Vague enough to be true.
Thoughts from the Seiza bench.
I have discovered an online fun toy, a new age,
bullshit generator. You can read my choices that
are included in italics and in between goodbye notes.
We exist as frequencies.
Synchronicity requires exploration. Today, science tells us that the essence of nature is choice.
It is in redefining that we are aligned. It is a sign of things to come. The solar system is approaching a tipping point.
Then I am able to uncross my eyes and focus on the present and remember that go-to philosophical tenet of mine: “Hope in one hand and shit in the other. See which one fills up first.”
The galaxy is beaming with morphic resonance. Energy is the growth of stardust, and of us. To wander the quest is to become one with it.
That reminds me of someone I need to send a goodbye note to. To the cute brunette in Chicago I met one cold rainy day, 1958, at a downtown bus stop: I enjoyed the few minutes we hung out. I think we went to a small diner nearby and shared a quick lunch. Then we found a doorway to stand close and kiss for a few minutes. I was in my uniform and you were on your lunch hour. You thought my name was “Judge”. It was my Boston accent. I cleared it up but I knew it just caused more confusion for you. Goodbye, sweet young woman. I hope you lived long and prospered. Another loving human being in my memories. Take care.
Have you found your path?
Another Goodbye Note: To Little Al, torpedoman striker I stood watches with. I was an electronics technician striker. Little Al is from Norwich, Connecticut. We played cribbage in the forward torpedo room between watches; penny a point, twenty-five cents a game. I never won. This early in life and away from home I learned that I was not as smart as I thought. I learned that others were capable of being brighter than I. I learned that appearances can be deceiving. Thanks for all of the life’s lessons, Little Al. I know you are still living in Norwich but I’ll say goodbye now.
That I’ve been sitting on my seiza bench this long I’ve come up with another truism of my own: “Stand up and raise your arms out to your sides. Observe where your fingertips are. Between those fingertips is all you have control over. No more. Stop trying to run the world from where you stand.”
Now I’d like to say goodbye to Bill and Mike, two guys who wrote wonderful stuff in different parts of the world and probably never met. One guy lived in Spain and the other in cold, old England. They did do one thing the same. They both died on April 23rd. Not only did they both die on the same day but they died on the same day in the same year. That’s what people say anyway. Call that what you may. I call it pretty cool. But I also know it’s not true. More about that in a bit.
They became well known for writing even though they both had other pursuits during earlier parts of their lives. Primarily, they are remembered for being writers. One wrote verse like no one else ever. The other wrote the very first novel ever. Both were big deals in their home neighborhoods.
I read some of Mike’s stuff but hardly any of Bill’s. Although both of these dudes could put out some really good magical realism style things only Mike caught my attention. He wrote about a guy in Spain who bought a horse by the name of Rocinante and traveled the countryside in search of damsels in distress. I will forever identify with him. I have taken on the name Don Jorge in remembrance.
Oh, by the way. If you look up the death dates of these two you find they are the same; 23 April 1616. Only because one is using the Gregorian calendar (Spain) and the other the Julian (England). The English were ten days later than the Spanish. Goodbye, Mike. Goodbye, Bill. RIP.
Nothing is impossible.
The goal of meridians is to plant the seeds of balance rather than suffering. Aspiration is the growth of joy, and of us.
Shakespeare was ruined for me by the first high school English teacher I had. Moishe Murphy. Morris was his real name but the Jewish kids began calling him Moishe a long time before any of us in the class of ’56 showed up. Moishe was the epitome of a prick. Something happened to that man I’m sure. He was a terrible human. Over six feet tall and he walked with a limp and a cane. His eyes never revealed humor. They hardly revealed recognition of anyone’s presence. He scared the shit out of me. When I first met him, I was barely five feet tall and skinny. A thirteen-year-old lad. He was my freshman English teacher and I hated his class. We had to bring blue and red ink to class with us. He made us copy poetry into a loose-leaf notebook in a specific fashion. Titles and first lines were in red; the rest of the stanzas in blue. What a dick! He sat in the back of the classroom and freaked us out with accusations of gum chewing or talking when we were supposed to be reading/memorizing bullshit poems. Then he would test us by saying, “Four, five, three!” That was meant to be fourth stanza, fifth line, third word. If you got it right you got two A’s. If you got it wrong you got two E’s. I never got two A’s. In fact, I went to Summer school for English every fucking year. Goodbye, Moisha, you prick. I hope your fucking cane is fireproof.
Our conversations with other beings have led to an ennobling of hyper-primordial consciousness.
Have a great day!
G. M. Goodwin
August 20, 2018
Playing Fair and Being Kind 