Every Single Step Is A Journey Of A Thousand Miles

Waking up at 6 every morning and doing the "morning papers," as prescribed in the Artist's Way book, by Julia Cameron.

This is fine, but it is a half hour of writing down a stream of consciousness style document of everything that is rattling around in the brain upon waking. Draining it out an onto pages that won't be revisited any time soon.

This is also fine and now, after having appended a morning walk to the routine, the next thing might be to come here and resume blogging. At around 10 each morning... 

Anyways, here is a start in that direction; though I already feel the pull of other activities like making a cup of coffee and then maybe falling down the Youtube rabbit hole.

I'm looking forward to putting some much better quality audio recordings here, in the sidebar; then maybe relegating what's there to a "Low-Fi" folder somewhere.

If I keep working the Artist's Way book I should either compose or paint a masterpiece, probably within about 18 months....

You Can S.T.A.R.T. Me Up

I was up at 6 o' clock, otherwise known as "first thing, Monday morning."

I completed the "morning papers" as per the program laid out in The Artist's Way, by Julie Cameron. After the first page and a half out of the 3, I went and turned the shower on. 

I made a note to myself to find out if Julie's instructions to plow through the 3 pages, first thing in the morning as soon as your feet go in your slippers, in a stream of consciousness fashion, not caring about the "quality" of the writing, nor even if it makes sense, and to complete the 3 pages, written "longhand" with an ink pen and "paper," I need to ask Julie Cameron if it's OK to pause your writing to flip a vinyl album of Beethoven's 8th symphony in F major, for example, over before returning to the 3 pages. She would probably say that it's preferable to not interrupt the flow of ideas, perhaps even saying that it takes like 12 to 15 minutes to induce an alpha wave type brain state in which the words proceed from out of the subconscious, or God as you understand Her, and that even getting up to start the shower or flip the Colombia Records product over will disturb this state of mind and it will take another 13 minutes of writing in order to regain that creative advantage...

The whole "spiritual path to higher creativity" laid out in the book seemed to have an instant effect upon me. I felt better, and less stressed out, the same day that I did my first "morning paper." I guess it's the thoughts that persist in the mind that might be products of the Inner Critic, or the Inner Censor that are diffused or dispelled through the act of spitting them out, first thing in the morning. Maybe it's similar to how dreams fade from memory, if not written down in detail immediately upon waking.

Jumping into the morning papers might let you retain some of the dream state for longer after waking, than if you had gotten up and tried to start your day, hindered by unresolved issues that are low-key depressing you, but at the subconscious level. If you jump right into the shower after starting a pot of coffee, maybe the matter that your subconscious mind is trying to solve recedes so far into the background as to become irretrievable, even over the course of the 33 minutes or so that it takes to complete the non-negotiable 3 page lifelong assignment. (That's right, some of the anecdotes Julie mentions are of people who, after a year and a half of doing their morning papers religiously, just up and wrote an Oscar winning screenplay; and it had just "come out of them," as if they were just taking dictation from the Creative Spirit).

So, after just 2 days I witnessed the synchronicity of my friend's friends changing their minds and re-naming their newborn son "Cameron," I realize that it's borderline psychosis to glean any kind of meaning in coincidences. But, where else would the same kind of meaning found in one of Picasso's acrylic on canvas works, come from?

I once had a girlfriend named Crissa, whose palette of mental illnesses that she rendered her consciousness with, in conjunction with the volley of pills that her shrink was hurling at her in between her weekly visits to him, caused her to be able to see through the crack in the cosmic egg, in a sense, and she existed in a romanticized world, fraught with omens, symbols and double meanings.

But; in her defense; she was just "bat shit crazy."

I had met her at a record store, where my favorite artist at the time, Elvis Costello's vinyl albums were right next to her beloved Counting Crows albums, separated only by the ones from a band called: The Coors. 

So, naturally, there was some incidental physical contact between us, as we each flipped through albums, in such close quarters. That led to us leaving together in her car, and me eventually moving in with her, and her mother. 

Certain instances of synchronicity seemed to be all the fuel Crissa needed to keep the fire of her passion for me burning. 

Our first stop, after leaving the record store, was  Whole Foods, where, after locking a copy of Elvis Costello's "Trust" CD, and one of The Counting Crows' "Hard Candy" in her car, we went in and explored.

