Follower of the Schmucks?

Moses with his iPads

The friends who are not friends, rather scammers or other uninteresting control freak weirdos, seem to to be dwindling in mass if not application of bullcorn. This is a good sigh (and sign). Yet, a whack job sent me an outreach on #Messenger that extols to accept his madness. The grammatical articulation is lame and lacking let alone the inside out logic of his assumptions. There are millions of lonely people seeking attention, recognition, and strokes (of any style), eh? Or, what a wise man #Egyptian i know says, “they are looking for a love story.”

In the real world, I work with facts, confirmed, and vetted. In my #creative neo-writing semi-pursuits i work along side #imagination but even this waning awareness stems from life experiences, enhanced, disclosed, leaked, and tweaked.

#Intuition and the general vibe of what to do next are not fixed quotients of #metaphysics. We each find our holy holed filed path depending on a showy treasure chest or buried trash heap of considerations. Ya know, stuff we drag around looking for the #Kahuna of emotive dumps or obsessively pushcart into every touchy circumstance when our hearts are bruised and are spirits delicate. I am for unloading the dysfunctional hollow crude and insuring the thickness of integration. I feel a similar way about rotten people who are users, abusers, too narcissistic, and basically a double drag (not as in queen). Let my people go, then has an adjunct meaning.

Luminosity of the brave #soul is no easy pickins’ and its guarded recipe is not written as a prologue to Moses’s burning bush tablets. My rickety world view is to firmly see we are ALL chosen, including every single hearty living or losing its luster entity in the universe.

Human beings trek along believing they are the utmost special prana consumers in the cosmos. I am unsure why this concentrated species-wide insecurity is afoot. Could be because we are basically bipeds with enervated senses driven by a large two part brain along with a powerful system induced body that is certainly a miracle. The adage you are what you eat has never been more pertinent as we continue to shit in our one nest and forget we are one. Although, there are many who mouth the words of #wholism, it is a disdained unnatural act according to the power lobbyists of gutty greed and wobbly wanabees.

When you blast out the old year and ring in the new, may you take a moment to look around your environs and consider the ramifications of how silly it is we are the only beings on the planet celebrating this passage. All other breathing or inanimate life forms are totally oblivious to our relentlessness to mark time passing and time futuristic with ritualized celebrations.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing . . .” Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I do believe this is the first time i offered a #Biblical quote, publicly.


Changing Fantasies Part 99

A personal superior relationship standard is naturally and historically set and unless the latest champion on the field has his/her entire act together or at least most of it, why bother? We are creatures of habits and once we live inside an incredible connection with another, we expect nothing less. I am a ranting optimist – into fairness and justice for most – but I am also a practical human being. Time has shortened and is speeding up so why waste what remains musing around or quasi-involved with those who do not measure up?

Fedbook pals, Vickie and Jane (well, Jane and I are also friends in real life for the last 20+ years), get this because they too knew a mega-love. Prof A, another FB pal and neo-mentor, and his glorious life-long loved one are another truly special case of human love involvement. My bro and his wife of forty years qualify, as do my nieces and their marriages – as members of this unique lot. There are others, I pray. If the axiom – we marry one parent and become another is true – you can fill in the blanks. We parrot and practice mime what we see and hear as role models?

When i write about love between men and women (I am not gay, so I can’t write about their version, or other combos) it is not an illusion or a fantasy. What is mind blowing is how few folks actually experience solar system shaking love.

I knew within a short period if Arthur was the guy for moi and he knew if i was for him (although as a man it was his secret for years) long before he made his approach. His following from afar was not stalking, rather an intellectual’s period of evaluation and consideration for comparison and emotional cost-effectiveness. Witty articulate Capt. Arthur was a brilliant private attorney and superior human being who was communitarian compassionate by nature with a happy go lucky intimidating personality – not regular style in any regard. It may also have been his #recovery program at the time required him to not fall for a ‘slip under a skirt’.

