag us down like dutiful robots, the drudgery of normal life.  It is a small thing, but maybe vital. If only I can periodically remember,  amidst a day's norm of distraction, to turn my thoughts away from the  temporary and back to the eternal, anything other than the mundane,  just reset to a higher frequency, how much calmer I'll be, if only;  a small thing to recall, after all.

Words may be tools for hiding, lying, distraction, the shiny object that's never the point; words are just so ready at hand for bullshit.  We all at times use our words to evade the obvious, ignore the truth, and try to create another reality. However, it always remains that our actions- what we actually do and don't do- are a more accurate measure of values, priorities, what we truly cherish.  Very often, our words are exposed by our actions, contradictions of jarring conflict are the harsh result. Who says what they mean, and means what they say? Sure, all of us on occasion, some of us more often, only a few do this consistently, as a standard. You cannot play hide and seek with your actions; collectively, they list your actual hierarchy of values. Our actions define us without all the nuanced ambiguity of words. We show the world majorly what we really believe and trust, so that our words by comparison are minor.  Yet, how much false importance is given to tiresome speech, t

The eternal experience of God changes only with perspective, position, relational coordinates, even as it never changes at all.  For the reposing turtle and her babies, there's only the God of sun. For the busy squirrels, the tree God provides. For the ducks who sip out the tiniest bugs, their pond is God. For new pups leading their leash thru the parks, their beloved master is their only God; for cats, birds, all home critters, same.  Your God is whoever takes care of you beyond even your own efforts. Found everywhere, God precedes all faiths, all scripture, all legends or rumors, all the earliest stories, or theories painted on cave walls. God is always before and after us, because the universe has no beginning or end, a very difficult truth to understand and accept.  The God experience permeates all living things, without exception or even awareness, it's in effect at every moment, we are tethered beyond choice, recognition, effort, it's already designed by a wisdom prio

It sometimes seems that the future has thoughtlessly forgotten the past. But, the intrinsic and forever magic of Los Angeles is not lost; it's in safe hiding, behind glass, tucked away in the mystical and inspired Sequoia scene displayed in the old, locked up chapel in Clifton's Cafeteria, Broadway & Seventh. The tiny chapel, which would be 2nd floor right side, had a lighted cross on top. Inside, a single small chamber, and large pane of glass covering a beautiful miniature pristine forest in the Redwoods. The detail was amazing, a work of love, with flora and fauna amidst a backdrop of trees and mountains. On the counter, a button to press. Then, the full magic begins as a deep, resonate voice comes thru the small speaker; a voice that may have been Smoky the Bear himself, or someone as important like John Audubon. The narrative describes the scene, and the acoustics in the little cave made it easy to channel directly North to the enchanted wilderness. The audio only last

Just a passing thought, but maybe a key aspect of actual immortality, even the sense of surviving spirit, is being perpetually curious; right to the end, being interested in the worlds within and around us.  This engagement is the attraction of tomorrow's headlines, the process of learning becomes neverending, while this wondering about all things must have its origin within our DNA, or else we follow course with countless species come and gone forever.  Being curious keeps away energy draining attitudes of popular cynicism, and boredom even from ourselves, it's normally inevitable. Always learning, until the very last moments, that's what I'll hope for.

One might begin with a noble philosophical question: does any species truly know the experience of another? We too often assume all life feels what we experience. Anthropomorphic perspectives are nearly impossible to avoid for most of us. We reflexively attribute our own mortal sensations with any flora or fauna of passing interest.  Mostly, the analogies and comparisons aren't accurate- all critters do things for reasons they understand. Yet, clearly most forms of life also example some degree of empathic reaction, as we so often witness in nature. Feeling more connected, we are comforted by these parallels between us and other species, it's understandable.  But, it still remains true- as far as we know- that a creature will in the end freeze to death in the subzero storm, without knowing even one moment of what we would call remorse, regret, self-mourning, or the dreadful sense of non-existence.  

