{He}art + Mind + Body

What is this place?

How time flies …

I’ve busy trying to solve the paradoxical conundrum:

if 2 x “U” = Double “U”

then

howcome half of “W” = “V” ??

Hate is a strong word, and I really don’t mean it that way.

I love all music, it’s just that Jazz has an uncomfortableness to it. It’s too much like life. Too many ups and downs and speed changes. Jazz is messy and complicated … like life.

Rock, blues, R&B, and pop command a steady familiarity we can enjoy and be comfortable with. It’s nice to catch on to a catchy melody, or a good beat you can dance to. And really, what’s more steady and comfortable than that old boot, Country/Western - a massively popular style? Okay, maybe that’s too simple even for me … but that’s not to deny the power of it’s basic, comfortable beat.

Some jazz can blend into a nice groove, but it demands too much sophistication and confidence with life for me to like it much right now. To get into jazz, one needs some rarified air to breathe, and zeal to exude. It requires training to quickly get into attack positions, and rip into something. But the air is getting sucked out of life now, and everything is making me uncomfortable, and so, jazz is more than I can handle at the moment.

Not to say I don’t admire jazz. It’s real - and abstract at the same time. The players who play it are the best. They have style, fire, and can deal with the uncomfortable complexities of their music. They seem to handle life like a stone groove, man. They’re copacetic.

Not grumpy old me today. I think I’ll go listen to some Conway Twitty.

While attempting to shine on my crazy diamond, it occured to me that rare flawless clear perfection is not always the order of the day. Diamonds are quite commonplace. In fact, the production of gem-quality diamond exceeds sixty million carats. This equals twelve metric tons and would fill about 145 bushel baskets ( could be more, but market production is closely regulated). The diamond is more of a McGemstone, really … consider that the next time you pony up a few thou’ for yer girl’s best friend.

Unless you are some “fancy” diamond, there are gems more valuable - and precious. Per carat pricing show Sapphire, Emeralds and Rubies have all out-priced diamonds at different times in history. Even pearls, a looongtime ago. Current claims today are made that actually Emeralds are most valuable by weight, Rubies by rarity, and a Jade necklace was the most expensive market jewelry of all, selling at auction for a cool 9.3 million USD.

It just shows that a little rare brilliance, color, softness and fire is sometimes preferable to the hard cool common diamond. Variety out sparkles conformity.

Remember this as earth’s pressures squeeze you into a molecular configuration you never dreamed possble, and shine on you crazy aluminum oxide, with trace elements of chromium oxide (ruby).

Where ever one ventures to consume the morsels of a local favor - whether a taqueria, street-side bistro or cafe - simply order “one,” with “please,” in the local venacular. Whatever then you receive is no doubt the best of what that establishment has to offer, and you should be most satisfied.

Another tip gleaned from experience: when expected to wait, on a list, at some busy restaurant, always leave the name “Lee.” It is phonetically simply to relate, remember, and hear when called.

For those requiring a more baroque flourish, “Cartwright” may be used.

I recently was befuddled to realize my scant error in confusing the dram measure of ounces, not realizing the Apothocaries weight equalled 8 drams to an ounce, compared to the Avoirdupois of 16 into 1.

A common mistake I am sure, however I trust my barkeep will indulge my discretion whether my wee dram order of Laphroaig will measure into the standard, or take on medicinal proportions.

Today’s blog will be about all the things I’d rather not talk about right now. This pretty much sums it up for me. Just thought I’d share this with you and the world … on this blog. Today. I realize it isn’t saying much, but there ya go.

I will say this:

I’ll tell ya what “Brown does for me.”

Nuttin’.

UPS better find out what made my spiffy new custom ordered Toshiba Tecra M7 Tablet laptop PC, get signed over as “DELIVERED,” to someone named “Barrow” at the “Dock” location, in Seattle. I know it wasn’t to me … and I’ve been soooo waiting for this because its a freekin’ spiffy TABLET laptop and has cost me many thousands of dollars, and I thought I’d do some really great art stuff on it - for work, and 3D for my portfolio - and it would be the answer to all my problems, and Clarence the angel would get his wings, and …

well, I’d guess I’d rather not talk about it.

Stats are so fun to look at. Some poor soul even went to the trouble of translating this blog into spanish. I found it most amusing to read … even with my intermediate understanding of that language. Note: title is “The Time Warp” from my riff-raff pic on “about.”

My tribute post declaring the 100th anniversary of the first animated feature, always gets hits from people looking for “Happy Birthday Animation!” Sorry for the disappointing lack of of an actual birthday animation to put up on yer Myspace … I’ll choose my semantix more carefully next time.

A rough pencil sketch of “The Ramones” is quite popular in Italy for some reason … which is totally cool.

My proudest accomplishment is increasing the awareness of Slovenian beehive folk art. My post on the matter gets about one hit a day, which for me is amazing … and again, amusing!

Viva la revolucion de la informacion!

Nope I’m not drunk, nor anything close to nutzi. Just figured this a natural follow-up on the previous discussion on the nature of God and associated spiritual matters. Like the old joke how you know you’ve had too much to drink when the conversation regresses to views on God and/or Hitler, I guess I’m naturally inclined to such deep introspective notions without the tequila shots.

So, here tis: Hitler was a very,very,very,very,very,very,very baaaaaaad man, and I find most people agree. An interesting quote from a metal musician of a dark gimmicky genre goes “people may not agree on what’s good, but everybody knows what’s bad.”

Profound. Often I find that by allowing oneself the awareness of the antithesis of a matter, ones gains a better understanding of the the opposite focus.