Capt. Arthur waited for a jelled opportunity and the shifting and sifting in his life to then wing-in over my intersection and perform aerial loop-de-loops. His outfit was self-appointed. He dressed in a camel hair blazer, light wool designer dress slacks, a commercially pressed tattersall shirt, silk Argyle socks (paying homage to the Scottish lass thing) and suede boat shoes. I was oblivious as my goal at the time was to not remain on the edge of the #Hamptons, NY, but to return to my home place, the golden state of #California.

Love Hints #1 thru #8: Letting go is not about denial. It is the exact opposite. It is #freedom. It is #openness. It is #generosity grown and idee fixe shed to be packaged and presented with modernity and tradition.

As the play of amour unfolds it is a matter of the fearless #heart to NOT let the inhibited complex brain jump the gun or let the lug of baggage cargo f*ck it up by putting pedal to the metal or acting nonchalant – what I call ‘the get away closer syndrome’. Yet, potentiality must flow beyond maybe, might, and a #relationship composed of absentee pledges and being palish “walish” via tiny white electronic screens. Having a bee in one’s bonnet or a wild hair up your arse are phobias manifested to take the focus off hidden emotional problems. Standing naked in the luminescence with no projections, no judgment, and no phony filtration is naturally earned endearment not slanted infatuations on a string of changing fantasies.

#Love, the zesty, delightful, deep feeling radiant kind is also as far removed from co-dependency as one can paddle in front of a surging incoming tide. Appreciation, an in-love disposition, a soft spot, a weakness for, and so forth are best wishes and affections to convey garden variety love. What I am confessing is something in the grand arena of cosmic oneness and spiritual mutualism fulfilled. The luster and locale is not searchable on #Goggle Earth. It is a birdy place where dreams are not cajoled and confidence is not propped up with agendas and wobbly values.

To inveigle another (sweet-talk) is part of the glowy intro, yet to expect this chatter to forever be the exclusive underwriting to an epic relationship is maya. Further, never give-up on the sweet talk or spontaneous eruptions of subtle dazzle -directed at your s.o (significant other), or all becomes gaudy interpretation rather than classic world view.

Are you beginning to get the jest and the gist of this?

Long distance couplings are tough. Twenty-first century love affairs established #on-line are hampered and kickstarted by promises. These couplings at times degrade into mini-bouts of paranoia because the two want to be together as one then they don’t then they do. Many blaze out in a fresh form of no-go for man and woman – i call it reciprocal unrequited love.

Hundreds or thousands of miles apart is an empty desert with few oasis but aplenty with mine fields of what ifs and maybe nots. Then again, why spoil the luscious beginning by forgetting to relish each tantalizing moment. Yet, glued to this introductory joy is mutual hope for actualization or it flops faster than a Broadway play. The example I recall was with TV stars Mary Tyler Moore and Richard Chamberlain (December 1966). After four disastrous preview performances Bob Merrill, the mega-producer, pulled the clunker . . . to not, “subject the drama critics and the theater-going public – who invested one million dollars in advance sales – to an excruciatingly boring evening, I have decided to close.” The play? Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Some movies are better left in their original format and not reinvented in another medium, not unlike collector novels.

The wonder about #cyber-installed beginnings is how the pending coalition is without the full gamut of input pressure. Cyber-dating allows for untold testing with emails, video communications, and instant chats (IMs without any accountability) – along with vast swatches of downtime to consider, evaluate, and mentally masturbate about a bail out or a drop-in.

The horror about cyber affairs is how the coming together for many is based on one-sided changing fantasies (without accountability) – i.e., those constantly in love with being in love (read high). Again, these are shallow renditions and not even mirrors to what I know as true-blue love. People invest way too much via little electrified screens instead of figuring out how to meet in person and proceed normally in a full court press of potential merger or run the hell the other way. Personally, I find cyber-locus feigned alliances boring if not stupid, not unlike coal mining with a toothpick, sans a decent lantern.