So, last night we're watching old episodes of Wheel of Fortune, there's a free channel where they show nothing but, and mom suddenly blurts out-- and nails-- the final combo puzzle answer, "SHRIMP AND FRUIT COCKTAIL.", well before the contestant missed it.  Yes, mom is beyond amazing, but this moment set off a bell in my head: how remarkable, even when ailing, is the human brain? It varies a great deal in severity, type, and manifestation, and dementia can be so greatly diminishing. Yet, what is most amazing is how we may still experience and enjoy things, how consciousness still drives forward, even as the harsh disease process slowly develops. Two nights ago, I got the goofy whim idea to give my mom a quick, crash course in smart phones. Within a few minutes, she learned to select, scroll, and click. So, then I started the ChatGPT app, why not, right? We started asking the program about Greek and Spanish words translated to English, etc; mom was instantly intrigued

It's the learning curve that hurts, you realize there's no arguing with dementia; it argues back in disconnected hieroglyph you can't comprehend except by pain. You learn that challenge does no good, it can't be brought to awareness or memory. You can't win, but you learn there are indeed also ways not to lose. You learn- thru repeated failure- that this horrible monster can be outwitted, and then you are better help to your loved one, and to yourself. The sudden outbursts of raging, combative and stubborn for no reason except maybe the need to grasp anything not fleeing from the moment, some illusion of control. The 4 a.m. wanderings to the kitchen, to the empty bedrooms, to the garage, to the neighbor's driveway across the street, to the "Don't know why I'm standing here.", to the precise locations of phantom dreams, to the long stare across the living room of nowhere.  How all of it must be welcomed as if dementia wasn't enemy after all,

Is it true that everything is up to you? Bukowski, the others, were they wrong? About The System keeping us down, no matter what we think or believe?  Is it true that happiness is something you decide over time? Having tried decades of prior chaos and parade of marching calamity, finally it becomes the choice of joy that arrives after all?  Doing things to be happy fills the day, but activity cannot replace attitude, so it is possible to do nothing, happily. Imagine the global energy expended by humans trying hard to be happy, the psychic footprint that must eclipse any carbon tracks of transit and trade.  When all the while happiness can't be negotiated, marketed, or contracted. Choosing happiness overrides any random reliance on good fortune, good works, or the best intentions. Deciding my happiness assumes all responsibility without dependence on circumstances or changing variables.  It's only our desire that defies gravity, the longing to resist sorrow or strife- there are

We know and witness this virtue in various forms including joyfully, or with sadness, or timely excitement.  The forever loyal dog, waiting day and night for his master who has passed. The unappreciated spouse, ignored for too long, yet innocently yearning for a deeper, more real love, someday. The beleaguered worker, a raise long overdue, still getting up before dawn. The thoughtful child who saves her pennies and dimes, recounting her tally each night. The happy believer, waiting confidently for heaven's call.  The absence of this quality may prove reckless, or may endanger you even more than random life intends. Or, you may learn it again and again at every age, rooted in simple faith and hopeful planning, the power that beats time's hold, sometimes with eyes calmly closed, the virtue of patience.

Below "Don't you know?  Death mocks faith.  There is nothing after, says Death.  Don't you suspect that faith is myth? Don't you fear Death night and day?  It's okay, you'll forget it all anyway. All faiths crash when you disappear, here then gone never returning, existing in memory and worn pages, as if no one ever resided in your soul, but that was only one of many tales."  Above "Don't you know? Faith rebukes Death.   Faith promises an eternity.  Don't you suspect Death is a rumor?  If Death can't scare us, it's powerless. Where is the dread of Death in faith?  Don't you know? Believing saves.  Trusting belief is the test.  Don't you suspect believers know?  Believers, protected by a mighty Word, only smile at tricky Death, undeterred. Faith continues forward without facts. Knowing, as opposed to forever seeking. Accepting, as opposed to deciphering."  Don't you know? If you have faith and loyally believe, you'r

The sheer, crazy vastness of the universe is conceptually impossible for our dim and linear brains to grasp. But, trying at least to feel some sense of it, or attempting to comprehend these great distances becomes a sort of meditation in kind, a mental voyage, or expansion of physical possibilities. How smaller and smaller we must become to consider the distance of even a single light year- 5.88 TRILLION miles- there must also be an internal humility of perception; or, a shrinking down of self-importance that may- with practice - facilitate the best understanding humankind can know. This utter massiveness of the expanding cosmos can be personally intuited, or palpably suggested thru many methods and approaches. A simple exercise, for example: imagine yourself launching skyward directly into space, the Earth rapidly receding into a disappearing dot against the deepest darkness. Then, keep going. Up and away from everything, higher and farther, until your mind continues on its own power