It's as if these rich mothers think that, in dropping $450 on a basket of food, they are buying a healthy baby...,

I told her that my personal nickname for Whole Foods was "The Healthy Baby," -a moniker that came to me after I noticed the preponderance of babies being pushed around that store in shopping carts, along with hundreds of dollars of Whole Foods stuff (maybe three quarters of a cart full, including the babies).

It's as if these rich mothers think that, in dropping $450 on a basket of food, they are buying a healthy baby..., I thought to myself, seeing so many of them (who were for the most part conspicuous in their ignoring of me; as if in dropping $450 on a basket of food they were hoping they were also buying a shopping experience that would include not seeing any homeless looking people like me, with my long hair tucked under a bandana, hiking boots and clothes more suited to the woods than the aisles of Whole Foods).

"I call this place: 'The Healthy Baby...'"

Crissa had been an unhealthy baby and had undergone surgeries as a toddler and so this comment was enough to sent her into a reverie during which she determined that the universe had spoken and that I was going to be her boyfriend, and she was going to start calling Whole Foods "The Healthy Baby." There was further confirmation in the fact that I had bought some great northern beans, to go along with the fact that I was from "up north" in New England. I think that, in her world of psychotropics, I became like The Great Northern Savior of unhealthy babies, or something.

But, just as being paranoid doesn't mean that nobody is really out to get you; being prone to hallucinate a cosmic significance where there really isn't any, doesn't mean that there isn't any....

Eventually Crissa had put a lot of the pieces of the puzzle of her life together, and she formulated the elaborate theory that I was a ghost writer for Elvis Costello.

She had gotten into the "Trust" CD that I played the hell out of when we were riding around in my Saturn and was trying to find one of the songs on her phone when she noticed that the writing of a lot of Elvis' songs was credited to a "D. McManus." My name being D. McKenna, and the fact that I was constantly pointing out certain lyrics and explaining their meaning to her, was when that serpent entered her garden.

I often talked about Diane Cushing, my college vocal instructor, and so, when Crissa read, upon further investigation, that Elvis was married to Diana Krall, it suddenly seemed odd that I would do so.

I had moved in with her mother and her where I slept in one of the two bedrooms upstairs, Crissa slept in the other room. Diana Krall soon released a CD entitled: "The Girl In The Other Room."

That was bad enough without the lyrics in the title track being about "the girl" laying on her bad in bed and watching the ceiling fan spin while lost in her thoughts -one of Crissa's pass times...

Top that off with the fact that, in her Atavan® haze, most of Elvis Costello's lyrics spoke directly to her, especially those in songs like "The Loved One's," which is about a girl who attempted suicide, while ruminating about what her "loved one's" were going to have to say, should she succeed. 

Apparently, Crissa's near-death experience during her own failed attempt, followed the script outlined in that song too closely to be able to be chalked up to mere coincidence, right down to the detail of her mother's having made some remark about the potentially permanent disfigurement she had done to her body.

"They bitched about your pretty face turning ugly on you. -D. McManus, from "The Loved Ones," off the "Trust" album ("Hard Candy," by The Counting Crows sold separately...).

I guess my point is that, once you start to pay attention to coincidences, they start to come in droves. Or I might be going bat shit crazy...that's basically it...

S.T.O.P!

The S.T.A.R.T. program people saw me on Monday morning and seemed disappointed that I wasn't on a ton of medications; hadn't been to a doctor since 2001, and it was as if they had no use for me.

The two black ladies working there both stared at me for a half second when I walked up to the window. They looked away, making me stand there a few seconds before one of them aksed (sic) me: "Can I help you?"

Their "assessor" couldn't diagnose me with anything, so they couldn't send me to any of their associates who are on the take from Big Pharma; they can't get me whacked out like Crissa on prescription meds in order to bilk the system, and so, "What can we do for you?" 

Good question...

Doctors make me sick, sometimes... 

S.T.A.R.T. Program 4 Me

It was 6 o' clock in the morning when I woke up and immediately encountered the resistance from the mind.

There was no Baltimore Oriole singing at the stroke of 6 because the singing bird clock has got something wrong with it. Item #47: fix the singing bird clock.

Then I realized that when I quit smoking it is going to be times like this when I will not smoke the most. A cigarette first thing upon waking just about insures that it is going to be followed by another and then another, at about 40 minute intervals...

