Heartbreak beat

       

Heartbreak Beat~Psychedelic Furs

Most children I see with dyslexia don’t have problems with vision. What they have is a slight gap somewhere in their auditory system, or sense of hearing. They cannot translate the word they see on the page to the sound of a word in memory. Until they can do that .. it’s hard for them to recognize the word as something they’ve heard before. I have a theory. I believe that the first language we learn is the sound of our mother’s heart beat. It serves as an internal metronome ..setting the tempo that helps us follow the sound of speech. It marks the onset of phonemes and syllables, which then helps us identify words and sentences. Dr Oliver tells me that his stroke patients who lose their ability to speak can still sing. When they begin putting their words into a melody ..they can express themselves fluently. My friend Levi has MS. He uses music as a prosthesis. He my not be able to walk the same as he used to, but he can dance every bit as good. He thanks his early years spent at Grateful Dead concerts for that. What this suggests to me is that ‘keeping the beat’ may be a more fundamental process than learning to read or understand speech. So I’ve been pushing the envelope of my heartbeat theory ..to the annoyance of those around me. I’ve come to believe that the heartbeat we hear in the womb sets up an internal rhythm that helps us follow events for the rest of our lives. Without it ..everything we hear and see would simply appear as though they were coming out of nowhere ..then vanish into nowhere ..without coherence ..nothing helping us string them together.

Anti-anxiety

The complaint I most frequently hear from former pot smokers of my generation (those who came-of-age during the 60’s and 70’s) ..is that smoking marijuana makes them feel nervous. Some describe it as so intense, it borders on paranoia. Consequently they quit and never came back. In the day, little was known about cultivating for the psychoactive effects of marijuana.

The times they are a’ changing. A new breed of cultivator has revolutionized the field. They can grow sophisticated varietals with a range of psychoactive properties. “The THC component is the same ..it is the mixture of other elements that play a vital role in changing the psychoactive effect.” Two decades ago, most marijuana smokers bought whatever their dealer had. It was illegal even for research purposes. Consequently nothing was known about marijuana other than its THC content.

One of these newly found elements is a compound called Cannabidoil or CBD. It’s responsible for the calming and pain relieving effects found in medicinal marijuana. Takes the buzz off THC so to speak. CBD is also helpful in treating a range of problems, including arthritis, the side effects of chemotherapy, asthma, sleep disorders and post-traumatic stress disorder [ link ]. CBD is measured in grams. Your local dispensary should carry varieties containing different amounts of CBD .. 0.35 grams being considered ‘good’.

A way out

The trail that goes into the canyon where I live has become impassable. Where shrub oak and other vegetation aren’t blocking it ..new fences are. I feel trapped and a little panicky. It was always comforting to know I had a way out. I have to find another. I try one bordering the canyon by the County Bowl, but about three-quarters of the way up I run into another barrier. They’ve expanded the bowl out to the edge of that canyon. The only way I can go any farther is by sliding back to where I started. Now I’m on Lowena Road where I see Levi waxing his Harley. Lucy charges me to lick my face and see if I’ve got any dog treats. I sit and chat while Levi works. After listening to tales of the next apocalypse ..he tells me where I can find another trail that’s more serviceable than the one I was just on. After a few false starts, I come to the end of a steep winding road where I find a clearly marked trailhead. A few steps in and I’m climbing a steep, tightly-wrapped switch-back trail, marked by stones piled like stupas. I arrive where the two canyons meet up top. I’ve been here before and know where I can catch a flat dirt road that loops around a hillside and takes me to Sylvan Park ..where the trail to Franceschi begins. I’m stoked and start howling like a madman ..just to listen to my voice echo through the canyons. Then I hear a voice inside my head scream “shut the fuck up” because I’m inside the perimeter of bobcat territory where calling attention to myself could be a life-shortening act. I follow the road to Sylvan Park and climb the ancient stone steps that take me to the trail that takes me to Franceschi park. Now I’m sitting on the ruins of a wall surrounding a botanical garden where I can look out and watch boats sail passed the islands on their way to China, and I’m like “Yes! I have found a way out. Yes ..!!!” 

View from Franceschi

Sgt Bales vs War

Recent information blows my PTSD theory. Sgt Bales wasn’t suffering the effects of multiple deployments. He re-up’d and saw the military as his calling. It sounds like a deliberate attack. I have a new theory. The only sane response to an irrational and life-threatening situation is to act in an equally irrational manner. U.S. soldiers are trained to fight with ‘discrimination’ and regard for civilian life. However, they’re constantly put into battle with an enemy that fights without such civility. The Taliban are known to place little value on the lives of civilians. The Afghan people live in fear of the Taliban, but the Taliban are there all the time and they know they’ll continue being there after we’re gone. They side with them out of necessity. As a result, U.S. soldiers are operating in a region “..riddled with mistrust and hostility.” In an effort to deprive Taliban fighters of cover, U.S. soldiers routinely bulldoze houses, orchards, and farms. This fuels more hostility. As a result, residents regularly assist the Taliban. They help plant IED’s and U.S. soldiers often find bomb-making material in their homes. The war in Afghanistan has put our troops in an un-winnable situation. I deplore the killing of innocent women and children (any killing for that matter) ..but the civilian population is harbouring and assisting the enemy and the Taliban have no problem getting their compliance out of the barrel of a gun. This is no doubt the case in the Panjwayi district where Sgt Bales and his squad were operating. Perhaps the only way Sgt Bales felt he could deliver a message of strength was to act with equal ruthlessness. It’s been seen before. During the My Lai Massacre in Vietnam, orders were given to shoot civilians  “They're all V.C., now go and get them” [ link ]. Instead of prosecuting Sgt Bales, perhaps it’s the U.S. war in Afghanistan that should stand trial.