Here's a cheery thought: everything ends. All relationships change or end in some manner, whether change of heart, or days run out too soon, it still ends. Didn't mean to ruin your day, just having a moment of sober reflection.  So, what's to be done with this strange and transient existence? It would seem change is the only principle of physics that approaches the eternal nature reserved for supreme beings and such, as if impermanence is the only universal religion. With endings come new definitions. Nothing can end without also starting again.  The same mechanism of uncertainty doesn't seem to bother the galaxies, wheeling thru space in ever greater distancing, expanding into more, what, exactly? More space, more change, more unknowns than grains of stars across a vastness too big to embrace?  So, how do we negotiate this shifting course of no-confidence, spontaneous events, unpredictability the standard? Simply enjoy the fleeting moment we have? I've  got no usef

If not for it, we'd still be in the caves. Some scientists say it's really a curse; when it leads down unwelcome paths. I'll concede, there are times when it's vexing, beyond annoying because of the persistently all-consuming moments it can take over, mind of its own, almost as if from another power. There are times when I could just say get lost, go away, not now! But, the need overwhelms other sensibilities, it's typically no match, I cave in to the craving, and the urgency. Most days, it's much appreciated, and valued for what it is: a blessing. Thankfully, I've always been afflicted, and it drives the motivation to learn, while keeping the hours and days endlessly explorable, and interesting-- the irrepressible pursuits of curiosity.

It's a headline for some of us, a real lack of knowing or realizing. For others, it's a simple but vital reminder: you don't need to be nice to meanness. Neither should we waste too much time with well-practiced haters, remembering they're experts, but they've robbed their own soul. Maybe it's your nature to lead with kindness; that's a virtue made of love, patience, and faith that good can win. Maybe it's your personality to shun conflicts, avoid hard words, and ignore antagonism. But accommodating bad behavior only guarantees its safe return, and indulging others' cruelty only normalizes hostility's expectation. Some folks will bash you from left field, sucker punch you with criticism, or turn loyalty and friendliness into the bus that you're suddenly beneath. Don't feel too bad when it happens, just recall that meanness doesn't deserve your allegiance to decency Facing abject human meanness, you smile, you walk away, you continue t

Don't recall ever playing Cowboys and Indians. We were huge Lone Ranger kids, we loved them both. Yeah, I know, stereotypes; but, I was seven. Mostly played war with my buds, in the vacant lots, parks, or around the apartments. Anywhere can be a battleground when you're playing.  We were never against each other, always the same platoon. The enemy was only a hologram in our young imagination, otherwise invisible. But, I could actually see them as we played. They were always nazis, in uniform.  After all, they did kill my parents' families, only my mom barely surviving, a prisoner in Auschwitz. So, ità was easy for me to imagine I was a soldier, like Sergeant Chip Saunders, Vic Morrow's great charactee from the TV show Combat, that I always watched with my father, himself a brave resistance fighter in Greece.  It was easy to see these imagined enemies as we acted out our boy version of war dramas, easy for me to focus my anger and resentment over never knowing my own gra

It's true, have no reason why, things that are unexplained are hard for me to accept; it always bothers my psyche more than it should. But, some things, or, how about everything really, there is just no plausible cause and effect. As with the subject of reincarnation.  Have recently revisited the intriguing topic of very early memories that seem incongruous or even fictitious. Countless accounts, many thoroughly researched and documented, infants and children describing vivid memory, dream, entire recollections of other lives prior, or even their own death, and other inexplicably detailed and specific descriptions-- is there anything actually happening here?  If true and real, it would seem to involve one core question, or some similar query: Can our primal life code- the Human Genome- somehow, via pathways we're light years away from understanding- can DNA transport or import memories of experiences of lives that have past? In their own unrehearsed words, these unsettling but

How significant are we, humankind, on this small spheroid called Earth? Consider the following: Each dot here is a GALAXY...  Each GALAXY has roughly 100 BILLION STARS.  Each STAR has at least 1 PLANET.  This is just a very little parcel of the universe.