Quite a few folk I know, myself included, approached a faith in God coming out of a dark, negative metaphysical outlook, i.e., if there’s evil, then there’d better be good too!

An excellent piece in this weeks Newsweek “An Alternative September 11 History” by Jonathan Alter, illustrates this by painting a picture of what it would be like now, had Prez Bush made some decisions along the way that made sense. Nothing quite hi-lighted his mistakes better than viewing the alternative. So too, it stoked my ire to a greater degree.

But what about necessary evils … such as roof-of-mouth ripping Cap’n Crunch, aerobic excercise, … and AOL Instant Messenger?

I finally got AIMed because at work it’s the de facto communications channel. I had been aware of the evil potential of this tool, from hearing the constant annoying “BOODLY-BOOP” my kids responded to, plus the decrepit level of “l33t” semantics one is required to sink to.

Conversation at the office is now largely supplanted by this tool, when one could just as simply turn around, or lean over the cubicle wall to directly ask a human question. Really, is asking “Excuse me but…?” any less intrusive than a “BOODLY-BOOP?” Heck, no one hardly even uses email anymore.

Anyhoo, I am now gregoogly on AIM, and there most mornings and afternoons, if anyone wants to endure some very sloppy sparse typing from me. At least the distant communication benefit I can better accept.

Best for you Best for you Best for you.

It’s written all over the quirky Chinese greeting card we got this summer.

“Only the person

cherish ones youth

He is the most beautiful person in the world. “

Only a drunk Confucius could have said it better … cherish it because just as the summer ends and the flower fades, so goes life. That’s the gist of the physical part of it, and I’ve been feeling it a lot lately.

I wasn’t quick enough to save the Hotmail account I’ve had forever. Fully aware of the 30 day log-in or die expiration, I managed to lapse and lose years of emails I’ve hoarded. I bet I missed it by a day too. Everything changes, nothing’s permanent. My memory fails to recall if I’ve even lost anything special … probably just a lot of old jokes.

Even as I complete another Solar revolution next month, my vow will be to remain the most immature 40-somethingish year old alive, while cashing in on a wealth of experience. I guess I’m hitting real middle-age now, and it’s probably time to get real, having spent my twenties acting 30s, and my thirties acting 20s. The 40s are the 40s.

Like the waning days of summer, the 40s are full of desperate energy among busy bees, and graceful loss of chlorophyll in trees.

Boston was recently the scene of the most suspenseful episode of “Lost” yet. I always wanted to see more of this historic city, since I fly into Logan airport on the way to caretake the family Cape Cod Cottage, but, Lord, I never intended to explore it this way.

Getting out of Boston on arrival - which I never have trouble with - was a headache just to start off. Maybe it was because my whole family was in the car this trip, or perhaps it was the result of Boston’s century long “Big Dig” improvement project, that I was disoriented. Nevertheless, it’s a heart-sinking experience to cruise right past an exit, suddenly recognizing it and thinking, “I should’ve gone THAT way …” then spending the next 25 minutes recovering one’s bearings along the meandering streets of the 376 year old city. But this was only the ironic set-up for the return trip.

I rarely take the rental car “pre-pay” option for a tank of gas, but with a much better price deal, I did. This means that to take full advantage, you return it as empty of fuel as you safely can. We sure did.

Relying on my wonderful wife’s navigation to get us back to the rental car return, outside the Boston airport, she focused on the car company’s printed directions, to “stay in the left lane,” rather than on the route # we were supposed to exit to. Invariably, the Big Dig had rendered the printed directions obsolete, and the exit was now upon the right. Complicating this fact, due to road construction changing every week, the City of Boston seemed to have stopped bothering to put up any new signs on the highway for guidance, so once again we went off into the city with no clue how to find the correct route again … but this time facing a blinking “Low Fuel” idiot light, and a flight soon to catch home to Seattle.

Twisted overpasses, bridges, and off-ramps whiz by in spaghetti-like confusion, as my delirious wife urges me in desperate tone to find a gas station. The kids in the backseat are gently coaxed to “Shut the Hell up -NOW!” and to clutch their bladders. No less than 3 missed turn offs then occur, turning too soon in the expected direction, only to see the correct route sign ahead on a different road.

And then … I set upon “the bridge with no end.” An ancient 4 lane trestle bridge, it took to the air with alarming altitude, and appeared to go on forever. My inner senses told me there was no existing area of Boston with the equivalent topography on the other end to match this bridge, unless it concluded in Canada, 500 miles away. This was it: it gets me to where we need to go, or I run out of gas here, 1 billion feet above nose-bleed level. My wife now curled up in a ball, silently quivering, kids ashen with blank stares, me white knuckling and pleading with the heavens.

The bridge did actually manage to come to an end, and I *knew* we were very close to our destination. Indeed, I find by sheer luck the correct road to take us to the rental car company, brazenly weighing the odds and ignoring any likely side-street leading to a gas station. Finally we pull in, exhausted engine gasping on damp fumes.

Expecting a triumphant celebration, I was scarcely congratulated at all, but in my heart I knew I was a hero - my tenacity and superior sense of direction had won against all odds, even though I knew for some it was too much to handle.

This really long story, made just long, serves also to illustrate the confusion I’m currently experiencing with my career and artistic endevors: I am close to desperate to find the right signs, so I can get off and ultimately reach my heart’s content. Again my overworked wife is getting desperate.

Much like Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,”

Boston is lovely, its’ streets are deep,

But I have promises to keep,

a rental car to return

My fuel is all but burn’d

Have a plane to catch so hurry the *bleepin’ bleep*,

Art to do, a career to seek

And miles to go before I reap

And miles to go before I sleep

etc. et.al.