Halfway house

I tremble I tremble I tremble I tremble 
They're gonna eat me alive alive alive
If I stumble stumble stumble stumble 
They're gonna eat me alive alive alive 

I’m sitting on some old stone steps about halfway up to Franceschi when the rain comes. I hike back to APS .. slide down the muddy hillside by the County Bowl ..and surprise Ron and his dog Murphy at the bottom. It’s not raining down here. We go up and down Figueroa Street to the high school. I see some pathways I haven’t seen before. Ron looks like a man on a mission so I make a mental note to explore them on my own next time around. I hose down my overalls and parka ..throw them in the dryer ..wrap myself in a cotton bathrobe ..sit down with a cup of tea and watch my hands tremble while I try and hit the right letters on the keyboard of my PC. This may take a while.

Little boxes

Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky. Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same. There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one. And they’re all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

Thoughts and impressions are arriving in packages that are way too small today. I need a bigger picture. I put on my Merrells and find the shortest path up to Franceschi. I start on residential streets because the canyon would be too tortuous today. I pass by stately homes and funky California cottages. I concentrate on loosening the suspension joints in my hips ..and experience a more cushiony ride. The street gives way to a woodsy trail bordered by pine, oak and eucalyptus. Feels spongy. I reach the top of Franceschi where I get a panoramic view of the coast ..from Rincon to Gaviota ..then out to sea where white clouds are beginning to roll over the tops of the islands. South of me the fog has already breached the coastline and filled Sycamore Canyon. I inhale .. like a wave crashing ..and exhale .. washing away the debris. No quarrels or nagging doubts here. Like water seeking it’s own level ..I listen to the narrative in my head expand to fill the space available ..both inside and out. Calm and undisturbed. I throw the packaging material over the edge and watch it sail away.

Little Boxes by losttimeblues

Message of a thousand years

A study, published in the journal PLoS Computational Biology, suggests our brains subconsciously use a simplistic strategy in order to filter out options when faced with a complex decision. However, the research highlights how this strategy can lead to poor choices [ link ].

Message: “..a thousand years ago a massive earthquake and tsunami had all but wiped out Murohama, a fishing village on an island off the coast of Japan. The residents, knowing they were going to be inundated, sought safety on the village's closest hill. But they had entered a trap. A second wave, which had reached the interior of the island through an inlet, was speeding over the rice paddies from the opposite direction. The waves collided at the hill and killed those who had taken refuge there. To signify their grief and to advise future generations, the survivors erected a shrine ..a simple clearing by the side of a hillside road, with stone tablets and roughly made figures.”

This shrine continues to serve as a warning of where not to go in the event of an earthquake. On March 11, 2011 ..the locals heard the echoes of that message. “We all know the story about the two tsunami waves that collided at the shrine.” Instead of taking refuge on the closest hill, the one with the shrine, they took the time to get to high ground farther away. From the safety of their vantage point they saw two tsunami waves colliding at the hill with the shrine, as they did long ago. A message sent by ancestors over 1,000 years ago, traveled the distance and saved the lives of their descendents.

Meeting in the river

Every creature is a word of God.

Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1327)

Going native

Economists tell me I make optimal decisions based on the best information available. They call this the ‘rational’ model of man. Neuroscience tells me my perception is selective, memory is faulty and decisions are mostly visceral. They call this the ‘somatic’ model of man. I think I’ll go with that. Without instinct, I’d never finish deciding what to eat or what to wear. I buy clothes that’ll make me look cool and acceptable to the people I hang with. I look for approval from my mother/dietician/checkout-girl whenever I buy groceries. I blow them off when I’m feeling rebellious. I make financial decisions fearing I’ll disappoint my father. I only bookmark pages I feel comfortable putting on facebook. I practice a ‘disarming smile’ out of fear of looking unapproachable. I chose my words very carefully out of fear of looking foolish. Damn straight my decisions are visceral. Appetite and approval guide my decisions just as much as any contributions from the rational side.

Brain freeze

The offshore wind has beaten the onshore to a standstill. Wicked conditions at Butterfly. I cruise Channel Drive with the top down and a Grateful Dead tune bouncing along. The islands look so close I could reach out and grab them. I see paddle-boarders glide by on water that looks like ice. I take a running leap and plunge into the one thing that reminds me it’s winter in California ..the water also feels like ice. It knocks the shit outta’ me and makes me scream. A ten-year old girl in a winter-suit paddles by and asks if I’m all right. I feel like an idiot .. like I’m so under-dressed for the occasion. I can see the wetsuit I left hanging in the garage and wish like hell I could reach back there and grab it. I swim back to shore and thaw-out from brain-freeze. I guess a walk on the beach is what’s happening today.