Reasoning. Did we ever learn about this process? It's my last refuge, before praying. But, neither reason nor prayer guarantee an outcome my soul may rest upon. This secretive spirit within, often restless for no visible cause, nonetheless pressured, anxious for the next thing, then the next, pulling to the furious future, maniacal at times, the unnameable longing for that which is just beyond the border of reason, as if logic alone cannot fulfill another desire, the call to new worlds. Yet, those panicked, shallow breath moments when feeling most alone, most afraid, confused, or forlorn, who or what to trust then? Deity? Dreams? Dumb luck? Maybe an expert, or total stranger? Or, no, none of the above? Reason is still my best friend, best chance to survive the momentary crisis, best bet in all storms, still the #1 adapting-survival skill. But, employing reason is not all of it, there's another critical element in play, the part that challenges me the most: trusting reason, over

Maybe think too much, yes? Who else secretly dreads New Year? Maybe no one, maybe only me. No reason for it, it's irrational, like other inexplicable impulses that come without clue, just feel it, stupid, phantom algorithms.  And, it always comes up too fast after Christmas. So, why am I shvitzing about another year's routine end? What else could it mean? Just the cruel anxiety of appraisals? Annual accounts summary, tally of net losses and gains. But, life isn't a spreadsheet.  Yup, also had the typical New Year's. The joyous celebrations, the crowds, drinks, loud countdowns in taverns, friends homes, parties and such. There have been those New Years, too, no mourning, no big introspection.  Celebrating endings and new starts, it can be as simple as that, a custom or ritual, a dance to acknowledge time. But, the year's failures can weigh more than a number, while successes seem light, not enough good to cheer about. But, that's what I always think no matter wha

Many concepts Jesus of Nazareth taught with Scripture, parable, and story have a similar theme: that which was last becomes first- a reversal of perspective meant to challenge the truth of practiced values and customs.  Those who have the least have given the most, while those with wealth- the Pharisees and teachers of the Law- shall be the last of heaven's inheritors. Proportion becomes the real measure, while sincerity of heart is what God favors over vanity, whatever the tithe.  The Gospel of Matthew records what Jesus said, and His bar is very high. It's a challenge to consider how it could happen, given today's turmoil. Yet, Jesus spoke clearly about the meek inheriting the Earth, and the merciful receiving mercy. He also described how the hunger for righteousness shall be filled.  Jesus taught the three elements of faith: love, compassion, selflessness. But I'm only a man, forever imperfect. Loving my enemy has never been more difficult, or even impossible, if tha

Hope sees the invisible, feels the intangible, and achieves the impossible. ~ Charles Caleb Colton There is always being hopeful. Like when I'm with my dog at a nearby park, we're always hopeful we'll see a baby bunny bounce out of the bushes. Or, some black birds in a rowdy circle, quarreling and excited at something. Or, a fallen palm tree frond, my dog must inspect it every time, end-to-end.  Or, being hopeful as a self-healing, counter to all the erosive energy spent on worry, the needless, endless kind. There is always the salvation or calm of attitude, the only thing controllable, sometimes, especially the dark times. There is always the hope that loved ones and friends will be well, or okay.  Does my dog have any use for hope? Yes, but not as desperately as her dad. Perhaps her hoping is more a happy anticipation, untethered to enduring worry or fear, but only in the moment. Scripture describes hope as a virtue, as a mechanism of faith and trust. In Job 11:18, "

Known by many names and traditions, The Magi, the Wise Men, the three Kings, the visitors of baby Jesus are shrouded in mystery and scant reference. In Scripture, they arrive in but one of the Four Gospels, this fact alone is most puzzling, and only a few lines describe their contribution to the story of Jesus and his mortal history. Mathew writes how the three men of prominent status saw and followed a certain new star, traveling together to find the momentous occasion of the birth of Jesus.  Earlier in Scripture, Old Testament, prophet Isaiah's predictions regarding the Messiah's appearance hint at the events the three wise men wished to honor, but there was also much drama in those times. Evil King Herod, the dominant, ruthless ruler of the region, heard of the birth of a new "King", and felt threatened by the possibility he could lose his powerful reign. But, the savvy travelers suspected Herod's plan to destroy his future opposition, never returning to the pa

Day off from work, not my typical Sunday morning routine, but all my chores done yesterday, in the park with my dog, just made sense to do, no regrets! 😎 Found this gift set of Jack Daniels I had forgotten about, so... Had breakfast and coffee already, so this was a cool, impromptu treat. Let's have a tasting! First up, Gentleman Jack, an extra filtered, extra smooth delight, easy, and fruity finish. Then, there's Tennessee Honey, very nice! Just the best sweet balance, and a silky texture. Next, Jack Daniels #7, the classic sour mash blend, the brand coming thru in the traditional taste. Tennessee Fire, a spirited pairing of hot cinnamon and rich quality whiskey that so reminds me of those beloved cinnamon toothpicks every boy in my generation craved.  Finally, there's Single Barrel Select, the cream of the whiskey crop, aged differently, one out of hundred barrels is selected for a darker version with noticeably deeper, complex flavor. My new favorite in this group, the