The actual game plan to fit into each other’s lives is not a dramatic ordeal. Somehow, even between aging set-in-their-way brainiacs prone to project management and reams of options, the nerd bud pops open and the lotus flower of togetherness blooms. For the younger set, many choreographed couplings happened when #Anonymous took to the actual streets in protests. The vitual cyber masks were pulled down and the real Guy Fawkes plastic jobs held in place until eye locks were released.

Sterling moments of closeness originating with eye locks outweigh darkened aloneness. Two become conjoined by a golden thread. If you think a marvelous pairing ends due to eventual arse dragging familiarity you have neither experienced nor witnessed the quality of blended lives I speak from on this platform.

If you experience glimpses of eye locks and deny the authenticity you are a scared little rabbit seeking to hump, overly crusty- burned from a prior engagement, or your turpitude is beyond depraved (ex.=  seeking a western green card to escape the local horror show of drone wars; or surging the sex-trafficking channel).

It is a rarity – a communicative magical honest #union – and in my never humble opinion once accepted is the steadfast human finery of living on the blue marble. It requires fueled faith, kindly consistency, understanding loyalty, and spot on humor. Because, when Murphy’s Law steamrolls across the parallel pathways and other shit dumps on ya to test one’s guts and weigh one’s conviction and confidence the wisdom to laugh standing tall – holding hands in the wreckage – is a miracle. Togetherness wins the day, soothes the night, and pushes the hit of momentary joy back into the now.

There was a possible keeper on my horizon. He arrived on his paddle board out of the mist of the matrix. The cyber format is more ocean than conduit and too crowded with paddlers. Sincerity and enchantment will divulge themselves if any potential duo rating is high enough on the tenderness meter to meet or surpass what was . . .

Today, someone railed how can I act (read reject) based on such an old-fashioned comparative methodology, bla, bla? Aye, he is one of the truculent pretenders to the Arthur throne so his male ego is out of joint, but then again it is a valid question.

How can i apply a dearly nearly 20-year marriage to what is now a dead prince’s memory to evaluate and benchmark others in the living here and now? It is damn easy and getting more so. I can, and i do. I am not required to understand you, your predicaments, or empathize with same unless you exhibit a verifiable heart felt apodictic.

With no succulent assurances, we know. We intuitively recognize each other? Precious real gems sparkle and resonate different from artificially made or faked ones – not for a moment, but in perpetual display the tried-and-true ones are immortal. Vickie and Jane contend it is likely our ardent rich captains of love were the last of an extinct breed. I am holding out Capt. Arthur was the second to last of a dying breed.

If you sing for your soul, your family and friends, and the mothership (Earth), the drama-comedy of human life is never boring or riddled with fallacious accommodations. We each reside in a singular holy temple adorned with stark bareness for some and aesthetic jungle exuberance for others.

I prefer dependable orchestrations of honesty, allegiant ethics, Highlander honor, generosity, density of light, kindness of paying it forward, bigga brains, classy demeanor, political savvy, bravery, provocativeness, mystery, and ripe romantic events. And, no i do not need to open a space on to find interesting people. The expats of Costa Rica are already filtered by the country’s own reality of no military since 1948, no nukes, and a socialistic democracy’s gigantic commitment to environmental stewardship. The fact CR arrests and convicts its presidents for corruption is another portent plus.

Why is it so hard-core difficult for imaginative over-educated men to understand a woman of my rank is not looking for golden pots and inbred independence to steal? What prevents one from risking to uncover the profundity of improved wholeness?

Fear – fear of  . . . heartbreak, intimacy, death, illness, getting out of one’s comfort zone, commitment, exposure, success, performance (anxiety), failure, losing independence, and, the list bleats on. Sixty-six percent of single people admit to Fedbook-stalking their dates. Fear acting out in social media – a very new techno venue for a very ancient human core concern = love with another.