Homemade Wine

I started a 64 ounce bottle of grape juice fermenting by dumping a cup and a half of sugar in the thing, and a teaspoon of bread yeast. I had made some space for the sugar by pouring a 10 ounce glass out of it, which I had for breakfast Saturday morning, after attaching a plastic bag to the top, and sealed it to be air-tight using a pony tail hair tie type thing.

I thought about how it takes about a week to ferment such a bottle to about 95% of its potential ABV (alcohol by volume) level. Letting it sit another 3 to 6 months will give you a tiny amount of extra alcohol and will allow all the yeast to sink to the bottom, which will improve the flavor of the wine. It will be less "yeasty" flavored.

I saw an analogy to quitting smoking in the bottle, as, the first day of not smoking will not seem to yield any results, and the grape juice will not be doing much of anything. But after 2 days the grape juice is fizzing away like a carbonated beverage that was just opened.

I have an appointment at the S.T.A.R.T. program and will supposedly get a ride there by my caseworker, Nichole. I think some of the letters in that acronym stand for "treatment and recovery," and at some level I think I'm being duped into going there under the guise that it is me availing myself to the gamut of medical services provided there.

Since I haven't had a checkup in something like 42 years, I am going to be assigned a PCP, which would be a primary care provider. From there I will be shunted off in any number of directions. I will be there for an "assessment." this morning. I have to leave in about 5 minutes to meet the nice Sandy in the lobby, who will spirit me off in the van.

I need to justify my inclusion in the "Permanent Supported Housing" program or the "assisted living" or whatever the euphemism is that they are currently using to describe people who can't wipe their own ass...without assistance, I guess.

This is my chance to tell a professional about the voice I hear amidst the hissing of water running through my air conditioning unit that seems to be whispering things like "strangle Jr., kill him; kill him..."

S.W.V. -the only singing birds needed

Then they could send me over to the mental health services department and maybe go from there; perhaps getting the ball rolling towards me getting a "crazy check" every month to complement the social security benefits that I'll be eligible to start getting in a few short months that I have no doubt will fly by. I'll be focused upon enduring the hottest part of the year, waiting for the temperatures to recede from 98 degrees with 90% humidity to some point that I can shut the air conditioner (up, and) off.

But it's already time for me to go; it's just flying by....

A New Beginning

 The Artist's Way

First thing in the morning; every morning; one must complete "the Morning Papers." This is non negotiable, say's Julie Cameron, the author of this book which Jacob ordered through Elizabeth, the lady in building C who has 3 cats, and who materialized about a half year ago, and has been basically feeding Harold, my cat since not long after materializing.

Elizabeth reads a lot, and has borrowed several of my books. She orders from the Chewy™ pet supply company and, every month arrives a giant box of cat food and treats and toys, made even larger now that it also contains stuff for Harold.

"I know it's hard to make money out there as a magician (sic), and so I'm gonna order you some food and stuff for Harold," she said, shortly after making my acquaintance.

I was a devoted adherent to The Law of Attraction at the time and so it seemed par for the course for this lady to suddenly materialize in apartment C 305 and to notice that I had a cat and that I was a "magician" who went into the Quarter and busked with a guitar and harmonica; magically, one might infer; and who would start showing up at my door with large packages of cat litter, food and the occasional toy for my cat, Harold.

The easiest way for me to boil down my relationship with the Law of Attraction, would be to say that I thank God for having created the possibility of all my needs being met and me living happily ever after, type of thing...

As the feeling of gratitude wells up in me, out of the blue comes an Elizabeth figure bringing 24 can packs of food and enough litter that I can change Harold's box every third day or so.

I had half a mind to believe that there had been no such thing as kratom before I brought it into existence through the Law. Wouldn't it be amazing to have such a powder that does (what kratom does for me)? 

By dint of my gratitude solely for the possibility; it manifested one night. I had never heard of the stuff and I believe that, with its appearance came its complete history, and people's memories were just revised and overwritten with the knowledge of it being a plant that grows in Asia, related to the coffee tree, and having its specific "medicinal" type properties. Nobody ever suspected that there was a time when there was no such thing as it...

It's sort of a "Back To The Future" type concept, in that there are people in Asia who can tell you how they have been kratom farmers their whole lives and can recount stories and even point to their house as having been paid for out of the money they made farming kratom, maybe even show you pictures of themselves at a much younger age cutting kratom stalks and smiling, maybe working alongside someone whom they eventually married and had kids with -kids who would tell you that their dad has been a kratom farmer his whole life, etc.