Tiny victories. There is some deep and unexpected happiness to, by chance, going thru an old crate and finding your own ancient writings. Long forgotten, not really lost but preserved like an unnamed mummy in tattered notebooks and worn writing pads. Dozens of early poems, articles, stories that I didn't even recognise, but it's indeed my handwriting, they're my pages. So many decades gone now, lots of space to completely forget the most earnest past efforts, writing anything, everything, from mid-teens to twenties, also a bit painful to read again, most of it so bad! 😎 But, old writings become like childhood's stuffed critters, cozy familiar, all the old feelings flooding back. Tiny victories, they keep us going.

Some point out the search for God has been ongoing since the earliest time. God goes unfound, the non-believers will remind, a thousand millenniums, since humankind could think and talk. No scientific evidence of God to date. Nowhere is there a tangible trace of divinity, spirit, or any life after this life. But, if you are Baruch Spinoza, or Immanuel Kant, or if you are a Deist, you'll see all of existence thru the exact opposite lens-- you cannot find even one microscopic speck of the universe that is absent God's power! Not one dot of existence excludes God's glorified presence, not a single atom spins beyond God's frequency.  Either God is nowhere, or Everywhere  at once, inseparable and inviolable, the first light that had no start, has no end, beaming across the cosmos for all, a sacred realm of immortality, God's best idea. So then, is it God's eternal mind, or, our tiny, fleeting mind, where to place faith, if anywhere? There's no denying, looking ab

Dialogue: Devil and Saint Thomas the Apostle  "I mean, it's completely understandable. We are creatures who are aware of our mortality, as we see everything else die, too. It's not a big leap to assume we also return to dust. So, humanity being vulnerable and microscopic, there quickly developed a need to help folks cope and hope. There came a natural call for an elaborate rationale that could persuade folks away from the damning depression of death, and from these physical, earthly bonds. There came a.quick longing to create the idea of God- a Creator who is bigger and much prior to death. A kind Master to take everyone's mind off of obvious disasters, abject suffering, and fearful impermanence. There came a need for religion and blind faith that an eternity of dust isn't the final fate for our humankind, if we only believe. No one blames anyone for this delusional creation, this good news idea there's something else."  "If I could get a word in here

Feeling so unsettled and utterly lost, but beyond some explanatuon or good reason. Still awake thru this long, sleepless night, fearing my own dreams and state of mind, can I ask the universe for one healing hug? Feeling no arms embrace, no quiet words, it's still okay, I can imagine the comfort and caring, as if there is a special way, or some order to these cloudless skies, some code of relief just to get me to another sunrise, another day of possibilities. So, this unnerving solitude is only a subjective scourge, but where is the kindness and holiday in the world? In the hard, brash news there is more despair, more random suffering. Maybe sleep isn't important now, maybe just holding on, long night alone.  

It has become the ailment of our time. So many now are experiencing it secretly, unable or unwilling to admit their daily suffering. So many afflicted, but perhaps unaware, or ignoring the symptoms, denying a condition that is often difficult to plainly name out loud. Or, people believe it's something else, a phase, a temporary situation, just the circumstances of fate, or life's miscellaneous, unrelated details, not something pervasive, chronic, no big deal, no illness or undesirable malady. So many folks are in the constant presence of this harsh, excruciating, and uncontrollable state, this cruel form of unwelcome company. So many people suffering in quiet anguish, embarrassed, ashamed, uninformed. In truth, it's actually a veiled disease, often very serious, sometimes actually deadly when ignored over time, neglected for too long, disaster may manifest all at once, just beyond the reach of help. So many people, everywhere, potentially anyone, all around us, at work, at