In my case, I spend the majority of time as related to men warding them off on-line and sending out this IM to overtures, “I am sorry. I do not do on-line relationships. I am a quasi-public figure and have little time.” But men are men, and most continue to send outreach wanting to be “friends” (certainly, some are romance scammers, this is a given). It is when they chat I am beautiful (read super shallow on their part) and ask ,”tell me about yourself,” my brain cross-wires with my internal female anti-match maker. Then the response from me is curt, “Ya, wanna know who I am? Read my work.” What is unwritten is me ending with “ya, dunderhead,” because i subscribe to civility in all instances. Yet, the balloon out of my head says this snotty sayonara.

Any man I spend ANY time emailing or having a vid chat with (other than political/work related) means i am on a mission of exploration not an adventure looking for sexting or on-line fun. Most of these scenarios morph into lasting friendships and for this I am grateful. I do not participate in the protracted adolescence of changing fantasies (read my first paragraph, again). If you are reading this and we shared good conversation, you made it through the first set of hurdles but have yet to reach the hoops. But, for God’s sake do not consider there is a finish line, because there isn’t a track built, yet, plus none to date are in a permit application.

Keepers? One was a possibility, but he is currently a poetic long shot, as he either never saw the gate or faded around the first turn (his own volition). It is difficult to tell from the Tule fog on the grassy course.

Consternation is intended sabotage or subliminal pent-up anger acting out. The region of bonded or unbounded love is an outlet and an inlet for a vast set of human complexities.

Now, if you care to, please go look up the difference between apodictic or apodicticity and assertoric and while you are at it read Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason and Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. If you discern why these are linked in my brain and heart, then you entered an arena of Magna Moralia where I wander around – if you possess decent optics, you get points.

Good birding ?



From the Hut – Short Tales of Timidity

I passed the final week’s quiz and now all i need to do is take the final exam (and pass) for my Terrorism and Counter-terrorism course from Leiden University, the Hague. This week’s study focused on active foreign fighters in #Syria. It was informative as readings were especially scholarly not limited to the party line from #Europol, #EU and the #UN. Yet, the amount of effort, money, and consternation exhibited over the paranoia of former foreign fighters returning to their homeland to act out as terrorists is a fertile field for additional layers of fear mongering. This collective psychosis reminds me of the enormous bias swirling that within the refugee exodus are hidden terrorists who will destroy Europe.

Fear is the core issue with tinges of societal persecution complex (see Israhell’s justification for destroying #Palestine). Those who trudge around in anxious states are people refusing to go through the doors of perception and rid themselves of the shackles of delusion? Humans can manifest whatever. This is our curse and our grandeur.

I happily prefer to be in a demure world of now – one of natural abundance, overt kindness, loving gentleness, and freedom while supporting those whose idea of resistance to the ruling master dunderheads does not include violence. I am also not a ‘raise the vibration’ thumper, or swing the crystals over your chakras, or smoke herb to find your center. I am a purist (as in no mood altering substances) with no agenda except to live simply with mindfulness carrying a feathered medicine bag of fawning ethics and waning compassion. This perspective, at times, is perplexing for others as I do not fit into any one exclusive or inclusive beau ideal. I am grounded without standing on a stage or against a backdrop. I basically run the other direction from archetypes (studying Jung charted this course).

If one actually follows the ‘to thine own self be true’ axiom what evolves is a beauty of an unique life well lived, and one without tragic obsessions, rampant suspicion, daily delusions, or compulsive fear. Honesty is the password. Liars exist in a self-festered exaggeration of self-importance and typically this condition is elaborated into an organized system be it personal or a full blown societal psychosis (read US of Constant Wars #Congress).

Those who perceive the craziness of it all (humanity) are on the outside attempting to interface with others of their ilk. Social media is the medium we never had before to align ourselves, seek support, and open up the discourse for solutions and inventions.

