No people on earth fascinate and exasperate like Americans. We are a breed apart of everyone else. I don’t say this out of jingoism or arrogance. It comes from living overseas for three years, looking back over my shoulder and marveling and shaking my head at the place.

Here are two articles that point to the uniqueness of this place called America. Both revolve around the presidential race. This explores the myth of the presidency, and this looks are the primary season itself, and why it’s never good to count the Leviathan out, even if it’s a little wobbly.

The movie Heartbreak Ridge is a forgettable Clint Eastwood movie set around the time of the U.S. invasion of Grenada. Forgettable, except for a line Eastwood said about what Marines do:

Improvise, adapt, overcome.

Rather…chameleon-like, don’t you think?

Everyday is a rodeo. So saddle up.

Am I, um, odd? No, I’m not. My perspectives, my ways of seeing and being, are different, yes. Any perceived oddness lies only on the surface. The core is strong and steadfast.

This book is a little different from the rest. Open it, read it, and you’ll find more goodness than you were expecting.

Caminante, no hay camino / Se hace camino al andar.

Walker, there is no path. The path is made by walking.

–Antonio Machado

I take back everything I said about not being odd. I had a dream last night where I was walking through a restaurant talking to friends and listening to a singer. Only halfway through did I realize I was in the place naked. I didn’t care, and neither did anyone else. No matter–it felt good to be stripped of clothes and pretense.

We are all unique beings. We are special. There is no other mold for us than the one we are. We are snowflakes–no two are alike. That is the beauty of living, of life. Finding and celebrating what makes us, us.

The last thing I will do is subsume myself. Hide myself.

When I say I want to give a woman everything I have, I will not lose my idea of myself. I have too much inside to do that. But I have too much inside me to hold back.

I want to be more than who I am now. I’ve been living for myself for too long now. I want to live for and with someone else.

If all you’ve ever been fed is chicken nuggets, how do you know if you like caviar?

(I’m not saying I’m caviar–but I’m damn sure I ain’t a chicken nugget.)

The stars above look beautiful on a cold winter’s night.

From here. Interesting stuff…

There is no obsession here. What is here, just is. This state, this feeling, is unlike anything I have ever felt before. It is in the marrow of my being. There is a strength, a purity, an elegant feel, to it. To be bursting at the seams with love and hope and faith and spirit is wonderful. To not have a vessel to put it in isn’t. But it doesn’t mask the powerful vibe, the flowing river. It remains.

That’s me. In more ways than one… Boa noite…

I could sit here and promise to not write anything about my heart and soul and spirit tomorrow morning. Nothing about the sensations I feel coursing through me. Nothing about the lightness I feel. Nothing about my cup running over. I could say nothing.

But I already have ;-p

So we’ll see what the new day brings.

I’m tired, and I hate being tired. Especially when my reactor is churning away. I’ve been down this road before. It always sucks.

Really, I do…

Swimming, flying, floating, being, tingling, pulsing. Every morning, it’s the same song my heart sings. I am what I am. Heart, soul, spirit. And waiting for a taker.

How can I be sad if I am willing to give so much of myself? How can I be sad if I still want to give it? How can I be sad if I understand what I can be and what I can give?

I can’t.

The experiment continues here…

(Or here, if that link doesn’t work)

Every rebel, every warrior, needs to bed down for the night, and rest. Recharge for the next day.

Sometimes the good doctor chehaw prescribes the drugs relax and patience to his wards. Sometimes, though, the good doctor won’t take his own medicine, having taken enough of it to last two lifetimes. It’s not as if the good doctor isn’t happy. The medicine isn’t working for him. He needs something else that works faster, better.

The self-confidence of the warrior is not the self-confidence of the average man. The average man seeks certainty in the eyes of the onlooker and calls that self-confidence. The warrior seeks impeccability in his own eyes and calls that humbleness. The average man is hooked to his fellow men, while the warrior is hooked only to infinity.

–Carlos Castaneda

Stop. That $20 you were going to spend on yet another latte, a bad movie, a unhealthy dinner–take that $20 and spend it on someone who really needs it. It might be the best money you’ve spent in a while. The head basketball coach at Indiana University-Purdue University at Indianapolis, Ron Hunter, will coach a game in his bare feet to spread the word. Let’s see follows his example…

I never get tired of this song by David Sanborn. An appropriate title on Martin Luther King Day.

It’s much, much too easy to fall into the trap of self-pity. Woe is me, why does the world hate me.

The world doesn’t hate me. It wants what I have to give. The frustration sets in when I can’t give what I have bursting inside me, screaming and struggling to feel the warmth and light of the outside, where it belongs. But it’s always there. Ready, so ready, to be free.
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It seems like I don’t have anything else to write about. But this is the thing, the place, the state of being, I want to be in. To be at my most giving and unselfish, to become greater than myself by pouring my heart, my soul, my love, my spirit, into a waiting vessel. A nice career, a nice car, a nice place to live–these are ok. But this is the most important thing for me in my life.

The rest is mere detail.

I was flying back this morning from up north, and on approach, the flight got a little choppy, with the plane bucking a little bit more than normal. A couple of faces look a tad, concerned. But from the middle of the plane, there was the distinct laughter of a little girl, enjoying each dip and bounce and motion. She wasn’t worried, and neither was I.

Back in the 1980s and the early 1990s, MTV (when they used to show music videos), aired a program called “Headbangers’ Ball,” showcasing the best hard rock and heavy metal bands out there. I thought of that and walls. I bang my head up against them because that is all I’ve done in my life. And, after a fashion, they’ve come down. Experience, being the teacher that it is, says to always keep aspirin at hand. And to be thankful once the wall comes tumblin’.

When, dear Lord, is my turn going to come? I'm good enough to be on
the merry-go-round, not to just watch.

The tingle, the pulse, the wave. Whatever you call it, it remains in me.

Click here to get your own player.

One of the reasons I like cats–they always land on their feet.

I like dogs, too. Underdogs…

The tingling I’ve been feeling lately, I don’t want it to go away.

The transformative power of such a light and elegant thing like snow is extraordinary. The child in me comes out of the shell of the adult. I stand in front of the window, watching the flakes twinkle and dance as they fall gently to earth, turning a brown and bleak winter landscape fresh and new.

There are a million fingers in me, playing, tingling my heart, my soul, my senses. The senses are alive.

I’ve been dreaming every night for weeks. This morning, a quick one–there was an empty pitcher, with water being poured in.

From here…

There is more to life than increasing its speed. – Gandhi

It seems so hard at the time. Just sitting there. Doing nothing. Eyes closed. But mind racing a million miles a second. But all you have to do is relax. Drift. Be patient. Just be.

Right here. Charity to those who don’t want it–interesting concept…

No crossing here

Beautiful notes are played, and heard, in the silence of the morning.