In earnest resolve and open heart I've sought the key to believing-- yet the inquiry up until now seems to have no destination. But, is believing maybe itself the only key? Does the decision and practice of pure faith then unlock the mystery that's so illusive to pursue along paths of curiosity and doubt? Is some tangible bond of trust completed only thru love and acceptance, unquestioned by proofs or data? Assuming the state of faith, becoming a choice made consciously with confidence from the unchartable mind of everlasting hope. Unbound by time or worldly concern, with faith alone the key to God's gift of grace, not for our righteous acts and decrees we are told in Scripture, but by salvation thru belief in the Creator. So, believing has no other key, it is the key. The missing element that completes the elegant formula of meaning, that fills the nucleus of the unknowable with new light. Faith is a dedicated decision to stop asking the very biggest questions of this exis

There is no questioning over heaven when I talk with my mom, 96, dementia bad now. There is no casual doubting or stray musing about the hereafter when she asks where everyone has gone. "Where are they? My family. My sister Rebecca. We were holding hands when they pulled us apart, she went to another line. We waved to each other. My parents, everyone, where are they now?" I answer my mom with certainty, like I'm really informed. "They're all in heaven, mom, with father, all together, they're ok. Some day, they will come for you. You will see them all again." I tell her all this calmly, almost matter-of-factly, like I know for sure. There is no questioning when answers are unknown anyway, no doubting when it serves no good purpose, like hope or peace of mind. No time for intellectual speculating when the eternal is in the room, like beams of light thru the curtains mom made.  

For this thought stream, God's reality will remain unquestioned. But, what must God be feeling in the midst of global fractured faith among Christians and Catholics? Is God sad with all the ongoing quarrels of opposing doctrines? The internal battles never cease to boil.  Even as Christians are harshly persecuted around the world, painful philosophical differences endure over a millennium. Today, Pope Francis is attending the great Synod meeting, where Church philosophy and practice are reviewed. Many seeking policy reform have been hopeful their views would have a turn. For instance, the very contentious issue of women receiving holy ordinance, then becoming priests, as Lutheran and other denominations may permit. But, this Pope, as his predecessors, will not consider at all such radical change. His Holiness explains it cannot be done without also changing the structure of Catholic beliefs in Revelations, and that no one has authority or cause to alter God's design: only men c

(Excerpt from the 1855 preface to Whitman's Leaves of Grass.) "...hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown..." Thinker and poet Walt Whitman wrote about our many human contradictions, the personal traits that make no sense, that seem so opposite and impossible. Being a resigned agnostic who prays, for example. Or, being a questioning explorer of the boundaries of science and faith, how they both share a long, confusing border of reason, beliefs, facts, and emotions. A dad for two decades now, I'm still asking myself what is the best way to help my young son understand his own contradictions, or impulses that may shape his choices and even outcomes.  After Hebrew school, Bar Mitzva, and me talking about the Commandments, he's a young adult now. We always have frank conversations, so he knows my agnostic traits, and that my praying is contrary to my doubting, still a part of

Mind wandering after work, thinking about writing and other forms of self-expression, what's similar what's different, and the parallels are many. I'm blessed with friends who are pros in the visual arts, drawing and painting, sculpture, crafting of all kinds. Having so little skill in these amazing talents, writing somehow seems maybe easier. For instance, thinking of words and colors, the basic core tools of creating, there is such a numerical difference! Due to light physics and our eye structures, there are three primary colors from which an endless range of hues emerge. If words were colors, with thousands and thousands of hues in each language, what is their ancestry? If words were colors, what then are the primary three, from which all emerge? "Me, You, We"? "God, Love, Eternity"? What are your three?  

A week of sporadic grappling with the urgently irrelevant. Going home now. Coming back again next month for another week. How is it possible, there's so much around me to contradict this feeling, yet it's daily. So alone in this universe? No, not all day, the sensation comes then leaves, the disconnected sense can last for hours, an alien malaise with no other symptom beyond heartache. Feeling alone in a crowd as they say, strolling the day invisibly, or straying about with no purpose, but in pain, inverted screams implode between normal thoughts, but it's not important now who goes nuts or who survives, when you're down to the tens and fives of your rationality, the constellations say it all, wheeling above you in plain encrypted sight, too far off to dispute. How is it possible, if I have a soul is it vacant, does someone return in time? Hoping so, as alone in this universe seems vainly focused anyway. You'll say, but what about family, dearest friends, neighbors

Don't be alarmed or distressed, the nonsensical is all around us, all of the time, no matter compass or your GPS. It's a functional part of our commerse, common speech, interacting in kind. Reason has its place. But, fantasy gives us the possibilities to surge beyond our limitations; fantasy lets us see the broad frequencies of colors, and channel them all thru unbound imagination. Magic is okay when kindness is in play. Someone will say to another, "May you be blessed a thousand eternities." Fine salutation, the sentiment counts. But, odd words. Is there even a plural for eternity? What would we do with two?  