For me, a Gringa living alone with a German Shepherd Company, is what another single woman on her finca in Costa Rica calls, “tough as nails but nice.” My nails are thin and splintered, yet painted. . . as to nice, more likely I am fast on the uptake, yet very slow to piss off. I never was jammed up with rage against the machine, or other entities or authorities of deception, rather I am over-brimming with passion for justice for Earth and peace. Aye, it is the loving cup is half full, not half empty.

My funky theory is why empower the sham masters and their distortions with emotive reactionary stances – they ain’t worth it. These small souls are being eaten by their gadget purchased canards with anchors tethered to inbred fallacy and force fed perjury. Those reveling in this twisted vista i firmly contend will reap their karma.

Nature, for me, is a truth to stave off human arrogance and fits of melancholy or mendacity. God, who is alive pulsating the universe, has a non-fiction plan far more intricate and wondrous than our pitiful pool of bipeds will ever comprehend – no matter how large our brains grow or how vast our artificial computer systems evolve. We will remain upright cheap imitations spinning our fables until we over-stay and/or accelerate our deceitful welcome.

#Nature has a vigor, an openness, and a dominant potentiality to rectify mistakes in its body. Why is it so characteristically difficult for our dumb arse species to comprehend we are but a wee part of the #Gestalt? Tick tock. Tick tock.

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Photo: Bright-blue Earth looms over the oldest known planet in the Milky Way. The ancient planet is thought to be about 13 billion years old, more than twice as old as Earth and a mere billion years younger than the estimated age of the universe. Its discovery, made using NASA’s Hubble Space Telescope, is evidence that planets began forming soon after the big bang and may be very abundant in our galaxy. Source: National Geographic.

#Justice, #Freedom, and #Bread – Sort of . . .

I have a distinct personal dislike for the #HouseofSaud. Some of its gaudy ornamental princes go around the world murdering (hunting) rare creatures because they write checks to govts. See photo below taken in #Pakistan.

I knew one House of Saud boy-man in my life – a tall ‘ish classy fellow student at UC Berkeley. His formalized gentleman manners were only out festooned by his 19th century chauvinism and adoration for Italian sports cars and one honey blonde beauty. I think he asked my Italian American roommate out more than I knew it was possible for a young man (let alone grad student) to stay interested.

Rose bouquets of rare colors would too regularly arrive at our front door befitting for a mafioso’s funeral or Sicilian national wedding. Yet, my favorite where baskets of desert dates and dried fruits so grand in size and volume we were forced to organize what we called – Fruity Tuttie Parties. At these events, we gave away judicious amounts of dates and dried apricots as party favors while raising money for our save a pet or political charity of the moment. Naturally, the unrequited prince would arrive with his bodyguard who on his own filled the foyer of our little rented cottage. For these festivities the Prince would have delivered platters from an Italian deli (San Francisco’s North Beach #Molinaridi’s) that we preferred along with kegs of imported beer and cases of decent Napa wine. His one-man crew brought bags of cash.

When I moved onto graduate school and my roomie took her first position as an industrial designer in San Francisco the prince went home. For awhile we feared he would kidnap her, yet as time marched into the future I suppose his Berkeley-based obsession was replaced by another. It was decades later when I was betting on horses did I discover who he was – #HRH Prince Fahd Salma. He died in 2001 from a heart attack and is best remembered for owning one of Brit’s greatest thoroughbreds named, #Generous. When one considers gifts the Prince bestowed on my roommate, the name of his racehorse is exceptionally appropriate.

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What happened to my roommate? After designing hotsy Milano looking furniture she married a nice Italian American guy who we all thought was mobbed-up. But, Catholic Lou (my handle for him) turned out was a member of a heritage family – the bakers of famous San Francisco sourdough French bread. Then again, they could be cosa nostra, like the pizza store front operations of New York City, eh?


#TheHamptons – More than a Faked Lifestyle, isn’t it?