And if you were to ask: "So, all this just "poof!" came into existence out of thin air, and encyclopedias were magically edited to include an entry in the "K" volume about this particular plant?" 

And my answer would be: "No, it was always there; it just didn't exist in this consciousness until I observed it..." type of thing.

So, I have started reading the Artist's Way book and had only done a few of the morning papers exercises when I got some kind of confirmation from the universe that I was on the right path when a couple that Jacob knows had their 3rd baby and named him Xavian.

Jacob asked me if we could, while recording our busking session, put together a little song of some sort saying "Welcome to the world, Xavian." 

But I kept singing Xander instead of Xavian, with the latter name refusing to stick in my brain. Not to worry about that, though. Out of the blue the couple changed their minds and decided to name the kid...wait for it....Cameron; though his middle name isn't Julia.*

*But pretty darned close, kiddo!

 The "Morning Papers" are just 3 pages of stream of consciousness longhand writing that needs to be spat out with no revisions nor proofreading into notebooks that you never go back and read.ᵀ

ᵀBut, what if I think the Morning Papers represent my best writing; even better than what I put in this blog? I wondered. And shortly after wondering that I flipped ahead a few pages to where Julia say's that you can go back and re-read them in 8 weeks or so (and even convert them into screenplays or a James Joyce-ian novel).

With the instruction to do the things "first thing in the morning" came my realization that I might have to stop staying awake for 3 days at a time because, in that instance, it's hard to determine when the first thing in the morning should occur.

A major reset with the instantiation of a strict and implacable routine seems to be in order for me...

Up at 7, doing the writing, then the Wim Hof deep breathing; then the morning meditation with Joe Dispenza, then a jog and 20 minutes of exercise, then yoga, then "trigger point" acupressure on myself, then an hour of practicing scales and exercises on the guitar, etc. etc. all the way up to leaving here at 1:30 PM to go into the Quarter to busk until such a time that will have me home and in bed in time to wake up at 7 AM the next morning....

Where am I going to find time to drink and do drugs??

Blog Hacked

The post about strangling a skinny homeless lady over an ice cream sandwich that was here for a few days, I have unpublished because I don't remember writing it.

If it was a hacker, from me using the wifi at Holy Ground without a VPN, and with a password like Harold123, then she must have fed an AI engine; write a story in the first person by a wicked mean scoundrel.

One who would strangle a homeless woman because she didn't say thanks after you bought her an ice cream sandwich.

Anyways, right now the Lilly Pad has probably got a no loitering sign on it.

Lilly is mad after overhearing me telling a lady named Sarah that plays guitar and sings that maybe Lilly was jealous of her.

Or maybe it was the laughing that Sara excelled at doing with volume that sounded like a mockery to Lilly after overhearing me saying that.

So Lilly has broken off our relationship...

And I'm going to sleep some now.

Neil Young Night

After 4 pm. tomorrow, the internationally know Jazzfest will be just one guy and his band, called Crazy Horse.

One of the things about Jazzfest is that it's possible that 2 bands you really want to see are playing at the same time on different stages.

I might step outside and perhaps walk towards Bayou St. John to see if I can hear the warbly voice or the warbly guitar ricocheting off the outer walls of Delgado College, like neils music was a pool ball, shooting out of the fairgrounds then banking off the stadium, with me standing in a little pocket, with the bayou reflecting it one more time.

But hopefully I will already be in the Quarter by that time, and full of energy, focus and the one other thing that the Odysey mushroom based energy drink is supposed to facilitate; oh, yeah...memory.

I feel self loathing when I don't go out and play; and the reason I didn't go out tonight was probably laziness, not helped by the fact that I had stayed up all night doing (it's 2:50 in the morning right now) God knows what. When you are brewing more coffee as the sun comes up because you are fascinated by a video about how they paint huge ships, it makes you wonder...

Anyways, I want to leave some more of the comment left by "unknown." I rendered this excerpt in yellow, as a nod to "unknown"s everywhere...

Daniel...you are not the intellectual giant you would like to think you are...and you are usually regarded as a joke to most who ACTUALLY know you because of your smug know-it-all ignorance in life in general.You act like you have something to say, but NOBODY is interested in your inner monologues where you drone on and on about the most inane things ever which is why barely anyone comments on your page here. That and you are a bullshit artist.