Uniquely palpable sense of self, those fingerprints of a lifetime's history, the feeling that you are you, I am me, banks of random memory, all of this dementia steals away day by day, stranger hours get tangled over nothing important, nothing recalled. Little by little sense of self never was beyond some dream that seemed real for decades but now it fades like fog or the last cloud passing thru an epilogue.

Sometimes, when you go somewhere, you take a certain route, because it is the best way. Coming back home, you may take a different route, again because it is the best way. There is no contradiction, especially if you are walking and there are hills or inclines. Consistency in life may be undefined by routes taken, but then refound by steady purpose, lasting values, and some enduring hope for no particular reason.  

Horror of war begins with the false premise that lives have different value. There are no obscure lifetimes, only lack of storytellers. Most of our stories go untold, except for awhile, maybe for generations, by those we know. Old photos, anecdotes handed down, second-hand reflections repeated again. What can we do? The universe isn't big on permanency, ever expanding as it is, so humans cannot expect much, except by faith or belief.  Fully composed, the chronicles of humankind would stack to the next galaxy and beyond, a swirling trail of volumes and titles most unimaginable, countless pages, every day's details described, every person's story told.  There are no hard and fast rules. Whatever seems like the most simple lifetime, if studied up close and personal, it would reveal all the similar triumphs, hardships, gains and losses found in all biographies. Every human who has ever lived or will ever live is a compelling diary of intense interest and value. Every unique lif

Let's see where this goes. Thinking that is magical in nature. Thought processes involving an ongoing series of ideas, images, concepts, beliefs and feelings passing in processional order in our minds. But, these thoughts have no actual basis in reality- they're magical. Magical in this context refers to thought process not grounded in reason, logic, and accepted facts in global evidence. As in, the Earth is round, a fact. Thinking it's flat is magical process.  Magical thinking includes magical mathematics, magical physics- the hapless and doomed Wiley Coyote, hanging out over the cliff's edge, suspended in air for funny moments before vanishing beneath the screen.  What does all this mean, reason or magical, facts or belief, illusion or reality? How does it affect me right now, in this one moment of my life which has continued for seventy years, and hopefully counting? What is the choice at hand? Magical thinking may include nearly every religion, any belief system be

The athiests or doubters would explain it with little challenge. How natural and expected, they'd say, that God's personality was described by the early Torah authors with so many attributes most familiar to human experience. Beginning in Genesis, Yahweh is the sole Creator of the universe who also at times expresses great wrath, jealousy, vengeance, remarkably mortal qualities that, to many who strive to understand, are most puzzling as divinely shaped descriptors of an All-powerful and All-knowing God. Scripture clearly confirms that we're made in God's image, yet we've also been vexxed with painful, immature, and negative characteristics. Folks of faith might say our God's image is now a distortion because of sinful behavior. Disobeying Yahweh is the beginning of sin, Scripture pointedly describes. God had no mercy for Adam and Eve's mistake, no tolerant understanding. Cast out into suffering, they knew nothing of God's purported universal loving or f

I learn about something, a fact, an idea, or a concept, then I'm scratching my head, struggling to understand how it's true. Like, considering the impossible. For example, quantum physics. It curls my brain into question mark pretzels, so that I almost have to "feel" what I'm learning. Contemplating other dimensions is like trying to leave the room without moving, or, like leaving and staying in place at the same time. My consciousness and the cosmos are in fact always inseparable, but there's a constant and convincing illusion that some division exists, and this trick is accomplished thru an endless myriad of momentary distractions called "life". Mathematical magicians assure us that the computational certainty of these other dimensions is beyond question, all of which doesn't help conundrums of unanswered enigmas, and how I go about steering this mortal wheel's roll. It's believed that I, as observer, must at the same exact time affect

Although appearing later in the Bible's New Testament, this particularly defining Scripture is really the start. Believers must begin here, where faith makes its primary claim, and where all doubt ceases by conscious selection. Verse 3:16 says "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness,". Many verses preceding and following review in detail the dangers of association with non-believers, and the inviolable Word of God being eternally beyond question. This is the seminal point of departure, the nucleus. Did God say it, or are these merely the words of humans?  Formally marking a certain finality of knowledge, one must choose to believe that every "jot and tittle" of Scripture is God authored. This is the biggest challenge to overcome, or rather accept as being true. Various secular world views, based largely on reason and science, react with quickly determined rejection, refusing to believe without