I am reading this article on #TheGuardian website about the #Hamptons,NY, my former home space. The article is ridiculous. The obvious flubby fluffy ‘ad’ for a local realtor maybe the story’s singular value or stinky consequence – actually, it is nothing but more senseless noise on the #Net. Yet, what briefly blew me away was the Latina worker bee who washes the heads of hair of the rude and rich during the summer at a (is there anyone other kind) high tone spa/salon. She claims to be making over $650 per week in tips. Then she goes on to complain she has to live on nearly nothing during the winter.

Okay, so I have not lived in the Hamptons since July ’07, thus one can too easily conclude I am not up to date to debate details. But, I yammer a #Latina with zip education (an immigrant) to be hauling-in a crappy salary PLUS $650+ per in tips each week from late May until middle of Sept. is not shabby. Tip monies I am sure she does not pay income taxes on nor does she contribute to a local save the pet charity. Surely she supports her employed family. They appear to be living in a nice looking rental home in #Southampton, a truly classically beautiful and safe community. Yet, if par for the course, Western Union is visited regularly to forward bucks to those in her native land. I designed, built, and operated an organic espresso cafe at 49 Sunset Avenue, Westhampton Beach, and none of the staff ever made such tips. If they did, i never knew (probably a good thing, Martha). Can you confirm this Amanda Showers?

WTH? Most of those who inhabit the Hamptons during the summer season are either professional escapees from Manhattan looking to score with each other, lookie loos from Upwest cruising to see a celeb, or the revolving door mogul wealthy. There are the original blue bloods, but they are literally dying off in their chic dog-eared parlors and 2nd floor peeling paint verandas overlooking the field club, the #Atlantic, or #PeconicBay.

Now, as to the genre of locals, the dumb-nut who wrote this dribble for The Guardian quotes a couple of realtors (there is a giant herd of them and too many a greedy classless lot), a local elected official, and an immigrant Latino. This is a wearing and weak spread to draw conclusions, let alone tell a compelling story? There are in small numbers anglers, designers, builders, professionals, boaters, baymen, artists, writers, actors, gardeners, horse folks, teachers, neat family business owners, farmers, vintners, architects, retirees, and others of creative #BOHO-bent who reside on the East End of Long Island. These are the actual locals including those with familial ties hailing back to 1640 (right, Bill Pell ?). Yes, many of us bailed before the last real estate debacle – and fewer continue. Year-a-round folks who reside on the South Fork, North Fork, or Shelter Island are a special lot, no doubt about it, because the region is exceptionally historical, beautiful, and no lie isolated during the winter.

Occasionally, in a snarky mood, I pinned a button on my espresso apron, “Tell the Beautiful People I Won’t Miss Them.” The barely uttered benefit for the local world = the summer colony leaves, what my husband referred to as Tumbleweed Tuesday (day after #LaborDay). Nine months out of the year the East End is in a delightful state – no attacks of car alarms and no hotsy designer sales where sandals are half off at $2,000. Plus, most importantly, one can wet a line in the suds (surf cast) with the other five diehards along the Village of Quogue’s beach.

I truly miss boating the waterways, cozy autumn dinners with friends eating baked Striped Bass, writing commentary letters to the editor, and never sharing recipes for blueberry pies. Bags of Billy’s freshly harvested oysters waiting at the backdoor were like finding gold. Gardening perennial beds with ice crystals or sea salty sweat on my brow kept me semi-sane. Yet . . . life moves on. The status quo, even when dressed in cashmere and actual pearls, is the bane of fear.

Besides, I am positive God has new adventures in store for me in far away lands with more incredible birds in the company of classy gentle folks. Listen, living in #CostaRica, where I do, is neither boring nor stressful. Ya ‘all should be so lucky. I no longer have to keep three businesses afloat, nor pay out thousands of dollars in LIPA monthy bills (electricity), or have no mind space or heartfelt quiet time to write.

Finally (not too soon), my child-less artsy Auntie Bee, when bro and i as kids made faces into her overcooked veggies, would proffer, “Now, eat your greens, kids. Children are starving in India.” We actually took this to heart.