Is there any merit in quibbling over unknowns? Early this morning, 3am, roaming the house on her walker, my mom says it again. It's been awhile now, a repeating thought. "I just want to know what happens afterwards. Where do I go?", she asks in earnest. How easily I could answer that no one really knows. Yet, many, many believe that heaven is real. Lucky place at the throne of the Creator of the universe.  So, I always answer her the same: "You'll be with father again, mom, that's where you'll go. Where he is." What do I know? Just another sinner here, typically imperfect to answer the most important mysteries with clarity. On whatever conscious or instinctual plain, believing is a decision that helps bring the mind over to heart matters, like devotion and unconditional love.  There is no merit in quibbling over unknowns. In the end, it matters little what we actually can prove, because within the limitless realms of faith, all is possible. Calming c

Dementia When mom bolts straight up from the couch, from quarelous sleep or menacing dream, and shrieks out "Help me! I'm dying, I'm dying!"- there is a moment when you think Death itself would be scared off, frightened, in shock. The ritual of daily heartbreak is continuous, witnessing her struggles and confusion now, so active before.  Everything about dementia is a startled, dreadfuly unwelcome reset. Random, sometimes ominous blanks from memory banks clogged in evil fog, mired down with star maps gone, destinations lost.  How do you even hate a disease? Chemical imbalance. Plaque. Brain processes run wild. The most insidiously impersonal of crimes, it has no face to despise like Hitler, like Satan. Maybe each face of dementia's victims is held mercifully in God's great Hands, but names and personalities are still uprooted. Minds of loved ones are still ransacked, disheveled like tossed hotel rooms, numbers gone from the doors.  Anyway, hating it never help

A night so crowded with pale haze and lavender mystery, even the darkness is grateful how the moon wasn't having it, beaming thru the whispers, low clouds and intrigue intermingling.  The small town continued its deep slumber, uninterrupted by queries or controversy, the last few lights gone out several hours ago, a quiet calm settling down upon the village as if all the questions were answered, all the dreams counted one by one, all the longings fulfilled as promised. A night when the sky has other plans, the wind near dawn knows its place, the oldest secrets are all explained in unknown languages filtered thru fog and an alphabet of encrypted symbols, hieroglyphs of random spirits spread across galaxies from the original past. Constellations of conscious mythology, the moon understands their meaning, a night when souls only want to hide.

This quizzical life is also constantly heroic, as evidenced all around us. Everywhere we are, small acts of courage occuring with hardly a notice, lost in the traffic of days passing, hours dissolving into weeks and months of quiet miracles by the hundreds of millions, uncounted in the reverie of the moment. Despite all the faceless, unconscious fears of this veiled mortal experience, humans are yet prone to help each other, it's not purely a selfless instinct. We all somehow intrinsically know thru our DNA that each survives better when more survive together; it's in our bones, this original kindred knowledge. Commonly great heroes are ususally disguised by the immediacy of the challenge, the crisis or problem in play. You can see them better when you look sideways, past our entitlements and prejudices, we all have them, they make us all blind to the most obvious. It's the mom, or dad, or grandparent, trudging along in the routines needed, thanklessly toiling day to day, d

He pooped it all out. Literally. Didn't discriminate. He readily flashed his unmistakable talent, then his ass, alternately, likely valuing both the same. Sober, drunk, irrational, he made excuses as we do, then let it all go.  It is always the restless, resourceful reader who plucks out the diamonds from the waste, plenty of both on every Bukowski page. At first, like a street fight, you can't turn away; but later you do just that. He doesn't read as well later. The redundant victim crap gets weaker, familiar darkness now a bit too comfortable for his pained words. Nothing is fair or meant to be. That's all just an ugly myth of lies. Bukowski tallied up his bad breaks, and created many himself. That's a personal math of self-destruction only he could decipher. The notion of winners and losers gets confused, people aren't that different after all. No one lives on. No one escapes to tell the tale, And anyway, to whom shall it be told? All end up atop the big heap

Birdies may come with kindness, but don't expect them. Decency is still par for the course of this life. It is simple gratitude that scores the double eagle.