Photo: Summer “cottage”, #Westhampton, NY.

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The Militancy of Micro Management

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Sometime during a bitter cold February afternoon I sat uncomfortably in a glass enclosed interior conference room at Rockefeller Center. I was present as an unpaid board member of a substantial environmental #NGO. It was a faked smiley meeting of small souls and constrained brains but I had committed to serve (pro bono) the board as communications advisor. Being an aspiring humanist near an altar of ego stupidity is freaky. During the same period I was also a volunteer negotiator for the Graphic Artists Guild (#GAG, another acronym ya gotta luv) and the consciousness contrast between the two orgs was wider than the Texas panhandle or the gap in Limbaugh’s brain.

The artsy group was fun and creative solution conclusions were barely embittered nor did they turn revengeful. As we settled disputes between commercial artists and giants of the communication industry – pub houses, ad agencies, media powerhouses, and Fortune 500 marketing depts. – the parley treatments were satisfying for me and semi-disconcerting to the parties. Issues were about money, performance, and copyrights. My subordinate beast of a position with the enviro group was worse than twenty sequential visits in twenty days to a dentist. I continue to cringe every time i hail a cab to midtown #Manhattan.

That blustery post-Valentine’s day the tedious morning dragged on as I sipped Constant Comment tea, noshed on a shortbread scone and looked like i was listening. I had a recording device going, unbeknown to the legal dept. My stealth restlessness was not projected unless you could see the toes caught in my suede #Ferragamo flats – twitching. One of the older class acts at the table i admired, the remainder were harpy nagging complainers hung up on power tripping, cost of everything, and feathering their guilt nests applying BandAides via the cheapest air drops possible.

Working inside action packed #news rooms ruins one for life. The #Absurdism of reporting tragedies (comic operas) requires one unroll a prayer rug of humor, take up pool playing, and/or eventually succumb to stress keeling over in walking boots while in the field. Today, suffering complications from cirrhosis has declined in the media due to health plans allowing 28-days at a rehab and unions demanding folks piss in a cup. Freelancers working in communications are still f*cked. They receive neither retirement bennies nor #Obamacare but their eulogies are usually works of art.

The #greenies in Rocky II fit no particular genre except they bought their way onto a big time enviro NGO board. I functioned as token escapee from Mad Ave. who was also a respected bi-coastal birder and white paper writer. Chiefs at the enviro table were neither generous conciliators nor particularly versed in the ways and wonders of wild places and wild things. I was convinced they also fell into the Bush baby super market blind spot – none knew the price of milk let alone the cost of renting in SOHO. They acted above it all – because they were.

The guiding lesson I integrated during the 12-month internment on the enviro board was threefold: 1) I needed to materialize a Komodo dragon-lady or transgender with larger fangs and longer painted claws; 2) soul-asleep moguls awash in generational culpability are nasty clones no matter if in “service” to a greenie or foreign policy board; and, 3) a jerk is a jerk no matter how many birds are falsely added to their life list, or which side of the Pal and Israhell issue they inhabit.

From this year long sentence my working perspective about committee efforts ritualized. From then on I watched do-gooders in all types of orgs (including political) without judgment or with much respect. They seemed to be a needy lot (yet, some very stylishly attired) with self-reproach more an unrecognized motivator than compassion considered. They liked to bump up against the system deploying the same tools the system does never realizing what was sorely needed was a total rebuild of human interaction otherwise mass trainspotting will kill us all.

The last couple of days – here from the hut – a dear friend’s reminder “no good deed goes unpunished” has rung way too many times. God’s sense of humor is of conscience design?

#Writers who have broken from the gate too many times are their own worse blameworthy critics and obsessive editors. Yet, we have one tiny tool to stifle the bitches on wheels and the basturds from Bablyon – hit the delete button. I learned this from farming, gardening, and sitting in Rocky Center. Life is about letting go, not hanging on.

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